Allegory Poster ProjectFor our first project this year, we’re going to analyze pieces that make use of allegory. For this assignment, either by yourself or with a partner, you will choose one of the options below to analyze on a symbolic, allegoric, and thematic level.

1. Summarizing: Tell me what happens in the story on a literal level in 3-5 sentences (5 pts)

2. Identifying Symbols: List at least two important symbols found in the story. For both symbols, explain what they represent, how you know, and use one piece of textual evidence for support for each explanation (10pts total, 5pts each)

3. Explaining the Allegory: What is the story about on a symbolic level? How do your symbols interact throughout the story? What is the reader supposed to understand from their interactions? Use at least two pieces of textual evidence to support your answer. (10 pts)

4. Analyzing Theme: What is the author trying to tell us through his/her use of allegory? What are we supposed to take away from the story? How do you know? Use two pieces of textual evidence to support your analysis. (10 pts)

5. Two Visual Representations: Your poster should include two visual elements to reflect the dual nature of the allegory – one image should depict something from the literal interpretation of your story, and the other should depict something from the symbolic interpretation. (10 pts, 5 pts each)

Total Points: ______/45 pts

1. THE LORAX – Dr. Seuss

At the far end of townwhere the Grickle-grass growsand the wind smells slow-and-sour when it blowsand no birds ever sing excepting old crows...is the Street of the Lifted Lorax.And deep in the Grickle-grass, some people say,if you look deep enough you can still see, today,where the Lorax once stoodjust as long as it couldbefore somebody lifted the Lorax away.What was the Lorax?And why was it there?And why was it lifted and taken somewherefrom the far end of town where the Grickle-grass grows?The old Once-ler still lives here.Ask him. He knows.You won't see the Once-ler.Don't knock at his door.He stays in his Lerkim on top of his store.He lurks in his Lerkim, cold under the roof,where he makes his own clothesout of miff-muffered moof.And on special dank midnights in August,he peeksout of the shutters

and sometimes he speaksand tells how the Lorax was lifted away.He'll tell you, perhaps...if you're willing to pay.

On the end of a ropehe lets down a tin pailand you have to toss in fifteen centsand a nailand the shell of a great-great-great-grandfather snail.Then he pulls up the pail,makes a most careful countto see if you've paid himthe proper amount.Then he hides what you paid himaway in his Snuvv,his secret strange holein his gruvvulous glove.Then he grunts, "I will call you by Whisper-ma-Phone,for the secrets I tell you are for your ears alone." SLUPP!Down slupps the Whisper-ma-Phone to your earand the old Once-ler's whispers are not very clear,since they have to come downthrough a snergelly hose,and he soundsas if he hadsmallish bees up his nose.

"Now I'll tell you,"he says, with his teeth sounding gray,"how the Lorax got lifted and taken away...

It all started way back...such a long, long time back...Way back in the days when the grass was still greenand the pond was still wetand the clouds were still clean,and the song of the Swomee-Swans rang out in space...one morning, I came to this glorious place.And I first saw the trees!The Truffula Trees!The bright-colored tufts of the Truffula Trees!Mile after mile in the fresh morning breeze.And, under the trees, I saw Brown Bar-ba-lootsfrisking about in their Bar-ba-loot suitsas they played in the shade and ate Truffula fruits.From the rippulous pondcame the comfortable soundof the Humming-Fish hummingwhile splashing around.

But those trees! Those trees!Those Truffula Trees!All my life I'd been searchingfor trees such as these.

The touch of their tuftswas much softer than silk.And they had the sweet smellof fresh butterfly milk.I felt a great leapingof joy in my heart.I knew just what I'd do!I unloaded my cart.In no time at all, I had built a small shop.Then I chopped down a Truffula Tree with one chop.And with great skillful skill and with great speedy speed,I took the soft tuft, and I knitted a Thneed!The instant I'd finished, I heard a ga-Zump!I looked.I saw something pop out of the stumpof the tree I'd chopped down. It was sort of a man.Describe him?... That's hard. I don't know if I can.He was shortish. And oldish.And brownish. And mossy.And he spoke with a voicethat was sharpish and bossy."Mister!" he said with a sawdusty sneeze,"I am the Lorax. I speak for the trees.I speak for the trees, for the trees have no tongues.And I'm asking you, sir, at the top if my lungs"-he was very upset as he shouted and puffed-

"What's that THING you've made out of my Truffula tuft?""Look, Lorax," I said."There's no cause for alarm.I chopped just one tree. I am doing no harm.I'm being quite useful. This thing is a Thneed.A Thneed's a Fine-Something-That-All-People-Need!It's a shirt. It's a sock. It's a glove, It's a hat.But it has other uses. Yes, far beyond that.You can use it for carpets. For pillows! For sheets!Or curtains! Or covers for bicycle seats!"The Lorax said,"Sir! You are crazy with greed.There is no one on earthwho would buy that fool Thneed!"

But the very next minute I proved he was wrong.For, just at that minute, a chap came along,and he thought the Thneed I had knitted was great.He happily bought it for three ninety-eightI laughed at the Lorax, "You poor stupid guy!You never can tell what some people will buy.""I repeat," cried the Lorax,"I speak for the trees!""I'm busy," I told him."Shut up, if you please."

I rushed 'cross the room, and in no time at all,built a radio-phone. I put in a quick call.I called all my brothers and uncles and auntsand I said, "Listen here! Here's a wonderful chancefor the whole Once-ler Family to get mighty rich!Get over here fast! Take the road to North Nitch.Turn left at Weehawken. Sharp right at South Stitch."And, in no time at all,in the factory I built,the whole Once-ler Familywas working full tilt.We were all knitting Thneedsjust as busy as bees,to the sound of the choppingof Truffula Trees.

Then...Oh! Baby! Oh!How my business did grow!Now, chopping one treeat a timewas too slow.So I quickly invented my Super-Axe-Hackerwhich whacked off four Truffula Trees at one smacker.We were making Thneedsfour times as fast as before!And that Lorax?...He didn't show up any more.But the next weekhe knockedon my new office door.

He snapped, "I am the Lorax who speaks for the treeswhich you seem to be chopping as fast as you please.But I'm also in charge of the Brown Bar-ba-lootswho played in the shade in their Bar-ba-loot suitsand happily lived, eating Truffula Fruits."NOW... thanks to your hacking my trees to the ground,there's not enought Truffula Fruit to go 'round.And my poor Bar-ba-loots are all getting the crummiesbecause they have gas, and no food, in their tummies!"They loved living here. But I can't let them stay.They'll have to find food. And I hope that they may.Good luck, boys," he cried. And he sent them away.I, the old Once-ler, felt sadas I watched them all go.BUT...business is business!And business must growregardless of crummies in tummies, you know.

I meant no harm. I most truly did not.But I had to grow bigger.So bigger I got.I biggered my factory. I biggered my roads.I biggered my wagons. I biggered the loads

of the Thneeds I shipped out. I was shipping them forthto the South! To the East! To the West! To the North!I went right on biggering... selling more Thneeds.And I biggered my money, which everyone needs.Then again he came back! I was fixing some pipeswhen that old-nuisance Lorax came back with more gripes."I am the Lorax," he coughed and he whiffed.He sneezed and he snuffled. He snarggled. He sniffed."Once-ler!" he cried with a cruffulous croak."Once-ler! You're making such smogulous smoke!My poor Swomee-Swans... why, they can't sing a note!No one can sing who has smog in his throat."And so," said the Lorax,"-please pardon my cough-they cannot live here.So I'm sending them off."Where will they go?...I don't hopefully know.They may have to fly for a month... or a year...To escape from the smog you've smogged up around here.

"What's more," snapped the Lorax. (His dander was up.)"Let me say a few words about Gluppity-Glupp.

Your machine chugs on, day and night without stopmaking Gluppity-Glupp. Also Schloppity-Schlopp.And what do you do with this leftover goo?...I'll show you. You dirty old Once-ler man, you!"You're glumping the pond where the Humming-Fish hummed!No more can they hum, for their gills are all gummed.So I'm sending them off. Oh, their future is dreary.They'll walk on their fins and get woefully wearyin search of some water that isn't so smeary."And then I got mad.I got terribly mad.I yelled at the Lorax, "Now listen here, Dad!All you do is yap-yap and say, 'Bad! Bad! Bad! Bad!'Well, I have my rights, sir, and I'm telling youI intend to go on doing just what I do!And, for your information, you Lorax, I'm figgeringOn biggeringand BIGGERINGandBIGGERINGand BIGGERING,turning MORE Truffula Trees into Thneedswhich everyone, EVERYONE, EVERYONE needs!"And at that very moment, we heard a loud whack!From outside in the fields came a sickening smack

of an axe on a tree. Then we heard the tree fall.The very last Truffula Tree of them all!

No more trees. No more Thneeds. No more work to be done.So, in no time, my uncles and aunts, every one,all waved me good-bye. They jumped into my carsand drove away under the smoke-smuggered stars.Now all that was left 'neath the bad smelling-skywas my big empty factory...the Lorax...and I.The Lorax said nothing. Just gave me a glance...just gave me a very sad, sad backward glance...as he lifted himself by the seat of his pants.And I'll never forget the grim look on his facewhen he heisted himself and took leave of this place,through a hole in the smog, without leaving a trace.And all that the Lorax left here in this messwas a small pile of rocks, with one word..."UNLESS."Whatever that meant, well, I just couldn't guess.

That was long, long ago.But each day since that dayI've sat here and worriedand worried away.

Through the years, while my buildingshave fallen apart,I've worried about itwith all of my heart."But now," says the Once-ler,"Now that you're here,the word of the Lorax seems perfectly clear.UNLESS someone like youcares a whole awful lot,nothing is going to get better.It's not."SO...Catch!" calls the Once-ler.He lets something fall."It's a Truffula Seed.It's the last one of all!You're in charge of the last of the Truffula Seeds.And Truffula Trees are what everyone needs.Plant a new Truffula. Treat it with care.Give it clean water. And feed it fresh air.Grow a forest. Protect it from axes that hack.Then the Loraxand all of his friendsmay come back.

2. “Where The Wild Things Are” by Maurice

Sendak

The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kindand anotherhis mother called him “WILD THING!”and Max said “I’LL EAT YOU UP!”so he was sent to bed without eating anything.That very night in Max’s room a forest grewand grewand

grew until his ceiling hung with vinesand the walls became the world all aroundand an ocean tumbled by with a private boat for Maxand he sailed off through night and dayand in and out of weeksand almost over a yearto where the wild things are.And when he came to the place where the wild things arethey roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teethand rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible clawstill Max said “BE STILL!”and tamed with the magic trickof staring into all their yellow eyes without blinking onceand they were frightened and called him the most wild thing of alland made him king of all wild things.“And now,” cried Max, “let the wild rumpus start!”“Now stop!” Max said and sent the wild things off to bed without their supper.And Max the king of all wild things was lonely and wanted to be wheresomeone loved him best of all.Then all around from far away across the world

he smelled good things to eatso he gave up being king of where the wild things are.But the wild things cried, “Oh please don’t gowe’ll eat you up-we love you so!”And Max said, “No!”The wild things roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teethand rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible clawsbut Max stepped into his private boat and waved good-byeand sailed back over a yearand in and out of weeksand through a dayand into the night of his very own roomwhere he found his supper waiting for himand it was still hot.

3. “The Steadfast Tin Soldier” by Hans

Christian Anderson

There were once five-and-twenty tin soldiers. They were all brothers, born of the same old tin spoon. They shouldered their muskets and looked straight ahead of them, splendid in their uniforms, all red and blue.

The very first thing in the world that they heard was, "Tin soldiers!" A small boy shouted it and clapped his hands as the lid was lifted off their box on his birthday. He immediately set them up on the table.

All the soldiers looked exactly alike except one. He looked a little different as he had been cast last of all. The tin was short, so he had only one leg. But there he stood, as steady on one leg as any of the other soldiers on their two. But just you see, he'll be the remarkable one.

On the table with the soldiers were many other playthings, and one that no eye could miss was a marvelous castle of cardboard. It had little windows through which you

could look right inside it. And in front of the castle were miniature trees around a little mirror supposed to represent a lake. The wax swans that swam on its surface were reflected in the mirror. All this was very pretty but prettiest of all was the little lady who stood in the open doorway of the castle. Though she was a paper doll, she wore a dress of the fluffiest gauze. A tiny blue ribbon went over her shoulder for a scarf, and in the middle of it shone a spangle that was as big as her face. The little lady held out both her arms, as a ballet dancer does, and one leg was lifted so high behind her that the tin soldier couldn't see it at all, and he supposed she must have only one leg, as he did.

"That would be a wife for me," he thought. "But maybe she's too grand. She lives in a castle. I have only a box, with four-and-twenty roommates to share it. That's no place for her. But I must try to make her acquaintance." Still as stiff as when he stood at attention, he lay down on the table behind a snuffbox, where he could admire the dainty little dancer who kept standing on one leg

without ever losing her balance.

When the evening came the other tin soldiers were put away in their box, and the people of the house went to bed. Now the toys began to play among themselves at visits, and battles, and at giving balls. The tin soldiers rattled about in their box, for they wanted to play too, but they could not get the lid open. The nutcracker turned somersaults, and the slate pencil squeaked out jokes on the slate. The toys made such a noise that they woke up the canary bird, who made them a speech, all in verse. The only two who stayed still were the tin soldier and the little dancer. Without ever swerving from the tip of one toe, she held out her arms to him, and the tin soldier was just as steadfast on his one leg. Not once did he take his eyes off her.

Then the clock struck twelve and - clack! - up popped the lid of the snuffbox. But there was no snuff in it, no-out bounced a little black bogey, a jack-in-the-box.

"Tin soldier," he said. "Will you please keep your eyes to yourself?" The tin soldier pretended not to hear.

The bogey said, "Just you wait till tomorrow."

But when morning came, and the children got up, the soldier was set on the window ledge. And whether the bogey did it, or there was a gust of wind, all of a sudden the window flew open and the soldier pitched out headlong from the third floor. He fell at breathtaking speed and landed cap first, with his bayonet buried between the paving stones and his one leg stuck straight in the air. The housemaid and the little boy ran down to look for him and, though they nearly stepped on the tin soldier, they walked right past without seeing him. If the soldier had called, "Here I am!" they would surely have found him, but he thought it contemptible to raise an uproar while he was wearing his uniform.

Soon it began to rain. The drops fell faster and faster, until they came down by the bucketful. As soon as the rain let up, along came two young rapscallions.

"Hi, look!" one of them said, "there's a tin soldier. Let's send him sailing."

They made a boat out of newspaper, put the tin soldier in the middle of it, and away he went down the gutter with the two young rapscallions running beside him and clapping their hands. High heavens! How the waves splashed, and how fast the water ran down the gutter. Don't forget that it had just been raining by the bucketful. The paper boat pitched, and tossed, and sometimes it whirled about so rapidly that it made the soldier's head spin. But he stood as steady as ever. Never once flinching, he kept his eyes front, and carried his gun shoulder-high. Suddenly the boat rushed under a long plank where the gutter was boarded over. It was as dark as the soldier's own box.

"Where can I be going?" the soldier wondered. "This must be that black bogey's revenge. Ah! if only I had the little lady with me, it could be twice as dark here for all that I would care."

Out popped a great water rat who lived under the gutter plank.

"Have you a passport?" said the rat. "Hand it over."

The soldier kept quiet and held his musket tighter. On

rushed the boat, and the rat came right after it, gnashing his teeth as he called to the sticks and straws:

"Halt him! Stop him! He didn't pay his toll. He hasn't shown his passport. "But the current ran stronger and stronger. The soldier could see daylight ahead where the board ended, but he also heard a roar that would frighten the bravest of us. Hold on! Right at the end of that gutter plank the water poured into the great canal. It was as dangerous to him as a waterfall would be to us.

He was so near it he could not possibly stop. The boat plunged into the whirlpool. The poor tin soldier stood as staunch as he could, and no one can say that he so much as blinked an eye. Thrice and again the boat spun around. It filled to the top - and was bound to sink. The water was up to his neck and still the boat went down, deeper, deeper, deeper, and the paper got soft and limp. Then the water rushed over his head. He thought of the pretty little dancer whom he'd never see again, and in his ears rang an old, old song:

"Farewell, farewell, O warrior brave,

Nobody can from Death thee save."

And now the paper boat broke beneath him, and the soldier sank right through. And just at that moment he was swallowed by a most enormous fish.

My! how dark it was inside that fish. It was darker than under the gutter-plank and it was so cramped, but the tin soldier still was staunch. He lay there full length, soldier fashion, with musket to shoulder.

Then the fish flopped and floundered in a most unaccountable way. Finally it was perfectly still, and after a while something struck through him like a flash of lightning. The tin soldier saw daylight again, and he heard a voice say, "The Tin Soldier!" The fish had been caught, carried to market, bought, and brought to a kitchen where the cook cut him open with her big knife.

She picked the soldier up bodily between her two fingers, and carried him off upstairs. Everyone wanted to see this remarkable traveler who had traveled

about in a fish's stomach, but the tin soldier took no pride in it. They put him on the table and-lo and behold, what curious things can happen in this world-there he was, back in the same room as before. He saw the same children, the same toys were on the table, and there was the same fine castle with the pretty little dancer. She still balanced on one leg, with the other raised high. She too was steadfast. That touched the soldier so deeply that he would have cried tin tears, only soldiers never cry. He looked at her, and she looked at him, and never a word was said. Just as things were going so nicely for them, one of the little boys snatched up the tin soldier and threw him into the stove. He did it for no reason at all. That black bogey in the snuffbox must have put him up to it.

The tin soldier stood there dressed in flames. He felt a terrible heat, but whether it came from the flames or from his love he didn't know. He'd lost his splendid colors, maybe from his hard journey, maybe from grief, nobody can say.

He looked at the little lady, and she looked at him, and he felt himself melting. But

still he stood steadfast, with his musket held trim on his shoulder.

Then the door blew open. A puff of wind struck the dancer. She flew like a sylph, straight into the fire with the soldier, blazed up in a flash, and was gone. The tin soldier melted, all in a lump. The next day, when a servant took up the ashes she found him in the shape of a little tin heart. But of the pretty dancer nothing was left except her spangle, and it was burned as black as a coal.

4. “The Sneetches” By Dr. Seuss

Now, the Star-Belly Sneetches-Had bellies with stars.The Plain-Belly Sneetches-Had none upon thars.

Those stars weren’t so big. They were really so small.You might think such a thing wouldn’t matter at all.

But, because they had stars, all the Star-Belly SneetchesWould brag, “We’re the best kind of Sneetch on the beaches.With their snoots in the air, they would sniff and they’d snort“We’ll have nothing to do with the Plain-Belly sort!”And whenever they met some, when they were out walking,They’d hike right on past them without even talking.

When the Star-Belly children went out to play ball,

Could a Plain- Belly get in the game…? Not at all.You only could play if your bellies had starsAnd the Plain-Belly children had none upon thars.

When the Star-Belly Sneetches had frankfurter roastsOr picnics or parties or marshmallow toasts,They never invited the Plain-Belly Sneetches.They left them out cold, in the dark of the beaches.They kept them away. Never let them come near.And that’s how they treated them year after year.

Then ONE day, seems…while the Plain-Belly SneetchesWere moping and doping alone on the beaches,Just sitting there wishing their bellies had stars…A stranger zipped up in the strangest of cars!

“My friends,” he announced in a voice clear and keen,“My name is Sylvester McMonkey McBean.And I’ve heard of your troubles. I’ve heard you’re unhappy.But I can fix that. I’m the Fix-it-Up Chappie.I’ve come here to help you. I have what you need.And my prices are low. And I work at great speed.

And my work is one hundred per cent guaranteed!

Then, quickly Sylvester McMonkey McBeanPut together a very peculiar machine.And he said, “You want stars like a Star-Belly Sneetch…?My friends, you can have them for three dollars each!”

“Just pay me your money and hop right aboard!”So they clambered inside. Then the big machine roaredAnd it klonked. And it bonked. And it jerked. And it berkedAnd it bopped them about. But the thing really worked!When the Plain-Belly Sneetches popped out, they had stars!They actually did. They had stars upon thars!

Then they yelled at the ones who had stars at the start,“We’re exactly like you! You can’t tell us apart.We’re all just the same, now, you snooty old smarties!And now we can go to your frankfurter parties.”

“Good grief!” groaned the ones who had stars at the first.“We’re still the best Sneetches and they are the worst.But, now, how in the world will we know,” they all frowned,“If which kind is what, or the other way round?”

Then came McBean with a very sly wink.And he said, “Things are not quite as bad as you think.So you don’t know who’s who. That is perfectly true.But come with me, friends. Do you know what I’ll do?I’ll make you, again, the best Sneetches on beachesAnd all it will cost you is ten dollars eaches.”

“Belly stars are no longer in style,” said McBean.“What you need is a trip through my Star-off Machine.This wondrous contraption will take off your starsSo you won’t look like Sneetches who have them on thars.”And that handy machine Working very preciselyRemoved all the stars from their tummies quite nicely.

Then, with snoots in the air, they paraded about

And they opened their beaks and they let out a shout,“We know who is who! Now there isn’t a doubt.The best kind of Sneetches are Sneetches without!”

Then, of course, those with stars all got frightfully mad.To be wearing a star now was frightfully bad.Then, of course, old Sylvester McMonkey McBeanInvited them into his star-off machine.

Then, of course from THEN on, as you probably guess,Things really got into a horrible mess.All the rest of that day, on those wild screaming beaches,The fix-it-up Chappie kept fixing up Sneetches.Off again! On Again! In again! Out again!Through the machines they raced round and about again,Changing their stars every minute or two.They kept paying money. They kept running throughUntil neither the Plain nor the Star-Bellies knewWhether this one was that one…or that one was this oneOr which one was what one …or what one was who.

Then, when every last centOf their money was spent,The Fix-it-Up Chappie packed upAnd he went.

And he laughed as he droveIn his car up the beach,“They never will learn.No. You can’t teach a Sneetch!”

But McBean was quite wrong. I’m quite happy to sayThat the Sneetches got really quite smart on that day,The day they decided that Sneetches are SneetchesAnd no kind of Sneetch is the best on the beachesThat day, all the Sneetches forgot about starsAnd whether they had one, or not, upon thars.

5. “The Wemmicks" by Max Lucado

The Wemmicks were small wooden people. Each of the wooden people was carved by a woodworker named Eli. His workshop sat on a hill overlooking their village. Every Wemmick was different. Some had big noses, others had large eyes. Some were tall and others were short. Some wore hats, others wore coats. But all were made by the same carver and all lived in the village.

And all day, every day, the Wemmicks did the same thing: They gave each other stickers. Each Wemmick had a box of golden star stickers and a box of gray dot stickers. Up and down the streets all over the city, people could be seen sticking stars or dots on one another.

The pretty ones, those with smooth wood and fine paint, always got stars. But if the wood was rough or the paint chipped, the

Wemmicks gave dots. The talented ones got stars, too. Some could lift big sticks high above their heads or jump over tall boxes. Still others knew big words or could sing very pretty songs. Everyone gave them stars.

Some Wemmicks had stars all over them! Every time they got a star it made them feel so good that they did something else and got another star. Others, though, could do little. They got dots.

Punchinello was one of these. He tried to jump high like the others, but he always fell. And when he fell, the others would gather around and give him dots. Sometimes when he fell, it would scar his wood, so the people would give him more dots. He would try to explain why he fell and say something silly, and the Wemmicks would give him more dots.

After a while he had so many dots that he didn't want to go outside. He was afraid he would do something dumb such as forget his hat or step in the water, and then people would give him another dot. In fact, he had so many gray dots that some people would come up and give him one without reason.

"He deserves lots of dots," the wooden people would agree with one another.

"He's not a good wooden person."

After a while Punchinello believed them. "I'm not a good wemmick," he would say. The few times he went outside, he hung around other Wemmicks who had a lot of dots. He felt better around them.

One day he met a Wemmick who was unlike any he'd ever met. She had no dots or stars. She was just wooden. Her name was Lulia.

It wasn't that people didn't try to give her stickers; it's just that the stickers didn't stick. Some admired Lulia for having no dots, so they would run up and give her a star. But it would fall off. Some would look down on her for having no stars, so they would give her a dot. But it wouldn't stay either.

'That's the way I want to be,'thought Punchinello. 'I don't want anyone's marks.' So he asked the stickerless Wemmick how she did it.

"It's easy," Lulia replied. "every day I go see Eli."

"Eli?""Yes, Eli. The woodcarver.

I sit in the workshop with him."

"Why?"

"Why don't you find out for yourself? Go up the hill. He's there. "

And with that the Wemmick with no marks turned and skipped away.

"But he won't want to see me!" Punchinello cried out.

Lulia didn't hear. So Punchinello went home. He sat near a window and watched the wooden people as they scurried around giving each other stars and dots.

"It's not right," he muttered to himself. And he resolved to go see Eli.

He walked up the narrow path to the top of the hill and stepped into the big shop. His wooden eyes widened at the size of everything. The stool was as tall as he was. He had to stretch on his tiptoes to see the top of the workbench. A hammer was as long as his arm. Punchinello swallowed hard.

"I'm not staying here!" and he turned to leave. Then he heard his name.

"Punchinello?" The voice was deep and strong.

Punchinello stopped."Punchinello! How good to

see you. Come and let me have a look at you."

Punchinello turned slowly and looked at the large bearded craftsman.

"You know my name?" the little Wemmick asked.

"Of course I do. I made you."

Eli stooped down and picked him up and set him on the bench. "Hmm, " he spoke thoughtfully as he inspected the gray circles. "Looks like you've been given some bad marks."

"I didn't mean to, Eli. I really tried hard."

"Oh, you don't have to defend yourself to me. I don't care what the other Wemmicks think."

"You don't?""No, and you shouldn't

either. Who are they to give stars or dots? They're Wemmicks just like you. What they think doesn't matter, Punchinello. All that matters is what I think. And I think you are pretty special."

Punchinello laughed. "Me, special? Why? I can't walk fast. I can't jump. My paint is peeling. Why do I matter to you?"

Eli looked at Punchinello, put his hands on those small wooden shoulders, and spoke very slowly. "Because you're mine. That's why you matter to me."

Punchinello had never had anyone look at him like this--much less his maker. He didn't know what to say.

"Every day I've been hoping you'd come," Eli explained.

"I came because I met someone who had no marks."

"I know. She told me about you."

"Why don't the stickers stay on her?"

"Because she has decided that what I think is more important than what they think. The stickers only stick if you let them."

"What?""The stickers only stick if

they matter to you. The more you trust my love, the less you care about the stickers."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"You will, but it will take time. You've got a lot of marks. For now, just come to see me every day and let me remind you how much I care."

Eli lifted Punchinello off the bench and set him on the ground.

"Remember," Eli said as the Wemmick walked out the door. "You are special because I made you. And I don't make mistakes."

Punchinello didn't stop, but in his heart he thought, "I think he really means it."

And when he did, a dot fell to the ground.

6. Aesop’s Fabels – “The Lion, the Fox and the Stag”

The Lion had fallen ill and was resting in a cave. He said to the fox, who was his friend and with whom he did a bit of

business from time to time:

‘If you want me to live and be fierce again, go and beguile with honeyed words the big stag who lives in the forest, bring him to me

so that I can get my paws on him. For I long to sink my teeth into his entrails and to eat his heart.’

The fox took himself off into the country and found the stag, who was leaping about in the forest. He approached the stag with a

fond air, saluted him respectfully and said:

“I come to announce good news. You know that our king, the lion, is my neighbor. He is now very ill and on the point of death.

He is demanding to know which animal will reign after him. The wild boar is lacking in all intelligence, the bear is awkward, the

panther is irascible, the tiger boastful. Only the stag is dignified enough to reign. For he is the tallest and the longest-lived and,

besides, his horn is deadly to snakes. But why go on any more? He has decided that you should become king. But now that I have

brought you this good news, what may I have for being the bearer of it? Speak, for I am in the most terrible hurry, as I am afraid

His Majesty will call me back. He cannot do without my counsel.

‘If you would wish to listen to the words of an old fox, I would advise you to come with me and wait

nearby for His Majesty’s death.’

Thus spoke the fox. The stag’s heart swelled with vanity at these words and he went to the cave without suspecting what would

happen. Then the lion leaped at him headlong. However, he merely managed to tear the stag’s ears with his claws. The stag saved

himself and flex with all haste to the woods.

The fox clapped his hands in dismay at the loss of all his labour and the lion began to moan and make great roars, for he was

overcome with hunger as well as with sorrow. He begged the fox to devise another way to beguile the stag.

The fox replied:‘It is an arduous and

difficult task that you ask of me. Nevertheless, I will serve you once more.’

And then, like a hound he followed the scent of the stag towards the forest, plotting deceit as he ran. He stopped to ask some

shepherds if they had seen a bleeding stag. They pointed towards his resting place in the wood. The fox came upon the stag resting

to get his second wind and presented himself shamelessly to him. The stag, full of anger and with

his fur all splattered with blood, cursed him:

‘You scoundrel, you will never get me to go to the lion’s den again. If you so much as come near me once more you will pay with

your life. Go and fox others who don’t know you. Go and choose other beasts to make into kings and get them all excited about it!’

The fox replied:‘Are you so cowardly and

faint-hearted? Is this distrust the reward that you give us, your good friends? The lion, in taking hold of

your ear, was going to give you counsel and instruct you on the matter of your regal duties, in the manner of someone about to die.

But you, you cannot even take a scratch from the paw of a sick lion! At the moment His Majesty is angrier than you are and wants

to elevate the wolf to the kingship.’

And the fox continued:‘Alas! My poor wretched

master! But come, do not be afraid. Be as meek as a lamb. For, I swear by all the leaves of the trees

and by all the springs that you have absolutely no cause to fear the lion. As for me, my only wish is to serve you.’

In thus deceiving the unfortunate stag, the fox induced him once more to go to the cave of the lion. When the stag entered the lion’s

cave, the lion had him for supper. He swallowed all the bones, all the marrow and the entrails. The fox stood there watching him.

The stag’s heart fell to the ground. The fox snatched it and ate it to compensate himself for all his efforts. But the lion, having looked

around for every morsel, could not find the heart, and asked where it was.

The fox keeping his distance, said:

‘The truth is, the stag had no heart. Don’t even bother to look for it. For how could an animal be said to have a heart who

has gone twice into a lion’s den and encountered the paws of a lion?

7. “TERRIBLE THINGS” Eve Bunting (1996)

In Europe, during World War II, many people looked the other way while terrible things happened. They

pretended not to know that their neighbors were being taken away and imprisoned in concentration camps.

They pretended not to hear cries for help. The Nazis killed millions of Jews and others in the Holocaust. If

everyone had stood together at the first sign of evil would this have happened?

Standing up for what you know is right is not always easy. Especially if the one you face is bigger and

stronger than you. It is easier to look the other way. But, if you do, terrible things can happen.

--E.B. The clearing in the

woods was home to the small forest creatures. The birds and squirrels shared the trees.

The rabbits and porcupines shared the shade beneath the trees and the frogs and fish shared the cool brown

waters of the forest pond. Until the day the

Terrible Things came. Little Rabbit saw their terrible shadows before he saw them. They

stopped at the edge of the clearing and their shadows blotted out the sun.

"We don't have feathers," the frogs said.

"Nor we," said the squirrels.

"Nor we," said the porcupines.

"Nor we," said the rabbits.

The little fish leaped from the water to show the shine of their scales, but the birds twittered nervously in the tops of the trees. Feathers! They rose in the air, then screamed away into the blue of the sky.

But the Terrible Things had brought their terrible nets, and they flung them high and caught the birds and carried them away.

The other forest creatures talked nervously among themselves.

"Those birds were always noisy," the squirrels said.

"There's more room in the trees now," the squirrels said.

"Why did the Terrible Things want the birds?” asked Little Rabbit.

"What's wrong with feathers?"

"We mustn't ask," Big Rabbit said. "The Terrible Things don't need a reason. Just be glad it wasn't us they

wanted." Now there were no birds

to sing in the clearing. But life went on almost as before. Until the day the Terrible Things came back.

"We have no tails," the frogs said.

"Nor do we. Not real tails," the porcupines said.

The little fish jumped from the water to show the smooth shine of their finned tails and the rabbits turned

their rumps so the Terrible Terrible Things could see for themselves.

"Our tails are round and furry," they said. "By no means are they bushy."

The squirrels chattered their fear and ran high into the treetops. But the Terrible Things swung their terrible

nets higher than the squirrels could run and wider than the squirrels could leap and they caught them all and

carried them away. "Those squirrels were

greedy," Big Rabbit said. "Always storing away things for themselves. Never sharing."

"But why did the Terrible Things take them away?" Little Rabbit asked. "Do the Terrible Things want the

clearing or themselves?" "No. They have their

own place," Big Rabbit said. "But the Terrible Things don't need a reason. Just mind

your own business, Little Rabbit. We don't want them to get mad at us."

Now there were no birds to sing or squirrels to chatter in the trees. But life in the clearing went on

almost as before. Until the day the Terrible Things came again.

Little Rabbit heard the rumble of their terrible voices.

"we have come for every creature that swims," the Terrible Things thundered.

"Oh, we can't swim," the rabbits said quickly.

"And we can't swim," the porcupines said.

The frogs dived deep in the forest pool and ripples spiraled like corkscrews on the dark brown water. The

little fish darted this way and that in streaks of silver. But the Terrible Things threw their terrible nets down

into the depths and they dragged up the dripping frogs and the shimmering fish and carried them away.

"Why did the Terrible Things take them?" Little Rabbit asked.

"What did the frogs and fish do to them?"

"Probably nothing," Big Rabbit said. "But the Terrible Things don't need a reason. Many creatures dislike

frogs. Lumpy slimy things. And fish are so cold and unfriendly. They never talk to any of us."

Now there were no birds to sing, no squirrels to chatter, no frogs to croak,

no fish to play in the forest pool.

A nervous silence filled the clearing. But life went on almost as usual. Until the day the Terrible Things came back.

Little Rabbit smelled their terrible smell before they came into sight. The rabbits and the porcupines looked

all around, everywhere, except at each other.

"We have come for every creature that sprouts quills," the Terrible Things thundered.

The rabbits stopped quivering. "We don't have quills," they said, fluffing their soft, white fur.

The porcupines bristled with all their strength. But the Terrible Things covered them with their terrible nets,

and the porcupines hung in them like flies in a spider's web as the Terrible Things carried them away.

"Those porcupines always were bad tempered," Big Rabbit said shakily. "Prickly, sticky things!"

This time Little Rabbit didn't ask why. By now he knew that the Terrible Things didn't need a reason. The

Terrible Things had gone, but the smell still filled the clearing.

"I liked it better when there were all kinds of creatures in our clearing," he said. "And I think we should

move. What if the Terrible Things come back?"

"Nonsense," said Big Rabbit. "Why should we move? This has always been our home. And the Terrible

Things won't come back. We are White Rabbits. It couldn't happen to us."

As day followed day Little Rabbit thought Big Rabbit must be right. Until the day the Terrible Things came

back. Little Rabbit saw the

terrible gleam of their terrible eyes through the forest darkness. And he smelled the

terrible smell. "We have come for any

creature that is white," the Terrible Things thundered.

"There are no white creatures here but us," Bit Rabbit said.

"We have come for you," the Terrible Things said.

The rabbits scampered in every direction. "Help!" they cried. "Somebody help!" But there was no one left to help. And the big, circling nets dropped over them, and the Terrible Things carried them away.

All but Little Rabbit, who was little enough to hide in a pile of rocks by the pond and smart enough to stay so still that the Terrible Things thought he was a rock himself.

When they had all gone, Little Rabbit crept into the middle of the empty clearing. "I should have tried to help the other rabbits," he thought. "If only we creatures had stuck together, it could have been different."

Sadly, Little Rabbit left the clearing He'd go tell other forest creatures about the Terrible Things. He hoped

someone would listen.

8. “THE EMPEROR'S NEW CLOTHES” by Jean

Hersholt

Many years ago there was an Emperor so exceedingly fond of new clothes that he spent all his money on being well dressed. He cared nothing about reviewing his soldiers, going to the theatre, or going for a ride in his carriage, except to show off his new clothes. He had a coat for every hour of the day, and instead of saying, as one might, about any other ruler, "The King's in council," here they always said. "The Emperor's in his dressing room."

In the great city where he lived, life was always gay. Every day many strangers came to town, and among them one day came two swindlers. They let it be known they were weavers, and they said they could weave the most magnificent fabrics imaginable. Not only were their colors and patterns uncommonly fine,

but clothes made of this cloth had a wonderful way of becoming invisible to anyone who was unfit for his office, or who was unusually stupid.

"Those would be just the clothes for me," thought the Emperor. "If I wore them I would be able to discover which men in my empire are unfit for their posts. And I could tell the wise men from the fools. Yes, I certainly must get some of the stuff woven for me right away." He paid the two swindlers a large sum of money to start work at once.

They set up two looms and pretended to weave, though there was nothing on the looms. All the finest silk and the purest old thread which they demanded went into their traveling bags, while they worked the empty looms far into the night.

"I'd like to know how those weavers are getting on with the cloth," the Emperor thought, but he felt slightly uncomfortable when he remembered that those who were unfit for their position would not be able to see the fabric. It couldn't have been that he doubted himself, yet he thought he'd rather send someone else to see how

things were going. The whole town knew about the cloth's peculiar power, and all were impatient to find out how stupid their neighbors were.

"I'll send my honest old minister to the weavers," the Emperor decided. "He'll be the best one to tell me how the material looks, for he's a sensible man and no one does his duty better."

So the honest old minister went to the room where the two swindlers sat working away at their empty looms.

"Heaven help me," he thought as his eyes flew wide open, "I can't see anything at all". But he did not say so.

Both the swindlers begged him to be so kind as to come near to approve the excellent pattern, the beautiful colors. They pointed to the empty looms, and the poor old minister stared as hard as he dared. He couldn't see anything, because there was nothing to see. "Heaven have mercy," he thought. "Can it be that I'm a fool? I'd have never guessed it, and not a soul must know. Am I unfit to be the minister? It would never do to let on that I can't see the cloth."

"Don't hesitate to tell us what you think of it," said one of the weavers.

"Oh, it's beautiful -it's enchanting." The old minister peered through his spectacles. "Such a pattern, what colors!" I'll be sure to tell the Emperor how delighted I am with it."

"We're pleased to hear that," the swindlers said. They proceeded to name all the colors and to explain the intricate pattern. The old minister paid the closest attention, so that he could tell it all to the Emperor. And so he did.

The swindlers at once asked for more money, more silk and gold thread, to get on with the weaving. But it all went into their pockets. Not a thread went into the looms, though they worked at their weaving as hard as ever.

The Emperor presently sent another trustworthy official to see how the work progressed and how soon it would be ready. The same thing happened to him that had happened to the minister. He looked and he looked, but as there was nothing to see in the looms he couldn't see anything.

"Isn't it a beautiful piece of goods?" the swindlers asked him, as they displayed and described their imaginary pattern.

"I know I'm not stupid," the man thought, "so it must be that I'm unworthy

of my good office. That's strange. I mustn't let anyone find it out, though." So he praised the material he did not see. He declared he was delighted with the beautiful colors and the exquisite pattern. To the Emperor he said, "It held me spellbound."

All the town was talking of this splendid cloth, and the Emperor wanted to see it for himself while it was still in the looms. Attended by a band of chosen men, among whom were his two old trusted officials-the ones who had been to the weavers-he set out to see the two swindlers. He found them weaving with might and main, but without a thread in their looms.

"Magnificent," said the two officials already duped. "Just look, Your Majesty, what colors! What a design!" They pointed to the empty looms, each supposing that the others could see the stuff.

"What's this?" thought the Emperor. "I can't see anything. This is terrible!

Am I a fool? Am I unfit to be the Emperor? What a thing to happen to me of all people! - Oh! It's very pretty," he said. "It has my highest approval." And he nodded approbation at the empty loom. Nothing could

make him say that he couldn't see anything.

His whole retinue stared and stared. One saw no more than another, but they all joined the Emperor in exclaiming, "Oh! It's very pretty," and they advised him to wear clothes made of this wonderful cloth especially for the great procession he was soon to lead. "Magnificent! Excellent! Unsurpassed!" were bandied from mouth to mouth, and everyone did his best to seem well pleased. The Emperor gave each of the swindlers a cross to wear in his buttonhole, and the title of "Sir Weaver."

Before the procession the swindlers sat up all night and burned more than six candles, to show how busy they were finishing the Emperor's new clothes. They pretended to take the cloth off the loom. They made cuts in the air with huge scissors. And at last they said, "Now the Emperor's new clothes are ready for him."

Then the Emperor himself came with his noblest noblemen, and the swindlers each raised an arm as if they were holding something. They said, "These are the trousers, here's the coat, and this is the mantle," naming each

garment. "All of them are as light as a spider web. One would almost think he had nothing on, but that's what makes them so fine."

"Exactly," all the noblemen agreed, though they could see nothing, for there was nothing to see.

"If Your Imperial Majesty will condescend to take your clothes off," said the swindlers, "we will help you on with your new ones here in front of the long mirror."

The Emperor undressed, and the swindlers pretended to put his new clothes on him, one garment after another. They took him around the waist and seemed to be fastening something - that was his train-as the Emperor turned round and round before the looking glass.

"How well Your Majesty's new clothes look. Aren't they becoming!" He heard on all sides, "That pattern, so perfect! Those colors, so suitable! It is a magnificent outfit."

Then the minister of public processions announced: "Your Majesty's canopy is waiting outside."

"Well, I'm supposed to be ready," the Emperor said, and turned again for one last look in the mirror. "It is a remarkable fit, isn't it?" He seemed to regard his

costume with the greatest interest.

The noblemen who were to carry his train stooped low and reached for the floor as if they were picking up his mantle. Then they pretended to lift and hold it high. They didn't dare admit they had nothing to hold.

So off went the Emperor in procession under his splendid canopy. Everyone in the streets and the windows said, "Oh, how fine are the Emperor's new clothes! Don't they fit him to perfection? And see his long train!" Nobody would confess that he couldn't see anything, for that would prove him either unfit for his position, or a fool. No costume the Emperor had worn before was ever such a complete success.

"But he hasn't got anything on," a little child said.

"Did you ever hear such innocent prattle?" said its father. And one person whispered to another what the child had said, "He hasn't anything on. A child says he hasn't anything on."

"But he hasn't got anything on!" the whole town cried out at last.

The Emperor shivered, for he suspected they were right. But he thought, "This procession has got to go

on." So he walked more proudly than ever, as his noblemen held high the train that wasn't there at all.

9. THE BUTTERFLY – Aesop’s Fables

There was once a butterfly who wished for a bride, and, as may be supposed, he wanted to choose a very pretty one from among the flowers. He glanced, with a very critical eye, at all the flower-beds, and found that the flowers were seated quietly anddemurely on their stalks, just as maidens should sit before they are engaged; but there was a great number of them, and it appeared as if his search would become very wearisome. The butterfly did not like to take too much trouble, so he flew off on a visit to the daisies. The French call this flower "Marguerite," and they say that the little daisy can prophesy. Lovers pluck off the leaves, and as they pluck each leaf, they ask a question about their lovers; thus: "Does he or she love me?—Ardently?

Distractedly? Very much? A little? Not at all?" and so on. Every one speaks these words in his own language. The butterfly came also to Marguerite to inquire, but he did not pluck off her leaves; he pressed a kiss on each of them, for he thought ther was always more to be done by kindness.

"Darling Marguerite daisy," he said to her, "you are the wisest woman of all the flowers. Pray tell me which of the flowers I shall choose for my wife. Which will be my bride? When I know, I will fly directly to her, and propose."

But Marguerite did not answer him; she was offended that he should call her a woman when she was only a girl; and there is a great difference. He asked her a second time, and then a third; but she remained dumb, and answered not a word. Then he would wait no longer, but flew away, to commence his wooing at once. It was in the early spring, when the crocus and the snowdrop were in full bloom.

"They are very pretty," thought the butterfly; "charming little lasses; but they are rather formal."

Then, as the young lads often do, he looked out for the elder girls. He next flew

to the anemones; these were rather sour to his taste. The violet, a little too sentimental.

The lime-blossoms, too small, and besides, there was such a large family of them. The apple-blossoms, though they looked like roses, bloomed to-day, but might fall off tomorrow, with the first wind that blew; and he thought that a marriage with one of them might last too short a time. The pea-blossom pleased him most of all; she was white and red, graceful and slender, and belonged to those domestic maidens who have a pretty appearance, and can yet be useful in the kitchen. He was just about to make her an offer, when, close by the maiden, he saw a pod, with a withered flower hanging at the end.

"Who is that?" he asked."That is my sister," replied

the pea-blossom."Oh, indeed; and you will

be like her some day," said he; and he flew away directly, for he felt quite shocked.

A honeysuckle hung forth from the hedge, in full bloom; but there were so many girls like her, with long faces and sallow complexions. No; he did not like her. But which one did he like?

Spring went by, and summer drew towards its close; autumn came; but he had not decided. The flowers now appeared in their most gorgeous robes, but all in vain; they had not the fresh, fragrant air of youth. For the heart asks for fragrance, even when it is no longer young; and there is very little of that to be found in the dahlias or the dry chrysanthemums; therefore the butterfly turned to the mint on the ground. You know, this plant has no blossom; but it is sweetness all over,—full of fragrance from head to foot, with the scent of a flower in every leaf. "I will take her," said the butterfly; and he made her an offer. But the mint stood silent and stiff, as she listened to him. At last she said,—

"Friendship, if you please; nothing more. I am old, and you are old, but we may live for each other just the same; as to marrying—no; don't let us appear ridiculous at our age."

And so it happened that the butterfly got no wife at all. He had been too long choosing, which is always a bad plan. And the butterfly became what is called an old bachelor.

It was late in the autumn, with rainy and cloudy weather. The cold wind

blew over the bowed backs of the willows, so that they creaked again. It was not the weather for flying about in summer clothes; but fortunately the butterfly was not out

in it. He had got a shelter by chance. It was in a room heated by a stove, and as warm as summer. He could exist here, he said, well enough.

"But it is not enough merely to exist," said he, "I need freedom, sunshine, and a little flower for a companion."

Then he flew against the window-pane, and was seen and admired by those in the room, who caught him, and stuck him on a pin, in a box of curiosities. They could not do more for him.

"Now I am perched on a stalk, like the flowers," said the butterfly. "It is not very pleasant, certainly; I should imagine it is something like being married; for here I am stuck fast." And with this thought he consoled himself a little.

"That seems very poor consolation," said one of the plants in the room, that grew in a pot.

"Ah," thought the butterfly, "one can't very well trust these plants in pots; they have too much to do with mankind."

10. “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie”

If you give a mouse a cookie, he's going to ask for a glass of milk.

When you give him the milk, he'll probably ask you for a straw.

When he's finished, he'll ask you for a napkin.

Then he'll want to look in a mirror to make sure he doesn't have a milk mustache.

When he looks in the mirror, he might notice his hair needs a trim. So he'll probably ask for a pair of nail scissors.

When he's finished giving himself a trim, he'll want a

broom to sweep it up. He'll start sweeping.

He might get carried away and sweep every room in the house.

He may even end up washing the floors as well!

When he's done, he'll probably want to take a nap.

You'll have to fix up a little box for him with a blanket and a pillow.

He'll crawl in, make himself comfortable and fluff the pillow a few times.

He'll probably ask you to read him a story.

So you'll read to him from one of your books, and he'll ask to see the pictures.

When he looks at the pictures, he'll get so excited he'll want to draw one of his own.

He'll ask for paper and crayons. He'll draw a picture.

When the picture is finished, he'll want to sign his name with a pen.

Then he'll want to hang his picture on your refrigerator.

Which means he'll need Scotch tape.

He'll hang up his drawing and stand back to look at it.

Looking at the refrigerator will remind him that he's thirsty.

So... he'll ask for a glass of milk.

And chances are if he asks you for a glass of milk, he's going to want a cookie to go with it.

11. If you don’t like any of the allegorical stories in this packet, you are also welcome to search through Grimm’s Fairytales (easily found through google) and choose another. However, you must clear the story with me before you begin. Don’t hesitate to ask if you need any assistance finding the stories.