# This is a function to mount a storage container
def mountStorageContainer(storageAccount, storageAccountKey, storageContainer, blobMountPoint):
try:
print("Mounting {0} to {1}:".format(storageContainer, blobMountPoint))
# Unmount the storage container if already mounted
dbutils.fs.unmount(blobMountPoint)
except Exception as e:
# If this errors, safe to assume that the container is not mounted
print("....Container is not mounted; Attempting mounting now..")
# Mount the storage container
mountStatus = dbutils.fs.mount(
source = "wasbs://{0}@{1}.blob.core.windows.net/".format(storageContainer, storageAccount),
mount_point = blobMountPoint,
extra_configs = {"fs.azure.account.key.{0}.blob.core.windows.net".format(storageAccount): storageAccountKey})
print("....Status of mount is: " + str(mountStatus))
print() # Provide a blank line between mounts
# Mount the bronze container created
mountStorageContainer(storageAccountName,storageAccountAccessKey,"bronze","/mnt/bronze")
# Mount the silver container created
mountStorageContainer(storageAccountName,storageAccountAccessKey,"silver","/mnt/siler")
Mounting bronze to /mnt/bronze:
/mnt/bronze has been unmounted.
....Status of mount is: True
Mounting silver to /mnt/siler:
....Container is not mounted; Attempting mounting now..
....Status of mount is: True
%fs head --maxBytes=10000 "/mnt/bronze/Harry_Potter/txt/Book 1 - The Philosopher's Stone.txt"
[Truncated to first 10000 bytes]
/
THE BOY WHO LIVED
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive,
were proud to say that they were perfectly normal,
thank you very much. They were the last people you’d
expect to be involved in anything strange or
mysterious, because they just didn’t hold with such
nonsense.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called
Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy
man with hardly any neck, although he did have a
very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and
blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of
neck, which came in very useful as she spent so
much of her time craning over garden fences, spying
on the neighbors. The Dursley s had a small son
called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer
boy anywhere.
The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they
also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that
somebody would discover it. They didn’t think they
could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters.
Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley’s sister, but they hadn’t
|
met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended
she didn’t have a sister, because her sister and her
good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it
was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think
what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in
the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a
small son, too, but they had never even seen him.
This boy was another good reason for keeping the
Potters away; they didn’t want Dudley mixing with a
child like that.
When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray
Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the
cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and
mysterious things would soon be happening all over
the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out
his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley
gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming
Dudley into his high chair.
None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past
the window.
At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his
briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and
tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because
Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his
cereal at the walls. “Little tyke,” chortled Mr. Dursley
as he left the house. He got into his car and backed
out of number four’s drive.
It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the
first sign of something peculiar — a cat reading a
map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn’t realize what he
had seen — then he jerked his head around to look
again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner
of Privet Drive, but there wasn’t a map in sight. What
could he have been thinking of? It must have been a
trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at
|
the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around
the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his
mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet
Drive — no, looking at the sign; cats couldn’t read
maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake
and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward
town he thought of nothing except a large order of
drills he was hoping to get that day.
But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his
mind by something else. As he sat in the usual
morning traffic jam, he couldn’t help noticing that
there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people
about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn’t bear
people who dressed in funny clothes — the getups
you saw on young people! He supposed this was some
stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the
steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these
weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering
excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see
that a couple of them weren’t young at all; why, that
man had to be older than he was, and wearing an
emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it
struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly
stunt — these people were obviously collecting for
something ... yes, that would be it. The traffic moved
on and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the
Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.
Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in
his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn’t, he might
have found it harder to concentrate on drills that
morning. He didn’t see the owls swooping past in
broad daylight, though people down in the street did;
they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after
owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an
owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a
perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five
different people. He made several important telephone
|
calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good
mood until lunchtime, when he thought he’d stretch
his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a
bun from the bakery.
He’d forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he
passed a group of them next to the baker’s. He eyed
them angrily as he passed. He didn’t know why, but
they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering
excitedly, too, and he couldn’t see a single collecting
tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a
large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words
of what they were saying.
“The Potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard — ”
“ — yes, their son, Harry — ”
Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He
looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say
something to them, but thought better of it.
He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his
office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him,
seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing
his home number when he changed his mind. He put
the receiver back down and stroked his mustache,
thinking ... no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn’t
such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots
of people called Potter who had a son called Harry.
Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure his nephew
was called Harry. He’d never even seen the boy. It
might have been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no
point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so
upset at any mention of her sister. He didn’t blame
her — if he’d had a sister like that ... but all the
same, those people in cloaks ...
|
He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that
afternoon and when he left the building at five o’clock,
he was still so worried that he walked straight into
someone just outside the door.
“Sorry,” he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled
and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr.
Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet
cloak. He didn’t seem at all upset at being almost
knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split
into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that
made passersby stare, “Don’t be sorry, my dear sir,
for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-
Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like
yourself should be celebrating, this happy, happy
day!”
And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the
middle and walked off.
Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been
hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he
had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was
rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home,
hoping he was imagining things, which he had never
hoped before, because he didn’t approve of
imagination.
As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the
first thing he saw — and it didn’t improve his mood —
was the tabby cat he’d spotted that morning. It was
now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the
same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.
“Shoo!” said Mr. Dursley loudly.
The cat didn’t move. It just gave him a stern look.
Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered.
Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the
|
house. He was still determined not to mention
anything to his wife.
Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told
him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door’s problems
with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new
word (“Won’t!”). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally.
When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the
living room in time to catch the last report on the
evening news:
“And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported
that the nation’s owls have been behaving very
unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at
night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have
been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in
every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to
explain why the owls have suddenly changed their
sleeping pattern.” The newscaster allowed himself a
grin. “Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim
McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more
showers of owls tonight, Jim?”
“Well, Ted,” said the weatherman, “I don’t know about
that, but it’s not only the owls that have been acting
oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire,
and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that
instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they’ve had a
downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have
been celebrating Bonfire Night early — it’s not until
next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night
tonight.”
Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars
all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious
people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a
whisper about the Potters . . .
|
Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two
cups of tea. It was no good. He’d
Harry Potter TXT corpus transformation for BERT
In this notebook, we will convert our Harry Potter Text files courtesty of prakhr21 into a format suitable for CDQA API.
Last refresh: Never