conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first three paragraphs for a story with the title 'The Poorhouse Fair'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Poorhouse Fair
  The girl who was not Grace took an apple for herself and bit into it sharply; the moisture of her lips glistened around the white crescent she had opened in the skin. She was rapidly growing at ease in this ward, which upon her entering it had given her a choking feeling, shocked as she was by the absence of oranges and flowers. She moved away from the group, visiting beds independently, asking, "How are you feeling? Don't you see lovely sunsets here? Wouldn't you like your pillow plumped? Let me." As the young people moved from bed to bed, emptying their paper bags, hilarity swelled in the ward. Old people leaned their heads toward one another and compared candies. As a joke Grace left a licorice pipe on Dr. Angelo's desk. The tide of conversation, dry laughter of surprise, exclamations—"Wasn't that charitable?" "Gum drops and I have no teeth." "Who would have thought?" "Winesap, this one." "When she straightened my pillow I thought I'd scream with the pain." "Such a pert blouse." "Did you notice how Grace's boy kept his eyes on her behind?"—continued in the great room (Mrs. Andrews's foolish ballroom) for minutes after the young people had left, then gradually subsided into silence before the new and tragic spectacle the wide windows were offering.
  The disc of the sun was no longer seen. Opaque air had descended to the horizon, hills beyond the housetops of the town. On one side, the northern, a slab of blue-black, the mantle of purple altered, reared upward; on the other, inky rivers tinged with pink fled in one diagonal direction. Between these two masses glowed a long throat, a gap flooded with a lucent yellow whiter than gold, that seemed to mark the place where, trailing blue clouds, a sublime creature had plunged to death. The titanic yellow furrow dimmed into blue as it approached the zenith, now capped by night, and was rounded like a comet head nearest the horizon, where the color was most intense, the color of an unnatural element, transuranic, created atom by atom in the scientist's laboratory, at inestimable expense. Off to the south the rivulets of dark vapor left in the wake of the catastrophe broadened into horizontals pale by contrast to the deepening sky behind them. Upon the terraces of these ranged clouds blackish embryos of cumulus stood on their tails like sea horses or centaurs performing. As the patients watched, the golden chasm shaded, through faint turquoise, into blue, and clouds propelled by evening winds trespassed its margins.
  WEARY of his wife's chatter—always about Joan, Joan who was always on the move, never in one place a week, who wished this parakeet on them, always wishing things on them yet not writing two letters a year, her husband not steady, always on the move, why can't they have a nice home like we gave her? why can't they make roots?: all this when Martha should know that the world had changed and Joan was moving with it—Lucas left the porch and went out back to see the hogs. In crossing the open space between the outbuildings he stepped on the spot where, throughout the storm, the cat's body had lain. Lucas rested his forearms on the rough breadth of the top rail. His ear hurt slightly. Within the pen the swine drifted in small families, sucking and snorting; rippling lips slapped wet teeth and exhalations poured whistling through contracted nostrils. One huge Hampshire hog, a king, groaned rhapsodically as he staggered up from a pit of mud. Lucas minded the stench of the pen no more than the smells of his own body. Between his teeth he crooned, "Sooey. Sooey. Sow sow sow." Dignified by dark into silver zeppelins, the sleepy swine drifted toward him, their sharp feet sucked by the soft ground, their voices raised to a pitch of expectation. Embarrassed at the misunderstanding—had had nothing to give them; morning was their time—Lucas said, "Look at your trough. Half-full." A few carrots and grapefruit rinds remained in the trough; the pigs disdained these.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me another paragraph.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Buddy had found someone he knew, a young man who worked in Town Hall, where Buddy sometimes went on business. To him and his companions he said immediately, "Do any of you know what the hell happened here this afternoon? The ancients in residence in this pleasure-palace seized rocks the size of suckling pigs and brained their shepherd, the reverend Mr. Conner. Seriously."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: ". To him and his companions he said immediately, "Do any of you know what the hell happened here this afternoon? The ancients in residence in this pleasure-palace seized rocks the size of suckling pigs and brained their shepherd, the reverend Mr. Conner. Seriously.Buddy had found someone he knew, a young man who worked in Town Hall, where Buddy sometimes went on business.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Who do you think you are a Big shot? Yr duty is to help not hinder these old people on there way to there final Reward. I myself have heard bitter complant from these old people when they come into town where I live. They call you Pieface you and that moran Buddy. The nature of there complants I will disclose latter, and will write the U.S. gov.ment depending. Things have not gone so far these old people have no rights no Piefaced peenynotchin basterd can take away.
  Mendelssohn, Mendelssohn in his beautiful knobbed casket, a carnation in his lapel, legs pillowed in satin, can we believe that he will never rise? Grass returns. Perfectly preserved his blind lids stretch above the crumbled smile. The skin that life has fled is calm as marble. Can we believe, who have seen his vital nostrils flare expressively, revealing in lifting the flaming septum, the secret wall red with pride within, that there is no resurrection? That bright bit of flesh; where would such a thing have gone?
  In the silence of the band, which had stopped to smoke and wipe the instruments, the snatch of tune drifted over the wall into the crowd.
  It was not true that everyone was going home. It was not yet eight o'clock; the adults, disposed in groups of three and four, were just warming to each other. Only a few children, the offspring of irresponsible homes, raced between their legs and wrestled on the trampled grass, which was starting to exhale dampness as the dew set in. The pyramids of sweet corn were diminished to a few bruised ears. The women on hot dogs wondered if they should send to the kitchen for another pack; the buying seemed to be over. Tommy Franklin had led Elizabeth Heinemann to the porch. Under the colored lights Miss Shenk scolded two giggling boys who had attempted, under cover of a penny purchase, to steal some licorice. The boys kept edging one behind the other, like a deck of two cards shuffling itself.
  THE MAN of flesh, the man of passion, the man of thought. Lucas slept. His body, stripped to underclothes and half-covered with a sheet, submitted in oblivion to a harmony of forms. Gregg hopped and chirruped on the lawn, dazzling himself with the illumination and talking aloud in his self-delight, though tomorrow he would be as cross as ever. Hook sat up with a start. The pillow and his horizontal position had been smothering him, and the phlegm in his throat could not be rasped away. His heart doubled its speed of beating; and gradually slowed. He moved his legs, blue bones in the cold light, to the floor and stood up in his nightshirt and walked about in his tiny room aimlessly. The moon so feeble previously now cast shadows through the window and rendered shapes: the bent boards of the little thick Bible, the open mouths of his shoes, the hang of his vest on the hook, the ribs of caning on the seat of his one chair. He opened his door and saw the blank bright green corridor wall across the way and closed it. His encounter with Conner had commenced to trouble him. The young man had been grievously stricken. The weakness on his face after his henchman had stolen the cigar was troubling to recall; an intimacy had been there Hook must reward with help. A small word would perhaps set things right. As a teacher, Hook's flaw had been over-conscientiousness; there was nowhere he would not meddle. He stood motionless, half in moonlight, groping after the fitful shadow of the advice he must impart to Conner, as a bond between them and a testament to endure his dying in the world. What was it?