Vocabulary Words:

1. idyllic (adjective) /īˈdilik/

- (especially of a time or place) like an idyll; extremely happy, peaceful, or

He comes to me at a gay little trot that is like laughter of a vague, idyllic tinkling
sound.

2. coronet (noun) /ˌkôrəˈnet,ˌkärəˈnet/

- a small or relatively simple crown, especially as worn by lesser royalty and peers
or peeresses.

The prince wore a small gold coronet to denote his rank.

3. solicitude (noun) /səˈlisəˌt(y)o͞od/

- care or concern for someone or something.

I was touched by his solicitude.

4. mire (noun) /ˈmī(ə)r/

- a stretch of swampy or boggy ground.

Acres of land had been reduced to a mire.

5. futile (adjective) /ˈfyo͞odl,ˈfyo͞odīl/

- incapable of producing any useful result; pointless.

A futile attempt to keep fans from mounting the stage.

Main character in the story:

• Platero - a small donkey, a soft hairy donkey, so soft to the touch that he
might be said to be made of cotton, with no bones. Only the jet mirrors of
his eyes are hard like two black crystals.
 Noting Sensory Details

Sensory details illustrate how something looks, sounds, tastes, smells, or feels. Such
details can enliven a description by making readers feel they are actually
experiencing what the author is describing. Note the sensory details in the
selection.

My Donkey and I

Juan Ramon Jimenez (1881-1958)

Juan Ramon Jimenez stands among the leading figures in Spanish literature. His
influence has been widely felt throughout the Spanish-speaking world.

The following selection was taken from his book Platero y Yo. This is a story notable
for its wholesome and humorous vein. Of all animals, the donkey is the most
despised and considered the most stupid, but in this story Platero the donkey is
the hero of the narrative. The author preserves a loving and tender attitude
throughout the story, breaking out now and then into poetic touches. These
adventures provide a very slight plot. There is no serious problem presented, but
the humanity and lovingkindness, which is the emotional framework of the story,
make it a little gem.

I. Platero

Platero is a small donkey, a soft hairy donkey, so soft to the touch that he might
be said to be made of cotton, with no bones. Only the jet mirrors of his eyes are
hard like two black crystals.

I turn him loose, and he goes to the meadow and, with his nose, he gently caresses
the little flowers of rose and blue and gold… I call him softly, “Platero?" and he
comes to me at a gay little trot that is like laughter of a vague, idyllic tinkling
sound.

He eats whatever I give him. He likes mandarin oranges, amber-hued muscatel

He is as loving and tender as a child but strong and sturdy as a rock. When on
Sundays I ride him through the lanes in the outskirts of the town, slow-moving
country folk, dressed in their Sunday clothes, watch him a while, speculatively.

"He is like steel," they say.

Steel, yes. Steel and moon silver at the same time.

In the big creek, which the rains had swollen as far as the vineyard, we found an
old cart stuck in the mud, lost to view under its load of grass and oranges. A
ragged, dirty little girl was weeping over one wheel, trying to help the donkey,
who was, alas, smaller and frailer than Platero. And the little donkey was spending
himself against the wind trying vainly at the sobbing cry of the child to pull the
cart out of the mire. His efforts were futile, like the efforts of brave children, like the
breath of those tired summer breezes, which fall fainting among the flowers

l patted Platero, and as well as I could, I hitched him to the cart in front of the
wretched little donkey. Encouraged him then with an affectionate command,
and Platero, at one tug, pulled the cart and beast out of the mud and up the
bank.

How the little girl smiled! It was as if the evening sun, setting among the yellow-
crystal rain clouds, had kindled a dawn of joy behind her dirty tears. With tearful
gladness she offered me two choice oranges, perfect, heavy, round. I took them
gratefully, and I gave one to the weak little donkey to comfort him; the other to
Platero as a golden reward.

III. Peep Show

Suddenly, monotonously, the silence of the street is broken by the harsh rolling of
a little drum. Then a cracked voice spasmodically sends forth a long, trembling
cry. The sound of running feet is heard down the street. Children cry: "The peep-
show man! The peep-show man!"

In the corner a small green box with four little red flags waits invitingly on its stand.
The old man beats and beats his drum. A group of penniless children, hands in
pockets or clasped behind, silently surround the little box. Presently another one
arrives running, his penny clutched tightly in the palm of his hand. He steps
forward, looks eagerly into the disc. "Now... General Prim... on his white horse!"
says the old peep-show man wearily, and he beats his drum.

"The port of Barcelona..." And more rolling of the drum.

Other children arrive with pennies ready and hand them at once to the old fellow,
regarding him with rapt attention, impatient to buy his make-believe.

“Now…the castle of Havanna!..." And the drum rolls. Platero, who has gone with
a neighbor's little girl and her dog to see the show, pits his head playfully between
the children's heads. The old man, with sudden good humor, says to him: "Where
is your penny?"

And the empty-handed children laugh, looking at the peep-show man with
humble, flattering solicitude.

IV. Fireworks

On September watch nights we would go to the hill behind the orchard house to
enjoy the fragrant peacefulness that the pond lilies distilled there, the noise of the
festive town. Pioza, the old vineyard watchman, drunk on the threshing floor,
played his cornet hour atter hour, face to the moon.

Quite late the fireworks came. First there were dull, short explosions; then single
skyrockets, which, high above, opened with a sigh and were like a starry eye that
might, for a moment, see the countryside in red, purple, blue; and there were
others whose splendor fell like a naked maiden bowing low, like a blood-red
willow dripping flowers of light. Oh, what flaming peacocks, what aerial masses of
clear roses, what fiery pheasants in a garden of stars!

Platero, at each explosion, would shudder, all blue, purple, red in the sudden
illumination of space; and in the wavering brightness that enlarged and
shortened his shadow on the hilltop, I could see his big black eyes looking at me
in fright.

When, as a climax, the revolving golden castle wreath—the one that burst in a
deep thunderclap, at which women close their eyes and stop their ears—rose to
the constellated sky amid the distant clamor of the town. Platero, braying in a
crazed manner, would run among the pine stumps toward the tranquil pines in
shadow, like a soul pursued by the devil.