Necesito 5 reported speech de esta lectura, URGENTE, por favor!!!
Mummy! Mummy!" shouted little Murna racing from the front door through to the kitchen. "There's a parcel. The postman's brought a parcel!" Her mother, Savni, looked at her in surprise. She had no idea who could have sent them a parcel. Maybe it was a mistake. She hurried to the door to find out. Sure enough, the postman was there, holding a parcel about the size of a small brick. "From America, madam," he said. "See! American stamps." It was true. In the top right-hand corner of the brown paper parcel were three strange-looking stamps, showing a man's head. The package was addressed to Savni, in big, clear black letters. "Well, I suppose it must be from Great-Aunt Pasni," said Savni to herself, as the postman went on his way down the street, whistling. "Although it must be twenty years since we heard anything from her. I thought she would have been dead by now." Savni's husband Jornas and her son Arinas were just coming in from the garden, where Murna had run to tell them about the parcel. "Well, open it then!" said Arinas impatiently. "Let's see what's inside!" Setting the parcel down in the middle of the table, Savni carefully began to tear open the paper. Inside, there was a large silver container with a hinged lid, which was taped shut. There was also a letter. "What is it? What is it?" demanded Murna impatiently. "Is it a present?" "I have no idea," said Savni in confusion. "I think it must be from Great-Aunt Pasni. She went to America almost thirty years ago now. But we haven't heard from her in twenty years. Perhaps the letter will tell us." She opened the folded page cautiously, then looked up in dismay. "Well, this is no help!" she said in annoyance. "It's written in English! How does she expect us to read English? We're poor people, we have no education. Maybe Pasni has forgotten her native language, after thirty years in America." "Well, open the pot, anyway," said Jornas. "Let's see what's inside." Cautiously, Savni pulled the tape from the neck of the silver pot, and opened the lid. Four heads touched over the top of the container, as their owners stared down inside. "Strange," said Arinas. "All I see is powder." The pot was about one-third full of a kind of light-grey powder. "What is it?" asked Murna, mystified. "We don't know, darling," said Savni, stroking her daughter's hair. "What do you think?" Murna stared again into the pot. "I think it's coffee," she announced, finally. "American coffee." "It's the wrong colour for coffee, darling," said Jornas thoughtfully. "But maybe she's on the right track. It must be some kind of food." Murna, by now, had her nose right down into the pot. Suddenly, she lifted her head and sneezed loudly. "Id god ub by doze," she explained. "That's it!" said Arinas. "It must be pepper! Let me try some." Dipping a finger into the powder, he licked it. "Yes," he said, "it's pepper all right. Mild, but quite tasty. It's American pepper." "All right," said Savni, "we'll try it on the stew tonight. We'll have American-style stew!" That evening, the whole family agreed that the American pepper had added a special extra taste to their usual evening stew. They were delighted with it. By the end of the week, there was only a teaspoonful of the grey powder left in the silver container. Then Savni called a halt. "We're saving the last bit for Sunday. Dr. Haret is coming to dinner, and we'll let him have some as a special treat. Then it will be finished." The following Sunday, the whole family put on their best clothes, ready for dinner with Dr. Haret. He was the local doctor, and he had become a friend of the family many years before, when he had saved Arinas's life after an accident. Once every couple of months, Savni invited the doctor for dinner, and they all looked forward to his entertaining stories of his youth at the university in the capital. During dinner, Savni explained to the doctor about the mysterious American pepper, the last of which she had put in the stew they were eating, and the letter they could not read. "Well, give it to me, give it to me!" said the doctor briskly. "I speak English! I can translate it for you." Savni brought the letter, and the family waited, fascinated, as the doctor began to translate. "Dear Savni: you don't know me, but I am the son of your old Great-Aunt Pasni. She never talked much to us about the old country, but in her final illness earlier this year, she told us that after her death, she wanted her ashes to be sent back home to you, so that you could scatter them on the hills of the country where she was born. My mother died two weeks ago, and her funeral and cremation took place last week. I am sending her ashes to you in a silver casket. Please do as she asked, and spread them over the ground near where she was born. Your cousin, George Leary."
Mummy! Mummy!" shouted little Murna racing from the front door through to the kitchen. "There's a parcel. The postman's brought a parcel!" Her mother, Savni, looked at her in surprise. She had no idea who could have sent them a parcel. Maybe it was a mistake. She hurried to the door to find out. Sure enough, the postman was there, holding a parcel about the size of a small brick. "From America, madam," he said. "See! American stamps." It was true. In the top right-hand corner of the brown paper parcel were three strange-looking stamps, showing a man's head. The package was addressed to Savni, in big, clear black letters. "Well, I suppose it must be from Great-Aunt Pasni," said Savni to herself, as the postman went on his way down the street, whistling. "Although it must be twenty years since we heard anything from her. I thought she would have been dead by now." Savni's husband Jornas and her son Arinas were just coming in from the garden, where Murna had run to tell them about the parcel. "Well, open it then!" said Arinas impatiently. "Let's see what's inside!" Setting the parcel down in the middle of the table, Savni carefully began to tear open the paper. Inside, there was a large silver container with a hinged lid, which was taped shut. There was also a letter. "What is it? What is it?" demanded Murna impatiently. "Is it a present?" "I have no idea," said Savni in confusion. "I think it must be from Great-Aunt Pasni. She went to America almost thirty years ago now. But we haven't heard from her in twenty years. Perhaps the letter will tell us." She opened the folded page cautiously, then looked up in dismay. "Well, this is no help!" she said in annoyance. "It's written in English! How does she expect us to read English? We're poor people, we have no education. Maybe Pasni has forgotten her native language, after thirty years in America." "Well, open the pot, anyway," said Jornas. "Let's see what's inside." Cautiously, Savni pulled the tape from the neck of the silver pot, and opened the lid. Four heads touched over the top of the container, as their owners stared down inside. "Strange," said Arinas. "All I see is powder." The pot was about one-third full of a kind of light-grey powder. "What is it?" asked Murna, mystified. "We don't know, darling," said Savni, stroking her daughter's hair. "What do you think?" Murna stared again into the pot. "I think it's coffee," she announced, finally. "American coffee." "It's the wrong colour for coffee, darling," said Jornas thoughtfully. "But maybe she's on the right track. It must be some kind of food." Murna, by now, had her nose right down into the pot. Suddenly, she lifted her head and sneezed loudly. "Id god ub by doze," she explained. "That's it!" said Arinas. "It must be pepper! Let me try some." Dipping a finger into the powder, he licked it. "Yes," he said, "it's pepper all right. Mild, but quite tasty. It's American pepper." "All right," said Savni, "we'll try it on the stew tonight. We'll have American-style stew!" That evening, the whole family agreed that the American pepper had added a special extra taste to their usual evening stew. They were delighted with it. By the end of the week, there was only a teaspoonful of the grey powder left in the silver container. Then Savni called a halt. "We're saving the last bit for Sunday. Dr. Haret is coming to dinner, and we'll let him have some as a special treat. Then it will be finished." The following Sunday, the whole family put on their best clothes, ready for dinner with Dr. Haret. He was the local doctor, and he had become a friend of the family many years before, when he had saved Arinas's life after an accident. Once every couple of months, Savni invited the doctor for dinner, and they all looked forward to his entertaining stories of his youth at the university in the capital. During dinner, Savni explained to the doctor about the mysterious American pepper, the last of which she had put in the stew they were eating, and the letter they could not read. "Well, give it to me, give it to me!" said the doctor briskly. "I speak English! I can translate it for you." Savni brought the letter, and the family waited, fascinated, as the doctor began to translate. "Dear Savni: you don't know me, but I am the son of your old Great-Aunt Pasni. She never talked much to us about the old country, but in her final illness earlier this year, she told us that after her death, she wanted her ashes to be sent back home to you, so that you could scatter them on the hills of the country where she was born. My mother died two weeks ago, and her funeral and cremation took place last week. I am sending her ashes to you in a silver casket. Please do as she asked, and spread them over the ground near where she was born. Your cousin, George Leary."
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¡Momia! ¡Mamá! ", Gritó la pequeña Murna corriendo desde la puerta principal hasta la cocina." Hay un paquete. ¡El cartero trajo un paquete! "Su madre, Savni, la miró sorprendida. No tenía idea de quién podría haberles enviado un paquete. Tal vez fue un error. Se apresuró a ir a la puerta para averiguarlo. Efectivamente, el cartero estaba allí, sosteniendo un paquete del tamaño de un ladrillo pequeño. "Desde América, señora", dijo. "¡Vea! Sellos estadounidenses. "Era cierto. En la esquina superior derecha del paquete de papel marrón había tres sellos de aspecto extraño, que mostraban la cabeza de un hombre. El paquete estaba dirigido a Savni, en letras grandes y claras y negras". Supongamos que debe ser de la tía abuela Pasni ", se dijo Savni para sí misma, mientras el cartero se marchaba calle abajo, silbando". Aunque deben ser veinte años desde que oímos algo de ella. Pensé que ya estaría muerta. "El esposo de Savni, Jornas, y su hijo Arinas, acababan de llegar del jardín, donde Murna había corrido para contarles sobre el paquete." Bueno, ¡ábrelo entonces! "Dijo Arinas con impaciencia". ¡A ver qué hay dentro! "Colocando el paquete en el centro de la mesa, Savni comenzó a rasgar el papel con cuidado. En el interior, había un gran recipiente plateado con una tapa con bisagras, que estaba cerrada con cinta adhesiva. También había una carta. "¿Qué es? ¿Qué es? ", Preguntó Murna con impaciencia." ¿Es un regalo? "" No tengo idea ", dijo Savni confundida." Creo que debe ser de la tía abuela Pasni. Ella se fue a América hace casi treinta años. Pero no hemos sabido de ella en veinte años. Tal vez la carta nos lo diga. "Abrió la página doblada con cautela, luego levantó la vista con consternación." Bueno, ¡esto no es de ayuda! ", Dijo molesta." ¡Está escrito en inglés! ¿Cómo espera ella que lea inglés? Somos personas pobres, no tenemos educación. Tal vez Pasni haya olvidado su lengua materna, después de treinta años en Estados Unidos. "" Bueno, abre la olla, de todos modos ", dijo Jornas." Veamos qué hay dentro. "Con cuidado, Savni sacó la cinta del cuello de la olla de plata, y Abrió la tapa. Cuatro cabezas tocaron la parte superior del contenedor, mientras sus dueños miraban hacia adentro. "Extraño", dijo Arinas. "Todo lo que veo es polvo". La olla estaba llena de un tipo de luz. polvo gris. "¿Qué es?" preguntó Murna, desconcertada. "No lo sabemos, querida" dijo Savni, acariciando el cabello de su hija. "¿Qué piensas?" Murna miró de nuevo en la olla. "Creo que es café", anunció, finalmente. "Cafe americano." "Es el color equivocado para el café, cariño", dijo Jornas, pensativo. "Pero tal vez esté en el camino correcto. Debe ser algún tipo de comida". Murna, a estas alturas, tenía su nariz justo en la olla. De repente, levantó la cabeza y estornudó ruidosamente. "Id god ub by doze", explicó ella. "¡Eso es!" dijo Arinas. "¡Debe ser pimienta! Déjame probar un poco". Sumergiendo un dedo en el polvo, lo lamió. "Sí", dijo, "está bien la pimienta. Suave, pero bastante sabrosa. Es la pimienta estadounidense". "Está bien", dijo Savni, "lo probaremos con el estofado esta noche. Nosotros ' ¡Tendré un estofado de estilo americano! "Esa noche, toda la familia estuvo de acuerdo en que el pimiento americano había agregado un sabor especial a su estofado habitual de la noche. Estaban encantados con él. Al final de la semana, solo había una cucharadita de el polvo gris que queda en el recipiente plateado. Entonces Savni hizo un alto. "Estamos guardando el último bit para el domingo. El Dr. Haret vendrá a cenar, y le dejaremos que tome algo como un regalo especial. Luego se terminará. "El domingo siguiente, toda la familia se puso su mejor ropa, lista para cenar con el Dr. Haret. Era el médico local y se había hecho amigo de la familia muchos años antes, cuando había salvó la vida de Arinas después de un accidente. Una vez cada dos meses, Savni invitó al médico a cenar, y todos esperaban sus entretenidas historias de su juventud en la universidad de la capital. Durante la cena, Savni le explicó al médico el misterioso pimiento americano, el último de los que había puesto en el estofado que estaban comiendo, y la carta que no podían leer. "Bueno, dámelo, dámelo!" dijo el doctor enérgicamente. "¡Hablo inglés! Puedo traducirlo para ti". Savni trajo la carta, y la familia esperó, fascinada, cuando el doctor comenzó a traducir. "Querida Savni: no me conoces, pero soy el hijo de tu antigua tía Pasni. Nunca nos habló mucho del viejo país, pero en su enfermedad final a principios de este año, nos dijo que después de ella Muerte, ella quería que le enviaran las cenizas de vuelta a casa, para que usted pudiera esparcirlas en las colinas del país donde nació. Mi madre murió hace dos semanas, y su funeral y cremación tuvieron lugar la semana pasada. Te estoy enviando sus cenizas en un ataúd de plata. Por favor, haga lo que le pidió, y extiéndalos sobre el suelo cerca de donde nació. Tu primo, George Leary "