good moral stories of 2/3 pages
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Long ago, there lived a little boy named Sammy. He was a good boy. He was good in his studies, obedient to his parents, more intelligent than many other boys in his class and kind to everyone. Grown-ups as well as those junior to Sammy loved him very much. But that aroused jealousy in many other boys who longed to be as loved as Sammy.
Now there was another boy named Timmy who studied in the same class as Sammy. Unlike Sammy, he was not good at studies and always liked to play during school hours. He misbehaved with his parents, bullied his classmates and even ill-treated Sammy. He always tried to put Sammy down and belittled him before other kids in the class. But no matter what he did, Sammy's grades kept getting better and better. Whether in studies or in sports or from his classmates, Sammy kept getting accolades from everywhere.
On his eighth birthday, Sammy got a nice pen as a gift from his parents. He brought it to school so that he could use it to take down the notes of the lectures that the teachers gave in class. This was a very beautiful pen and it could help one write very fast. When Timmy saw it, he was very jealous of Sammy. He asked Sammy,
"Hey, where did you get that? Did you buy it?"
"My parents gave it as a birthday gift to me." replied Sammy.
Timmy was overwhelmed with anger and jealousy. The bad boy that he was, he rarely got any present from his parents. He decided to steal Sammy's pen. During recess, when everyone had gone out from the class, Timmy opened Sammy's bag and took out his pen. Then he hid it inside his bag and went out to have his tiffin.
When Sammy came back and could not find his pen, he informed his class teacher about it. There was a hunt for the missing pen and the class teacher ordered the class monitor to search the bag of every children inside the class. The missing pen was soon found out of Timmy's bag and the furious teacher asked the errant boy,
"Now Timmy, what do you have to say about it?"
Timmy was in tears. He had nothing to say.
When Sammy saw Timmy cry, he took pity on the boy. The kind boy that he was, he had no ill-feeling against his classmate. He requested his class teacher not to take any action against Timmy, now that his stolen pen was found.
This opened Timmy's eyes. He could now see what a good boy Sammy was. He asked for forgiveness from his teacher and Sammy. From that day, he became friends with Sammy and gradually changed himself to be as good as Sammy. Everyone began to love Timmy and Sammy was proud of his new friend.
Despite being hurt by Timmy, Sammy gave him back only love in return. This is how we should also treat our enemies. Who knows? One day, our behaviour may just change themselves for the better.
With only a touch, the single ivory key filled the room with its clarity. It was a shame, I thought, how the people in this town had let it wear down like this. Years ago, this grand piano of Mama’s was the finest thing you could have ever hoped to see. It was an antique, brought over from France by her grandfather. Mama spoke fluent French, and even taught me a little.
Now its keys stretched out before me, yellowing and cracked. The black sharps and flats were chipped at the sides, and the open top was filmed in fifteen year’s worth of dust. I hated it. Mama’s pride and joy, the instrument that sang for us evenings with the sound of “Lavender Blue,” withering away in this big house where no one could see it. And I, too, had forgotten about it with time.
Feeling guilty, I sat back, not willing to touch another key. Sliding over a little, I studied the handmade cloth piano seat cover Mama had made, with its flowers and vines and birds. It was missing a few spots, and some thread was traveling off at the ends.
I amost smiled to see the patch of red in the corner. That was my fault. When I was eight, I had begged to help Mama stitch the pretty designs. She was reluctant, but at last gave in to my charms. Within minutes, I had pricked my finger, and a drop of blood stained our work. But Mama did not scold. She only laughed. She always laughed.
Once again, I tried. The music inside me was straining to come out. I lifted my hands to the position—raised them up and curved them slightly, as she taught me—and finally let the notes of Handel’s Suite from The Water Music pour free.
Now this, this was glorious, the kind of piece Mama was encored for. Not because of their unsettling difficulty, but because of the deep-felt emotion she communicated to the audience through them. I can still see her in the music house on opening night, sitting grandly there in a black dress, throwing her head back and playing.
In the silence, I can hear the water pouring from the skies, the water pouring from my eyes, and the water pouring from the antique that made such beautiful sounds. It echoed and crashed up the walls and into the dining room, where Mama entertained her guests. It flowed upstairs, where she sat rocking Rosamunde’s cradle with me, and to my room, where she put me to sleep with stories of dolls and fairies.