Write the charecter sketch all carecters of adolf by DH Lawrence.
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WHEN we were children our father often worked on the night-shift. Once it was spring-time, and he used to arrive home, black andtired, just as we were downstairs in our night-dresses. Then nightmet morning face to face, and the contact was not always happy. Perhaps it was painful to my father to see us gaily entering uponthe day into which he dragged himself soiled and weary. He didn’tlike going to bed in the spring morning sunshine.
But sometimes he was happy, because of his long walk throughthe dewy fields in the first daybreak. He loved the open morning,the crystal and the space, after a night down pit. He watchedevery bird, every stir in the trembling grass, answered thewhinneying of the pee-wits and tweeted to the wrens. If he could,he also would have whinnied and tweeted and whistled, in a nativelanguage that was not human. He liked non-human things best.
One sunny morning we were all sitting at table when we heardhis heavy slurring walk up the entry. We became uneasy. His wasalways a disturbing presence, trammeling. He passed the windowdarkly, and we heard him go into the scullery and put down his tinbottle. But directly he came into the kitchen. We felt at oncethat he had something to communicate. No one spoke. We watchedhis black face for a second.
“Give me a drink,” he said.
My mother hastily poured out his tea. He went to pour it outinto the saucer. But instead of drinking, he suddenly putsomething on the table, among the tea-cups. A tiny brown rabbit! A small rabbit, a mere morsel, sitting against the bread as stillas if it were a made thing.
“A rabbit!A young one!Who gave it you, father?”
But he laughed enigmatically, with a sliding motion of hisyellow-grey eyes, and went to take off his coat. We pounced on therabbit.
“Is it alive?Can you feel its heart beat?”
My father came back and sat down heavily in his arm-chair. He dragged his saucer to him, and blew his tea, pushing outhis red lips under his black moustache.
But sometimes he was happy, because of his long walk throughthe dewy fields in the first daybreak. He loved the open morning,the crystal and the space, after a night down pit. He watchedevery bird, every stir in the trembling grass, answered thewhinneying of the pee-wits and tweeted to the wrens. If he could,he also would have whinnied and tweeted and whistled, in a nativelanguage that was not human. He liked non-human things best.
One sunny morning we were all sitting at table when we heardhis heavy slurring walk up the entry. We became uneasy. His wasalways a disturbing presence, trammeling. He passed the windowdarkly, and we heard him go into the scullery and put down his tinbottle. But directly he came into the kitchen. We felt at oncethat he had something to communicate. No one spoke. We watchedhis black face for a second.
“Give me a drink,” he said.
My mother hastily poured out his tea. He went to pour it outinto the saucer. But instead of drinking, he suddenly putsomething on the table, among the tea-cups. A tiny brown rabbit! A small rabbit, a mere morsel, sitting against the bread as stillas if it were a made thing.
“A rabbit!A young one!Who gave it you, father?”
But he laughed enigmatically, with a sliding motion of hisyellow-grey eyes, and went to take off his coat. We pounced on therabbit.
“Is it alive?Can you feel its heart beat?”
My father came back and sat down heavily in his arm-chair. He dragged his saucer to him, and blew his tea, pushing outhis red lips under his black moustache.
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