The Park/Garden

Noun Adjective Verb Adverb Preposition

Trees Walk, skip, stroll,

Gulmohor jump, hop, climb,
brisk walk, jog,
swim, trim, dig,
plough, fly, buzz,
sing, chirp, play,
chase, cheer,
tackle, banter,
tease, shout, push,
Childern
Adults
Groups
Women
men

Necessity:
ADVERTISEMENTS:

Cities and towns do not possess the green beauty of the countryside.
They are filled with din and bustle and dust and smoke. The urban
people feel suffocated in this heavy atmosphere. They wish to taste the
cup of rural scenes which are not available in cities and towns. A
public park is an attempt to provide a taste of green beauty to these
busy people during their leisure-hours. Here they find a wealth of
oxygen which is rare in other parts of the town.

General description:
A public park is raised and maintained on a planned basis. It is fenced
all around with the iron bars with gates for entrance and exit. It is full
of beautiful plants and creepers which are filled with beautiful
seasonal flowers. Lots of beautiful green grass cover the ground-floor.
Little flowers of unknown variety peep out of the green waves of
grasses. The flower plants hold the flowers of uncommon beauty.
Some trees are famous for their evergreen foliage. Many kinds of
beautiful foreign herbs are planted in the park.

The public park provides comfortable sitting arrangements for the

visitors. Hence, we find fixed chairs and fixed benches at the suitable
spots in the park. The park provides electric light and radio
broadcasting. The park provides artificial springs of water. In a very
big park we find some swimming pools and arrangements for boating
and racing.

ADVERTISEMENTS:

In a big public park a corner of it is allowed only to the children. This

portion of the part is known as childrens corner. Here we find some
facilities for light games for the little children.

Conclusion:
It is true that public parks are necessary for the healthy and happiness
of the town-dwellers. But it is pity that most of the Indian towns go
without a single park. The cities of India may possess some parks. But
such parks are not well-equipped. They are not up to the standard.
They are not sufficient for the large population of a city. Hence, it is
suggested that our parks should be multiplied in number. They should
be upgraded and their standard should be raised.
We have a small lawn in front of our house.

I have laid my flower garden.

I have grown seasonal flower having varieties of beautiful bright

colours and sweet smell.

When I move in my garden I think that I am in a fairy land.

When the flowers toss in the air I think they are calling me to play with
them.

It is great joy to me to take care of my plants myself.

In my leisure I sit in my garden and watch the flowers.

They refresh my mind soothe my eyes and I feel glad and happy.

My house looks very beautiful due to my small garden.

It gives me such a good feeling that I suggest everybody to have a

garden at his or her house.

Level 1- Spring in the garden

1. Spring brings the sounds of cooing pigeons in the garden.

2. The land heats up and daisies peep through the pea-green grass.

3. Bunnies bounce through the garden like frogs with fur.

4. Buds begin to flower on the trees, adding a splash of colour.

5. The lawnmower splutters to life like the start of a Formula One race.

6. The daffodils look as yolk-yellow as the ducklings in the pond.

7. There is a baked-apple smell in the air. It is the smell of plants

growing.

8. The gardener snips the hedge with his shears for the first time this
year.

9. The grass finally begins to grow as the temperature hits 6 degrees

Celsius.

10. Cheeping sparrows invade the garden looking for juicy grubs and
shiny seeds.

Level 2- Looking out my window

Note: The dark spots on the moon were called Marias by ancient
astronomers who thought they were caused by seas. Now we know
that they are dried up lava beds and they are grey, which causes us to
see them as dark spots. Its only relevant because.well, you will
see

I love looking out the window in springtime. The sun washes the
garden with a golden glow and the sugar-frosted coating of winter
melts from the grass. Birdsong filters in through the glass. The dawn
chorus erupts at daybreak as flute-throated thrushes sing their joy.
Bobbing robins usually join in, lilting in an age old melody. We have a
garden pond and I can see the frog spawn glistening like mini moons.
They even have the dark spots, as if to suggest they are as old and alien
as the moon itself. At the end of the garden, there is a small grove of
trees. Every year, bluebells burst from the earth with their azure gongs
attached. Buzzing bees surf the open spaces from flower to flower,
desperately seeking pollen. The pollen looks like floating grains of
pixie dust, scattered by the blustery wind.

The grass always seems to whisper in the spring, like a church full of
people all saying ssssh together. The stalks sway with a salsa rhythm,
nodding their heads in delight. At night, the wind dies down and a
newly-minted moon appears, drenching shady glades with silver light.
Yipping fox cubs can be heard in the distance and the lonely hoot of an
owl sounds like a phantom lost in the darkness.

When the morning comes, the sun will once again peep through the
clouds and inject life into the winter-stunned garden. It becomes lush
and bountiful for another year, an oasis for life in a shrinking world.

Level 4-The enchanted garden

Some of the words are difficult to find in certain dictionaries.
Therefore, I have put their simplest meaning in brackets after them. It
should save time for people reading the passage, which is my intent.
For example, the word geosmine was alien to me until relatively
recently, but it is a word I would have used many times in different
contexts had I known it. It is a very alluring and powerful word, but
yet none of my dictionaries have its definition. Hopefully, readers will
get comfortable with using these wonderful words in their writing.
Thanks and I hope you enjoy the Level 4 sample.

Our garden is an enchanted garden.

It is wide and open, sloping gently down to a cosmic-blue river. A

copse (grove) of cypress pines flanks us on one side, with a thicket
(grove) of peaceful beeches standing guard on the other. Apple trees
run through the centre of the garden, casting a lake of claw shadows
onto the grass. In autumn, the fiery brilliance of their leaves is a sight:
scorching-oranges, burning-browns and molten-reds. Then they drift
to the ground as silently and carelessly as an ash cloud, settling in to
their eternal rest.

Past the river there is a plush-green meadow which stretches away

into vastness and a dragon-backed mountain. In winter, the stricken
(overwhelming) loneliness of its peak sends shivers down my spine,
wondering how anything could survive up there. The fog that coils
around it seems as old and fey (unearthly) and grey as the mountain
itself, an alien presence that can dampen any mood. I call it
Cimmerian Mountain, the ancient name for the land of perpetual mist.
When spring finally comes, arcipluvian (multi coloured) rainbows
drench the mountain with coloured fire and the light leaks into the
garden.

And that is why I love spring in the garden so much. After January,
there is stained glass clarity to the sunbeams. It starts with panes of
light poking the shadows and making the earth steam. Midges rise
with the grass mist, hanging like moon dust in the glassy haze.
Daffodils detonate from the ground overnight as if some necromancer
(warlock) had put a spell of banishment on the winter. Hey presto and
its gone. Lipstick-pink peonies adorn the fringes of the garden and
honeysuckle festoons (wraps around) the hedges with its ladylike
perfume. The aroma of geosmine (earth smell) percolates through the
air. If you inhale deep enough, the potpourri of scents registers as a
sweet mix of jasmine, grass vapour and blossoms.

As if on cue, the herald of spring arrives after taking a sabbatical for

the winter. The blackbird is the main player in the dawn chorus, his
song as clear and fresh as the garden he will later raid. Warbling wrens
and carolling chaffinches join him, creating an orchestra of sound. It
cascades into the open spaces, ghosts through windows and onto the
smiling lips of the sleepers within. This earth song of nature rouses the
rest of the animals from their slumber. Dozy hedgehogs totter like
zombies as they get drunk on the last of the rotten apples. Butterflies
flutter through the air with their velvet wings. Above them, a
murmuration (flock) of starlings loop and reel like wind-tossed
gunpowder. As the grass in the garden grows to Jurassic heights,
pheasants cluck like cockerels and sprint like roadrunners, celebrating
the arrival of spring.
The river I told you about earlier has a magical quality to it that I
havent seen elsewhere. After the mountain snowmelt has purged it of
its brandy-brown hue, usually in February, I love to take pre-breakfast
walks down to it. The full glory of the garden is revealed as I idle past
the suede soft flowers. They are tingling my fingers with natures
electricity as I touch them. Jewel-green grasshoppers bounce off the
flowers like leggy trampolines. Above me, the vault of sky seems to
grow wider and higher as the morning wears on. It increases the
acoustics and magnifies the richness of colour. I can hear the lullaby of
the breeze swishing through the trees much clearer now and little
animals scurry and shuffle in the undergrowth. Versace-purple
crocuses peep shyly at me and I am lost in the marvel of springtime.

I can see cobwebs in the grass, glistering in the littoral (of a sea/lake)
light that the river reflects. They look like fishermens nets of finely
meshed steel. Theres the most welcoming of scents in the air, a
spearmint aroma that hangs and loiters above the wild garlic. I sit on
the bench we made some time back and engage in my favourite past
time; river gazing. The water is lens clear and it is easy to spot the
speckled trout at the bottom. Every so often, they explode up through
the crystal water and soar into the air. Their hang time would do credit
to Michael Jordan and like Nike, the Greek god of victory, they must
have wings to stay up so long. Iridescent (brilliant of colour)
kingfishers flash by in a flurry of blue and gold, using the river as a
super highway. Apart from the plunking of trout and the thrumming
of wings, it is convent quiet at the bottom of the garden, a haven of
peace and solitude.

I sit on the bench, watching the sun slowly rise over the Cimmerian
mountain. At first, the lonely peak seems to hinder its ascent and it
looks like a torc (crescent necklace) of gloriole-gold (halo of a saint).
Then its full splendour reveals itself and it soaks the garden with the
effulgence (brightness) of its smile. I can see the sunlight chasing the
crab-shadows of the apple trees across the steaming grass. A blackbird
alights onto a nearby branch and launches into an avian aria (solo
song). Within moments, a fusillade of bird song follows him, rupturing
the silence of the morn. It is a welcome invasion of the peace, but I
sigh as I get up from the bench. As I wend (wind) my way back
through the enchanted garden and towards the house, I have only one
wish; that those in slumber land within wear the same, easy smile that
plays across my lips.

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Writing with Stardust by clicking the book title or by clicking any of
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