How Others View Me

and How I See Myself

H_ _ g _ y

S_ _ _ p _

Br _ _ _

S_ _ _ ky

S__r_

 ADJECTIVES

An adjective is a word
that modifies a noun (or
pronoun) to make it more
specific.
Adjectives on Sentences

You cannot eat a rotten egg.
They live in a beautiful house.
I met a homeless person in NY.
Ben is an adorable baby.
This shop is nice.
 Read the sentence carefully and write
down which word you think is the
adjective.

1. It's a small problem.
2. I have a great idea.
3. The price is cheap.
4. I like hot food.
5. The flowers are pretty.

 by
Rony V. Diaz
WHEN I saw my sister, Delia, beating my
dog with a stick, I felt hate heave like a

caged, angry beast in my chest. Out in the
sun, the hair of my sister glinted like metal
and, in her brown dress, she looked like a
sheathed dagger. Biryuk hugged the earth
and screamed but I could not bound
forward nor cry out to my sister. She had a
weak heart and she must not be surprised.
So I held myself, my throat swelled, and I
felt hate rear and plunge in its cage of ribs.
I WAS thirteen when my father first

took me hunting. All through the
summer of that year, I had tramped
alone and unarmed the fields and
forest around our farm. Then one
afternoon in late July my father told
me I could use his shotgun.
Beyond the ipil grove, in a grass field we
spotted a covey of brown pigeons. In the
open, they kept springing to the air and

gliding away every time we were within
range. But finally they dropped to the
ground inside a wedge of guava trees. My
father pressed my shoulder and I stopped.
Then slowly, in a half-crouch, we advanced.
The breeze rose lightly; the grass scuffed
against my bare legs. My father stopped
again. He knelt down and held my hand.
Wait for the birds to rise and then fire, he
whispered.
I pushed the safety lever of the rifle off and
sighted along the barrel. The saddle of the stock

felt greasy on my cheek. The gun was heavy and
my arm muscles twitched. My mouth was dry; I
felt vaguely sick. I wanted to sit down.
You forgot to spit, my father said.
Father had told me that hunters always spat for
luck before firing. I spat and I saw the breeze
bend the ragged, glassy threads of spittle toward
the birds.
Thats good, Father said.
Cant we throw a stone, I whispered fiercely.
Its taking them a long time.