1. RECOUNT TEXT
Social function : to retell past event (true story/fact story)
Generic structures : orientation, event(s), re-orientation
Lexico grammatical : simple past tense
The Worst Holiday in My Life
Last Holiday, I spent my holiday to Bali with my girlfriend, Putri for a week.It was the worst holiday for us.
The worst things came to us one by one.In the first day, when we wanted to go to airport.I lost my camera.
The second day, when we arrived at the hotel, the room was not clean at ail.It was humid and the AC was off.
So, last holiday was the worst holiday for us.
Holiday at Anyer Beach
At the end of first semester, there was holiday which was very long about
Previously, I was just thinking about my study, because on the next semester
would be held an hard examination. But, I changed my mind to take
refreshing at the beach, which had I could get many happiness. Because, if I
just studying and studying, it would be possible if I would get stressed.
As soon, I called my friend and asked him where we will go at this holiday.
So, my friend had an idea that we will go to Anyer Beach. So we called
other friends and invited them to go together. And I was very happy because,
other friends came too. So, we planned our departure to go to Anyer Beach.
And it had been decision. The day was Monday until Tuesday.
On Monday, we had been ready to go to Anyer beach. When we arrived at
Anyer Beach, I was very fresh and enjoyed the scene. Playing with the sand
and water beach was very happy. We stayed at the hotel for tow days one
night. We enjoyed our holiday at this time. But, we didn’t forget the
30gm cocoa powder
225gm caster sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla essence
50gm self raising flour
50g chopped walnuts
50g raisins (optional)
How to make:
1. Grease a 20cm square cake tin
2. Preheat the oven to 180 C
3. Gently melt the butter in a small saucepan, stir in the cocoa and set aside.
4. Beat the eggs and caster sugar together until light and carefully
add the cocoa mixture.
5. Slowly stir in the vanilla essence, sift the flour and fold in.
6. Quickly add the nuts and raisins.
7. Put mixture in the prepared tin.
8. Bake in the centre of the oven for 30 minutes.
9. Carefully remove and allow to cool.
3. DESCRIPTIVE TEXT
Social function : to describe person, place, or things
Generic structures : Identification, Description
Lexico grammatical : simple present tense
My Nice Student in My Class
I have a lot of student in my class.One of them is Rasyid.He is nice student for me.
Rasyid is16 years old.He has tall enough and looks healthy.Rasyid has short or little bit bald.He is 170 cm height.His skin is tanned.His eyes are round black eyes.He has hat nose.Because he is kind and clever, many female students wants to be his girlfriend.But he is too shy to have relationship with a girl.
4. Report text
Do you know what is the largest lizard? This lizard is called komodo. It lives in the scrub and woodland of a few Indonesian islands.
Komodo dragon is the world’s heaviest lizard, weighing 150 pounds or more. The largest Komodo ever measured was more than 10 feet (3 meters) long and weighed 366 pounds (166 kg) but the average size of komodo in the wild is about 8 feet (2.5 meters) long and 200 pounds (91 kg)
Komodo has gray scaly skin, a pointed snout, powerful limbs and a muscular tail. They use their keen sense of smell to locate decaying animal remains from several miles away. They also hunt other lizards as well as large mammals and are sometimes cannibalistic.
The Komodo dragon’s teeth are almost completely covered by its gums. When it feeds, the gums bleed, creating an ideal culture for virulent bacteria. The bacteria that live in the Komodo dragon’s saliva causes septicemia, or blood poisoning, in its victims. A dragon will bite its prey, then follow it until the animal is too weak to carry on.
This lizard species is threatened by hunting, loss of prey species and habitat loss.
5. Narrative (Fairy tales)
Hans Christian Andersen
AVE you ever seen a maiden? I mean what our pavers call a maiden, a thing with which they ram down the paving-stones in the roads. A maiden of this kind is made altogether of wood, broad below, and girt round with iron rings. At the top she is narrow, and has a stick passed across through her waist, and this stick forms the arms of the maiden.
In the shed stood two Maidens of this kind. They had their place among shovels, hand-carts, wheelbarrows, and measuring-tapes; and to all this company the news had come that the Maidens were no longer to be called “maidens,” but “hand-rammers,” which word was the newest and the only correct designation among the pavers for the thing we all know from the old times by the name of “the maiden.”
Now, there are among us human creatures certain individuals who are known as “emancipated women,” as, for instance, principals of institutions, dancers who stand professionally on one leg, milliners, and sick-nurses; and with this class of emancipated women the two Maidens in the shed associated themselves. They were “maidens” among the paver folk, and determined not to give up this honorable appellation, and let themselves be miscalled “rammers.”
“Maiden is a human name, but hand-rammer is a thing, and we won’t be called things—that’s insulting us.”
“My lover would be ready to give up his engagement,” said the youngest, who was betrothed to a paver’s hammer; and the hammer is the thing which drives great piles into the earth, like a machine, and therefore does on a large scale what ten maidens effect in a similar way. “He wants to marry me as a maiden, but whether he would have me were I a hand-rammer is a question, so I won’t have my name changed.”
“And I,” said the elder one, “would rather have both my arms broken off.”
But the Wheelbarrow was of a different opinion; and the Wheelbarrow was looked upon as of some consequence, for he considered himself a quarter of a coach, because he went about upon one wheel.
“I must submit to your notice,” he said, “that the name ‘maiden’ is common enough, and not nearly so refined as ‘hand-rammer,’ or ‘stamper,’ which latter has also been proposed, and through which you would be introduced into the category of seals; and only think of the great stamp of state, which impresses the royal seal that gives effect to the laws! No, in your case I would surrender my maiden name.”
“No, certainly not!” exclaimed the elder. “I am too old for that.”
“I presume you have never heard of what is called ‘European necessity?’” observed the honest Measuring Tape. “One must be able to adapt one’s self to time and circumstances, and if there is a law that the ‘maiden’ is to be called ‘hand-rammer,’ why, she must be called ‘hand-rammer,’ and no pouting will avail, for everything has its measure.”
“No; if there must be a change,” said the younger, “I should prefer to be called ‘Missy,’ for that reminds one a little of maidens.”
“But I would rather be chopped to chips,” said the elder.
At last they all went to work. The Maidens rode—that is, they were put in a wheelbarrow, and that was a distinction; but still they were called “hand-rammers.”
“Mai—!” they said, as they were bumped upon the pavement. “Mai—!” and they were very nearly pronouncing the whole word “maiden;” but they broke off short, and swallowed the last syllable; for after mature deliberation they considered it beneath their dignity to protest. But they always called each other “maiden,” and praised the good old days in which everything had been called by its right name, and those who were maidens were called maidens. And they remained as they were; for the hammer really broke off his engagement with the younger one, for nothing would suit him but he must have a maiden for his bride.
The Phoenix Bird
Hans Christian Andersen
N the Garden of Paradise, beneath the Tree of Knowledge, bloomed a rose bush. Here, in the first rose, a bird was born. His flight was like the flashing of light, his plumage was beauteous, and his song ravishing. But when Eve plucked the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, when she and Adam were driven from Paradise, there fell from the flaming sword of the cherub a spark into the nest of the bird, which blazed up forthwith. The bird perished in the flames; but from the red egg in the nest there fluttered aloft a new one—the one solitary Phoenix bird. The fable tells that he dwells in Arabia, and that every hundred years, he burns himself to death in his nest; but each time a new Phoenix, the only one in the world, rises up from the red egg.
The bird flutters round us, swift as light, beauteous in color, charming in song. When a mother sits by her infant’s cradle, he stands on the pillow, and, with his wings, forms a glory around the infant’s head. He flies through the chamber of content, and brings sunshine into it, and the violets on the humble table smell doubly sweet.
But the Phoenix is not the bird of Arabia alone. He wings his way in the glimmer of the Northern Lights over the plains of Lapland, and hops among the yellow flowers in the short Greenland summer. Beneath the copper mountains of Fablun, and England’s coal mines, he flies, in the shape of a dusty moth, over the hymnbook that rests on the knees of the pious miner. On a lotus leaf he floats down the sacred waters of the Ganges, and the eye of the Hindoo maid gleams bright when she beholds him.
The Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him? The Bird of Paradise, the holy swan of song! On the car of Thespis he sat in the guise of a chattering raven, and flapped his black wings, smeared with the lees of wine; over the sounding harp of Iceland swept the swan’s red beak; on Shakspeare’s shoulder he sat in the guise of Odin’s raven, and whispered in the poet’s ear “Immortality!” and at the minstrels’ feast he fluttered through the halls of the Wartburg.
The Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him? He sang to thee the Marseillaise, and thou kissedst the pen that fell from his wing; he came in the radiance of Paradise, and perchance thou didst turn away from him towards the sparrow who sat with tinsel on his wings.
The Bird of Paradise—renewed each century—born in flame, ending in flame! Thy picture, in a golden frame, hangs in the halls of the rich, but thou thyself often fliest around, lonely and disregarded, a myth—“The Phoenix of Arabia.”
In Paradise, when thou wert born in the first rose, beneath the Tree of Knowledge, thou receivedst a kiss, and thy right name was given thee—thy name, Poetry.
The Happy Family
Hans Christian Andersen
HE largest green leaf in this country is certainly the burdock-leaf. If you hold it in front of you, it is large enough for an apron; and if you hold it over your head, it is almost as good as an umbrella, it is so wonderfully large. A burdock never grows alone; where it grows, there are many more, and it is a splendid sight; and all this splendor is good for snails. The great white snails, which grand people in olden times used to have made into fricassees; and when they had eaten them, they would say, “O, what a delicious dish!” for these people really thought them good; and these snails lived on burdock-leaves, and for them the burdock was planted.
There was once an old estate where no one now lived to require snails; indeed, the owners had all died out, but the burdock still flourished; it grew over all the beds and walks of the garden—its growth had no check—till it became at last quite a forest of burdocks. Here and there stood an apple or a plum-tree; but for this, nobody would have thought the place had ever been a garden. It was burdock from one end to the other; and here lived the last two surviving snails. They knew not themselves how old they were; but they could remember the time when there were a great many more of them, and that they were descended from a family which came from foreign lands, and that the whole forest had been planted for them and theirs. They had never been away from the garden; but they knew that another place once existed in the world, called the Duke’s Palace Castle, in which some of their relations had been boiled till they became black, and were then laid on a silver dish; but what was done afterwards they did not know. Besides, they could not imagine exactly how it felt to be boiled and placed on a silver dish; but no doubt it was something very fine and highly genteel. Neither the cockchafer, nor the toad, nor the earth-worm, whom they questioned about it, would give them the least information; for none of their relations had ever been cooked or served on a silver dish. The old white snails were the most aristocratic race in the world,—they knew that. The forest had been planted for them, and the nobleman’s castle had been built entirely that they might be cooked and laid on silver dishes.
They lived quite retired and very happily; and as they had no children of their own, they had adopted a little common snail, which they brought up as their own child. The little one would not grow, for he was only a common snail; but the old people, particularly the mother-snail, declared that she could easily see how he grew; and when the father said he could not perceive it, she begged him to feel the little snail’s shell, and he did so, and found that the mother was right.
One day it rained very fast. “Listen, what a drumming there is on the burdock-leaves; turn, turn, turn; turn, turn, turn,” said the father-snail.
“There come the drops,” said the mother; “they are trickling down the stalks. We shall have it very wet here presently. I am very glad we have such good houses, and that the little one has one of his own. There has been really more done for us than for any other creature; it is quite plain that we are the most noble people in the world. We have houses from our birth, and the burdock forest has been planted for us. I should very much like to know how far it extends, and what lies beyond it.”
“There can be nothing better than we have here,” said the father-snail; “I wish for nothing more.”
“Yes, but I do,” said the mother; “I should like to be taken to the palace, and boiled, and laid upon a silver dish, as was done to all our ancestors; and you may be sure it must be something very uncommon.”
“The nobleman’s castle, perhaps, has fallen to decay,” said the snail-father, “or the burdock wood may have grown out. You need not be in a hurry; you are always so impatient, and the youngster is getting just the same. He has been three days creeping to the top of that stalk. I feel quite giddy when I look at him.”
“You must not scold him,” said the mother-snail; “he creeps so very carefully. He will be the joy of our home; and we old folks have nothing else to live for. But have you ever thought where we are to get a wife for him? Do you think that farther out in the wood there may be others of our race?”
“There may be black snails, no doubt,” said the old snail; “black snails without houses; but they are so vulgar and conceited too. But we can give the ants a commission; they run here and there, as if they all had so much business to get through. They, most likely, will know of a wife for our youngster.”
“I certainly know a most beautiful bride,” said one of the ants; “but I fear it would not do, for she is a queen.”
“That does not matter,” said the old snail; “has she a house?”
“She has a palace,” replied the ant,—“a most beautiful ant-palace with seven hundred passages.”
“Thank-you,” said the mother-snail; “but our boy shall not go to live in an ant-hill. If you know of nothing better, we will give the commission to the white gnats; they fly about in rain and sunshine; they know the burdock wood from one end to the other.”
“We have a wife for him,” said the gnats; “a hundred man-steps from here there is a little snail with a house, sitting on a gooseberry-bush; she is quite alone, and old enough to be married. It is only a hundred man-steps from here.”
“Then let her come to him,” said the old people. “He has the whole burdock forest; she has only a bush.”
So they brought the little lady-snail. She took eight days to perform the journey; but that was just as it ought to be; for it showed her to be one of the right breeding. And then they had a wedding. Six glow-worms gave as much light as they could; but in other respects it was all very quiet; for the old snails could not bear festivities or a crowd. But a beautiful speech was made by the mother-snail. The father could not speak; he was too much overcome. Then they gave the whole burdock forest to the young snails as an inheritance, and repeated what they had so often said, that it was the finest place in the world, and that if they led upright and honorable lives, and their family increased, they and their children might some day be taken to the nobleman’s palace, to be boiled black, and laid on a silver dish. And when they had finished speaking, the old couple crept into their houses, and came out no more; for they slept.
The young snail pair now ruled in the forest, and had a numerous progeny. But as the young ones were never boiled or laid in silver dishes, they concluded that the castle had fallen into decay, and that all the people in the world were dead; and as nobody contradicted them, they thought they must be right. And the rain fell upon the burdock-leaves, to play the drum for them, and the sun shone to paint colors on the burdock forest for them, and they were very happy; the whole family were entirely and perfectly happy.
The Swan’s Nest
Hans Christian Andersen
ETWEEN the Baltic and the North Sea there lies an old swan’s nest, wherein swans are born and have been born that shall never die.
In olden times a flock of swans flew over the Alps to the green plains around Milan, where it was delightful to dwell. This flight of swans men called the Lombards.
Another flock, with shining plumage and honest eyes, soared southward to Byzantium; the swans established themselves there close by the Emperor’s throne, and spread their wings over him as shields to protect him. They received the name of Varangians.
On the coast of France there sounded a cry of fear, for the blood-stained swans that came from the North with fire under their wings; and the people prayed, “Heaven deliver us from the wild Northmen.”
On the fresh sward of England stood the Danish swan by the open seashore, with the crown of three kingdoms on his head; and he stretched out his golden sceptre over the land. The heathens on the Pomerian coast bent the knee, and the Danish swans came with the banner of the Cross and with the drawn sword.
“That was in the very old times,” you say.
In later days two mighty swans have been seen to fly from the nest. A light shone far through the air, far over the lands of the earth; the swan, with the strong beating of his wings, scattered the twilight mists, and the starry sky was seen, and it was as if it came nearer to the earth. That was the swan Tycho Brahe.
“Yes, then,” you say; “but in our own days?”
We have seen swan after swan soar by in glorious flight. One let his pinions glide over the strings of the golden harp, and it resounded through the North. Norway’s mountains seemed to rise higher in the sunlight of former days; there was a rustling among the pine trees and the birches; the gods of the North, the heroes, and the noble women, showed themselves in the dark forest depths.
We have seen a swan beat with his wings upon the marble crag, so that it burst, and the forms of beauty imprisoned in the stone stepped out to the sunny day, and men in the lands round about lifted up their heads to behold these mighty forms.
We have seen a third swan spinning the thread of thought that is fastened from country to country round the world, so that the word may fly with lightning speed from land to land.
And our Lord loves the old swan’s nest between the Baltic and the North Sea. And when the mighty birds come soaring through the air to destroy it, even the callow young stand round in a circle on the margin of the nest, and though their breasts may be struck so that their blood flows, they bear it, and strike with their wings and their claws.
Centuries will pass by, swans will fly forth from the nest, men will see them and hear them in the world, before it shall be said in spirit and in truth, “This is the last swan—the last song from the swan’s nest.”
The Pen and the Inkstand
Hans Christian Andersen
N a poet’s room, where his inkstand stood on the table, the remark was once made, “It is wonderful what can be brought out of an inkstand. What will come next? It is indeed wonderful.”
“Yes, certainly,” said the inkstand to the pen, and to the other articles that stood on the table; “that’s what I always say. It is wonderful and extraordinary what a number of things come out of me. It’s quite incredible, and I really don’t know what is coming next when that man dips his pen into me. One drop out of me is enough for half a page of paper, and what cannot half a page contain? From me, all the works of a poet are produced; all those imaginary characters whom people fancy they have known or met. All the deep feeling, the humor, and the vivid pictures of nature. I myself don’t understand how it is, for I am not acquainted with nature, but it is certainly in me. From me have gone forth to the world those wonderful descriptions of troops of charming maidens, and of brave knights on prancing steeds; of the halt and the blind, and I know not what more, for I assure you I never think of these things.”
“There you are right,” said the pen, “for you don’t think at all; if you did, you would see that you can only provide the means. You give the fluid that I may place upon the paper what dwells in me, and what I wish to bring to light. It is the pen that writes: no man doubts that; and, indeed, most people understand as much about poetry as an old inkstand.”
“You have had very little experience,” replied the inkstand. “You have hardly been in service a week, and are already half worn out. Do you imagine you are a poet? You are only a servant, and before you came I had many like you, some of the goose family, and others of English manufacture. I know a quill pen as well as I know a steel one. I have had both sorts in my service, and I shall have many more when he comes—the man who performs the mechanical part—and writes down what he obtains from me. I should like to know what will be the next thing he gets out of me.”
“Inkpot!” exclaimed the pen contemptuously.
Late in the evening the poet came home. He had been to a concert, and had been quite enchanted with the admirable performance of a famous violin player whom he had heard there. The performer had produced from his instrument a richness of tone that sometimes sounded like tinkling waterdrops or rolling pearls; sometimes like the birds twittering in chorus, and then rising and swelling in sound like the wind through the fir-trees. The poet felt as if his own heart were weeping, but in tones of melody like the sound of a woman’s voice. It seemed not only the strings, but every part of the instrument from which these sounds were produced. It was a wonderful performance and a difficult piece, and yet the bow seemed to glide across the strings so easily that it was as if any one could do it who tried. Even the violin and the bow appeared to perform independently of their master who guided them; it was as if soul and spirit had been breathed into the instrument, so the audience forgot the performer in the beautiful sounds he produced. Not so the poet; he remembered him, and named him, and wrote down his thoughts on the subject. “How foolish it would be for the violin and the bow to boast of their performance, and yet we men often commit that folly. The poet, the artist, the man of science in his laboratory, the general,—we all do it; and yet we are only the instruments which the Almighty uses; to Him alone the honor is due. We have nothing of ourselves of which we should be proud.” Yes, this is what the poet wrote down. He wrote it in the form of a parable, and called it “The Master and the Instruments.”
“That is what you have got, madam,” said the pen to the inkstand, when the two were alone again. “Did you hear him read aloud what I had written down?”
“Yes, what I gave you to write,” retorted the inkstand. “That was a cut at you because of your conceit. To think that you could not understand that you were being quizzed. I gave you a cut from within me. Surely I must know my own satire.”
“Ink-pitcher!” cried the pen.
“Writing-stick!” retorted the inkstand. And each of them felt satisfied that he had given a good answer. It is pleasing to be convinced that you have settled a matter by your reply; it is something to make you sleep well, and they both slept well upon it. But the poet did not sleep. Thoughts rose up within him like the tones of the violin, falling like pearls, or rushing like the strong wind through the forest. He understood his own heart in these thoughts; they were as a ray from the mind of the Great Master of all minds.
“To Him be all the honor.”
1. File Mr. Gi, Karanganyar
2. File Mr Yoyon , Sukoharjo