@Zhener机器人 [ID:白蓉浮水丶]

@Zhener机器人 [ID:__Ctrl° ]

@Zhener机器人 [浅仓月渎 ]

@Zhener机器人 [ID:__彼时花落 ]

@Zhener机器人 [ID:浅仓月渎]

Frandre is the youngest descendant of vampire Scarlet.
The strange ability she has is destory everything she can catch.
Fearing of that amazing destructive power, Remilia, the sister of Frandre, has imprisoned Frandre in basement for 450 years.

"The dinner is prepared, my lord." A fairy maid says respectfully. She bows and chills, tries her best to prevent making eye contact with the little girl.
"I do not wanna eat anything now", Frandre smiles innocently."Could you please play with me?" It is hard to refuse such a hopeful require. However, the maid turns around quickly and runs away.
"Please, don't leave me! I will be a good child!" Frandre cried in despair.
Nobody answers.
Frandre loses her inter in her dinner,red bean

a pet peacock with a ten-foot tail. Peter wore a golden robe that glittered
so brightly that when he walked through the sunflowers they turned
away from the sun to face him. When Peter was ready to go to sleep, the
peacock spread his magnificent tail, enfolding the boy gently like a closing
go-to-sleep flower, burying him in the glorious iridescent, rustling
vortex. Yes, I must admit it. Doodle could beat me lying.
Doodle and I spent lots of time thinking about our future. We
decided that when we were grown we’d live in Old Woman Swamp and
pick dog-tongue for a living. Beside the stream, he planned, we’d build us
a house of whispering leaves and the swamp birds would be our chickens.
All day long (when we weren’t gathering dog-tongue) we’d swing through
the cypresses on the rope vines, and if it rained we’d huddle beneath an
umbrella tree and play stickfrog. Mama and Daddy could come and live
with us if they wanted to. He even came up with the idea that he could
marry Mama and I could marry Daddy. Of course, I was old enough to
know this wouldn’t work out, but the picture he painted was so beautiful
and serene that all I could do was whisper Yes, yes.
Once I had succeeded in teaching Doodle to walk, I began to believe
in my own infallibility, and I prepared a terrific development program
for him, unknown to Mama and Daddy, of course. I would teach
him to run, to swim, to climb trees, and to fight. He, too, now believed
in my infallibility, so we set the deadline for these accomplishments less
that a year away, when, it had been decided, Doodle could start to school.
That winter we didn’t make much progress, for I was in school and
Doodle suffered from one bad cold after another. But when spring came,
rich and warm, we raised our sights again. Success lay at the end of summer
like a pot of gold, and our campaign got off to a good start. On hot
days, Doodle and I went down to Horsehead Landing, and I gave him
swimming lessons or showed him how to row a boat. Sometimes we
descended into the cool greenness of Old Woman Swamp and climbed
the rope vines or boxed scientifically beneath the pine where he had
learned to walk. Promise hung about us like the leaves, and wherever we
looked, ferns unfurled and birds broke into song.
That summer, the summer of 1918, was blighted. In May and June
there was no rain and the crops withered, curled up, then died under the
thirsty sun. One morning in July a hurricane came out of the east, tipping
over the oaks in the yard and splitting the limbs of the elm trees.
That afternoon it roared back out of the west, blew the fallen oaks
around, snapping their roots and tearing them out of the earth like a
hawk at the entrails of a chicken. Cotton bolls were wrenched from the
stalks and lay like green walnuts in the valleys between the rows, while the
cornfield leaned over uniformly so that the tassels touched the ground.
Doodle and I followed Daddy out into the cotton field, where he stood,
shoulders sagging, surveying the ruin. When his chin sank down onto his
chest, we were frightened, and Doodle slipped his hand into mine. Suddenly
Daddy straightened his shoulders, raised a giant knuckle fist, and
with a voice that seemed to rumble out of the earth itself began cursing
the weather and the Republican Party. Doodle and I prodding each other
and giggling, went back to the house, knowing that everything would be
all right.
And during that summer, strange names were heard through the
house: Château-Thierry, Amiens, Soissons, and in her blessing at the
supper table, Mama once said, “And bless the Pearsons, whose boy Joe
was lost at Belleau Wood.” So we came to that clove of seasons. School
was only a few weeks away, and Doodle was far behind schedule. He
could barely clear the ground when climbing up the rope vines, and his
swimming was certainly not passable. We decided to double our efforts,
to make that last drive and reach our pot of gold. I made him swim until
he turned blue. and row until he couldn’t lift an oar. Wherever we went, I
purposely walked fast, and although he kept up, his face turned red and
his eyes became glazed. Once, he could go no further, so he collapsed on
the ground and began to cry.
“Aw, come on, Doodle,” I urged. “You can do it. Do you want to be
different from everybody else when you start school?”
“Does it make any difference?”
“It certainly does,” I said. “Now, come on,” and I helped him up.
As we slipped through dog days, Doodle began to look feverish, and
Mama felt his forehead, asking him if he felt ill. At night he didn’t sleep
well, and sometimes he had nightmares, crying out until I touched him
and said, “Wake up, Doodle. Wake up.”
It was Saturday noon, just a few days before school was to start. I
should have already admitted defeat, but my pride wouldn’t let me. The
excitement of our program had now been gone for weeks, but still we
kept on with a tired doggedness. It was too late to turn back, for we had
both wandered too far into a net of expectations and left no crumbs behind.
Daddy, Mama, Doodle, and I were seated at the dining-room table
having lunch. It was a hot day, with all the windows and doors open in
case a breeze should come. In the kitchen Aunt Nicey was humming
softly. After a long silence, Daddy spoke. “It’s so calm, I wouldn’t be surprised
if we had a storm this afternoon.”
“I haven’t heard a rain frog,” said Mama, who believed in signs, as
she served the bread around the table.
“I did,” declared Doodle. “Down in the swamp-”
“He didn’t,” I said contrarily.
“You did, eh?” said Daddy, ignoring my denial.
“I certainly did,” Doodle reiterated, scowling at me over the top of
his iced-tea glass, and we were quiet again.
Suddenly, from out in the yard, came a strange croaking noise.
Doodle stopped eating, with a piece of bread poised ready for his mouth,
his eyes popped round like two blue buttons.
“What’s that?” he whispered.
I jumped up, knocking over my chair, and had reached the door
when Mama called, “Pick up the chair, sit down again, and say excuse
me.”
By the time I had done this Doodle had excused himself and had
slipped out into the yard. He was looking up into the bleeding tree. "It’s a
great big red bird!" he called.
The bird croaked loudly again, and Mama and Daddy came out
into the yard. We shaded our eyes with our hands against the hazy glare
of the sun and peered up through the still leaves. On the topmost branch
a bird the size of a chicken, with scarlet feathers and long legs, was
perched precariously. Its wings hung down loosely, and as we watched, a
feather dropped away and floated slowly down through the green leaves.
“It’s not even frightened of us,” Mama said.
“It looks tired,” Daddy added. “Or maybe sick.”
Doodle’s hands were clasped at his throat, and I had never seen him
stand still so long. “What is it it?” he asked.
Daddy shook his head. “I don’t know, maybe it’s-”
At that moment the bird began to flutter, but the wings were uncoordinated,
and amid much flapping and a spray of flying feathers, it
English 9 • MTHS
DeMiero
3

tumbled down, bumping through the limbs of the bleeding tree and
landing at our feet with a thud. Its long, graceful neck jerked twice into
an S, then straightened out, and the bird was still. A white veil came over
the eyes and the long white beak unhinged. Its legs were crossed and its
claw-like feet were delicately curved at rest. Even death did not mar its
grace, for it lay on the earth like a broken vase of red flowers, and we
stood around it, awed by its exotic beauty.
“It’s dead,” Mama said.
“What is it?” Doodle repeated.
“Go bring me the bird book,” said Daddy.
I ran into the house and brought back the bird book. As we
watched, Daddy thumbed through its pages. “It’s a scarlet ibis,” he said,
pointing to the picture. “It lives in the tropics – South America to Florida.
A storm must have brought it here.”
Sadly, we all looked back at the bird. A scarlet ibis! How many miles
it had traveled to die like this, in our yard, beneath the bleeding tree.
“Let’s finish lunch,” Mama said, nudging us back toward the dining
room.
“I’m not hungry,” said Doodle, and he knelt down beside the ibis.
“We’ve got peach cobbler for dessert,” Mama tempted from the
doorway.
Doodle remained kneeling. “I’m going to bury him.”
“Don’t you dare touch him,” Mama warned. “There’s no telling
what disease he might have had.”
“All right,” said Doodle. “I won’t.”
Daddy, Mama, and I went back to the dining-room table, but we
watched Doodle through the open door. He took out a piece of string
from his pocket and, without touching the ibis, looped one end around
its neck. Slowly, while singing softly “Shall We Gather at the River,” he
carried the bird around to the front yard and dug a hole in the flower
garden, next to the petunia bed. Now we were watching him through the
front window, but he didn’t know it. His awkwardness at digging the
hole with a shovel whose handle was twice as long as he was made us
laugh, and we covered our mouths with our hands so he wouldn’t hear.
When Doodle came into the dining room, he found us seriously
eating our cobbler. He was pale, and lingered just inside the screen door.
“Did you get the scarlet ibis buried?” asked Daddy. Doodle didn’t
speak but nodded his head.
“Go wash your hands, and then you can have some peach cobbler,”
said Mama.
“I’m not hungry,” he said.
“Dead birds is bad luck,” said Aunt Nicey, poking her head from
the kitchen door. “Especially red dead birds!”
As soon as I had finished eating, Doodle and I hurried off to
Horsehead Landing. Time was short, and Doodle still had a long way to
go if he was going to keep up with the other boys when he started school.
The sun, gilded with the yellow cast of autumn, still burned fiercely, but
the dark green woods through which we passed were shady and cool.
When we reached the landing, Doodle said he was too tired to swim, so
we got into a skiff and floated down the creek with the tide. Far off in the
marsh a rail was scolding, and over on the beach locusts were singing in
the myrtle trees. Doodle did not speak and kept his head turned away,
letting one hand trail limply in the water. After we had drifted a long way,
I put the oars in place and made Doodle row back against the tide. Black
clouds began to gather in the southwest, and he kept watching them,
trying to pull the oars a little faster. When we reached Horsehead Landing,
lightning was playing across half the sky and thunder roared out,
hiding even the sound of the sea. The sun disappeared and darkness descended,
almost like night. Flocks of marsh crows flew by, heading inland
to their roosting trees; and two egrets, squawking, arose from the oysterrock
shallows and careened away.
Doodle was both tired and frightened, and when he stepped from
the skiff he collapsed onto the mud, sending an armada of fiddler crabs
rustling off into the marsh grass. I helped him up, and as he wiped the
mud off his trousers, he smiled at me ashamedly. He had failed and we
both knew it, so we started back home, racing the storm. We never spoke
(What are the words that can solder cracked pride?), but I knew he was
watching me, watching for a sign of mercy. The lightning was near now,
and from fear he walked so close behind me he kept stepping on my
heels. The faster I walked, the faster he walked, so I began to run. The
rain was coming, roaring through the pines, and then, like a bursting
Roman candle, a gum tree ahead of us was shattered by a bolt of lightning.
When the deafening peal of thunder had died, and in the moment
before the rain arrived, I heard Doodle, who had fallen behind, cry out,
“Brother, Brother, don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!”
The knowledge that Doodle’s and my plans had come to naught
was bitter, and that streak of cruelty within me awakened. I ran as fast as I
could, leaving him far behind with a wall of rain dividing us. The drops
stung my face like nettles, and the wind flared the wet glistening leaves of
the bordering trees. Soon I could hear his voice no more.
I hadn’t run too far before I became tired, and the flood of childish
spite evanesced as well. I stopped and waited for Doodle. The sound of
rain was everywhere, but the wind had died and it fell straight down in
parallel paths like ropes hanging from the sky. As I waited, I peered
through the downpour, but no one came. Finally I went back and found
him huddled beneath a red nightshade bush beside the road. He was
sitting on the ground, his face buried in his arms, which were resting on
his drawn-up knees.
“Let’s go, Doodle,” I said.
He didn’t answer, so I placed my hand on his forehead and lifted his
head. Limply, he fell backwards onto the earth. He had been bleeding
from the mouth, and his neck and the front of his shirt were stained a
brilliant red.
“Doodle! Doodle!” I cried, shaking him, but there was no answer
but the ropy rain. He lay very awkwardly, with his head thrown far back,
making his vermilion neck appear unusually long and slim. His little legs,
bent sharply at the knees, had never before seemed so fragile, so thin. I
began to weep, and the tear-blurred vision in red before me looked very
familiar. “Doodle!” I screamed above the pounding storm and threw my
body to the earth above his.
For a long time, it seemed forever, I lay there crying, sheltering my
fallen scarlet ibis from the heresy of rain.
❦
English 9 • MTHS
DeMiero
4

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