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Leon One Twelve Things l Wish They Taught at School

Carl Sagan

俗话说：“活到老，学到老。”人的一生就是不断学习、不断丰富和充实自己的过程。青少年阶段，尤其是中学阶段，无疑是学习的最佳时期。中学教育的重点应放在什么地方？美国著名科学家和科普作家萨根批评中学只抓各个学科具体内容的做法，他认为中学要注重对青少年的宏观教育，使他们建立起唯物的世界观和宇宙观，使他们能够正确对待自己，关心周围的世界——人类生存的环境和自己的地球同胞。I attended junior and senior high school, public institutions in New York and New Jersey, just after the Second World War.It seems a long time ago.The facilities and the skills of the teachers were probably well above average for the United States at that time.Since then, I've learned a great deal.One of the most important things I've learned is how much there is to learn, and how much I don't yet know.Sometimes I think how grateful I would be today if I had learned more back then about what really matters.In some respects that education was terribly narrow;the only thing I ever heard in school about Napoleon was that the United States made the Louisiana Purchase from him.(On a planet where some 95% of the inhabitants are not Americans, the only history that was thought worth teaching was American history.)In spelling, grammar, the fundamentals of math, and other vital subjects, my teachers did a pretty good job.But there's so much else I wish they'd taught us.Perhaps all the deficiencies have since been rectified.It seems to me there are many things(often more a matter of attitude and perception than the simple memorization of facts)that the schools should teach — things that truly would be useful in later life, useful in making a stronger country and a better world, but useful also in making people happier.Human beings enjoy learning.That's one of the few things that we do better than the other species on our planet.Every student should regularly experience the “Aha!” — when something you never understood, or something you never knew was a mystery, becomes clear.3 So here's my list:

Pick a difficult thing and learn it well.The Greek philosopher Socrates said this was one of the greatest of human joys,and it is.While you learn a little bit about many subjects, make sure you learn a great deal about one or two.It hardly matters what the subject is, as long as it deeply interests you, and you place it in its broader human context.After you teach yourself one subject, you become much more confident about your ability to teach yourself another.You gradually find you've acquired a key skill.The world is changing so rapidly that you must continue to teach yourself throughout your life.But don't get trapped by the first subject that interests you, or the first thing you find yourself good at.The world is full of wonders, and some of them we don't discover until we're all grown up.Most of them, sadly, we never discover.Don't be afraid to ask “stupid” questions.Many apparently naive inquiries like why gra is green, or why the Sun is round, or why we need 55,000 nuclear weapons in the world — are really deep questions.The answers can be a gateway to real insights.It's also important to know, as well as you can, what it is that you don't know, and asking questions is the way.To ask “stupid” questions requires courage on the part of the asker and knowledge and patience on the part of the answerer.And don't confine your learning to schoolwork.Discu ideas in depth with friends.It's much braver to ask questions even when there's a prospect of

ridicule than to suppre your questions and become deadened to the world around you.Listen carefully.Many conversations are a kind of competition that rarely leads to discovery on either side.When people are talking, don't spend the time thinking about what you're going to say next.Instead, try to understand what they're saying, what experience is behind their remarks, what you can learn from or about them.Older people have grown up in a world very different from yours, one you may not know very well.They, and people from other parts of the country and from other nations, have important perspectives that can enrich your life.Everybody makes mistakes.Everybody's understanding is incomplete.Be open to correction, and learn to correct your own mistakes.The only embarrament is in not learning from your mistakes.Know your planet.It's the only one we have.Learn how it works.We're changing the atmosphere, the surface, the waters of the Earth, often for some short-term advantage when the long-term implications are unknown.The citizens of any country should have at least something to say about the direction in which we're going.If we don't understand the iues, we abandon the future.Science and technology.You can't know your planet unle you know something about science and technology.School science courses, I remember, concentrated on the unimportant parts of science, leaving the major insights almost untouched.The great discoveries in modern science are also great discoveries of the human spirit.For example, Copernicus showed that — far from being the center of the universe, about which the Sun, the Moon, the planets, and the stars revolved in clockwise homage — the Earth is just one of many small worlds.This is a deflation of our pretensions, to be sure, but it is also the opening up to our view of a vast and awesome universe.Every high school graduate should have some idea of the insights of Copernicus, Newton, Darwin, Freud, and Einstein.(Einstein's special theory of relativity, far from being obscure and exceptionally difficult, can be understood in its basics with no more than first-year algebra, and the notion of a rowboat in a river going upstream and downstream.)

Don't spend your life watching TV.You know what I'm talking about.Culture.Gain some exposure to the great works of literature, art and music.If such a work is hundreds or thousands of years old and is still admired, there is probably something to it.Like all deep experiences, it may take a little work on your part to discover what all the fu is about.But once you make the effort, your life has changed;you've acquired a source of enjoyment and excitement for the rest of your days.In a world as tightly connected as ours is, don't restrict your attention to American or Western culture.Learn how and what people elsewhere think.Learn something of their history, their religion, their viewpoints.Compaion.Many people believe that we live in an extraordinarily selfish time.But there is a hollowne, a loneline that comes from living only for yourself.Humans are capable of great mutual compaion, love, and tenderne.These feelings, however, need encouragement to grow.Look at the delight a one-or two-year-old takes in learning, and you see how powerful is the human will to learn.Our paion to understand the universe and our compaion for others jointly provide the chief hope for the human race.Leon Two

Icons

提起一位获得诺贝尔奖的华人物理学家的名字，今天的青少年恐怕很多人会感到陌生，无话可说，可是谈起当红歌星、球星，他们则是津津乐道。当今国内外的明星大腕被少男少女们一个个奉为偶像。君不见，追星族们为求得偶像的签名，可以在瓢泼大雨中等待半天，为一睹偶像的风采，可以大打出手破门而入。三四十年前青年人崇拜的科学家和英雄人物已被视为昨日黄花，中外都是如此。这种价值观的变化引起了社会学家和教育家的忧虑，他们指出星们、腕儿们只不过是媒体尤其是电视炒作的产物。Heroes and Cultural Icons Gary Gosggarian If you were asked to list ten American heroes and heroines, you would probably name some or all of the following: George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Daniel Boone, Martin Luther King Jr., Amelia Earhart, Susan B.Anthony, Jacqueline Kennedy Onais, Helen Keller, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, and Rosa Parks.If next you were asked to list people who are generally admired by society, who somehow seem bigger than life, you might come up with an entirely different list.You might, in fact, name people who are celebrated for their wealth and glamour rather than their achievements and moral strength of character.And you would not be alone, because pollsters have found that people today do not choose political leaders who shape history for their “Most Admired” list, but rather movie and television celebrities, fashion models, profeional athletes, and even comic book and cartoon characters.In short media icons.By definition, heroes and heroines are men and women distinguished by uncommon courage, achievements, and self-sacrifice made most often for the benefit of others — they are people against whom we measure others.They are men and women recognized for shaping our nation's consciousne and development as well as the lives of those who admire them.Yet, some people say that ours is an age where true heroes and heroines are hard to come by, where the very ideal of heroism is something beyond us — an artifact of the past.Some maintain that because the Cold War is over and because America is at peace our age is eentially an unheroic one.Furthermore, the overall crime rate is down, poverty has been eased by a strong and growing economy, and advances continue to be made in medical science.Consequently, bereft of cultural heroes, we have latched onto cultural icons — media superstars such as actors, actrees, sports celebrities, television personalities, and people who are simply famous for being famous.Cultural icons are harder to define, but we know them when we see them.They are people who manage to transcend celebrity, who are legendary, who somehow manage to become mythic.But what makes some figures icons and others mere celebrities? That's hard to answer.In part, their lives have the quality of a story.For instance, the beautiful young Diana Spencer who at 19 married a prince, bore a king, renounced marriage and the throne, and died at the moment she found true love.Good looks certainly help.So does a special indefinable charisma, with the help of the media.But nothing be comes an icon more than a tragic and early death — such as Martin Luther King Jr., John F.Kennedy, and Prince Diana.Being Somebody Donna Wool folk Cro One hundred years ago, people became famous for what they had achieved.Men like J.P.Morgan, E.H.Harriman and Jay Gould were all notable achievers.So were Thomas Edison, Mark Twain, and Susan B.Anthony.Their accomplishments are still evident in our own day.Today's celebrities, however, often do not become known for any enduring achievement.The people we most admire today are usually those who are most highly publicized by the media.In 1981, a Gallup poll revealed that Nancy Reagan was the nation's “most admired woman.” The year before, that distinction went to President Carter's wife, Rosalynn.In fact, the wife of the current president is always one of the nation's most admired women.Today's celebrities, as the writer Daniel Boorstin says, are “people well-known for their well-knownne.” To become such a celebrity, one needs luck, not accomplishment.As Boorstin says, “The hero was distinguished by his accomplishment;the celebrity by his image or trademark.The hero created himself;the celebrity is created by the media.The hero was a big man;the celebrity is a big name.” There is another distinction: heroes inspire respect;celebrities inspire envy.Few of us believe we could be another Jonas Salk or Eleanor Roosevelt, but we could be another TV star like Telly Savalas or Suzanne Somers.Except for the attention they get from the media, these people are exactly like us.The shift from hero-worship to celebrity-worship occurred around the turn of the century.It was closely tied to the rise of new forms of media— first photography, and later moving pictures, radio and television.For the first time, Americans could see and recognize their heroes.Previously, men like Gould and Harriman, whose names everyone knew, could easily have paed through a crowd without being recognized.The reproduction of photos in newspapers turned famous people into celebrities whose dre, appearance, and personal habits were widely commented upon.Slowly, the focus of public attention began to shift away from knowing what such people did to knowing what they looked like.The shift was accelerated by the arrival of moving pictures.Between 1901 and 1914, 74 percent of the magazine articles about famous people were about political leaders, inventors, profeionals, and businemen.After 1922, however, most articles were about movie stars.With the arrival of television, the faces of the stars became as familiar as those we saw acro the breakfast table.We came to know more about the lives of the celebrities than we did about most of the people we know personally.Le than seventy years after the appearance of the first moving pictures, the shift from hero-worship to celebrity-worship was complete.Today an appearance on a television talk show is the ultimate proof of “making it” in America.Actually, the term “talk show” is misleading.Celebrities do not appear on such a program because of an actual desire — or ability — to talk, but simply to gain recognition, and prove, merely by showing up, that they are “somebody.” Being a guest on a talk show does not require qualities of wit, eloquence, brilliance, insight, or intelligence.A former talent coordinator for “the Tonight Show,” says that when he would ask a scheduled guest, “What would you like to talk to the host about?”the reply he got most often was, “Have him ask me anything.”This, he says, usually meant, “I am a typical Hollywood actor, so I have never had an original thought and I have nothing to say of any interest to anyone anywhere.” Most hosts are grateful just to get someone who will fill the room with sound.One talk show coordinator comments, “We look for the guest who is sure to talk no matter what.Ten seconds of silence appears very awkward on television;thirty seconds is disastrous.A guest who's got to stop to think about everything he says before he opens his mouth is a ratings nightmare.” This kind of attitude rewards smooth, insincere talk, and makes hesitancy look like stupidity.“We wouldn't have used George Washington on our show,” says one talent coordinator.“He might have been first in the hearts of his countrymen, but today he'd be dragging his bottom in the ratings.”

Leon Three

Go-Go Americans Alison R.Lanier

如果矜持是英国人突出的特性，我们则可以用“风风火火”来概括美国人典型的特点。他们好像整天在忙忙碌碌，匆匆去上班，匆匆用午饭，匆匆返回工作；他们没有耐心，脾气急，爱发火，不耐烦排队；他们谈公事开门见山，没有客套话，直截了当切入话题；他们喜爱快餐，大量使用节省劳力的家用电器，钟情电子通讯设施；他们办事不拘形式，讲速度，重效率等等。这一切皆源于他们对生命之短促的紧迫感，视时间为生命的价值观。Americans believe no one stands still.If you are not moving ahead, you are falling behind.This attitude results in a nation of people committed to researching, experimenting and exploring.Time is one of the two elements that Americans save carefully, the other being labor.“We are slaves to nothing but the clock,” it has been said.Time is treated as if it were something almost tangible.We budget it, save it, waste it, steal it, kill it, cut it, account for it;we also charge for it.It is a precious commodity.Many people have a rather acute sense of the shortne of each lifetime.Once the sands have run out of a person's hourgla, they cannot be replaced.We want every minute to count.A foreigner's first impreion of the U.S.is likely to be that everyone is in a rush — often under preure.City people appear always to be hurrying to get where they are going, restlely seeking attention in a store, elbowing others as they try to complete their errands.Racing through daytime meals is part of the pace of life in this country.Working time is considered precious.Others in public eating places are waiting for you to finish so they too can be served and get back to work within the time allowed.Each person hurries to make room for the next person.If you don't, waiters will hurry you.You also find drivers will be abrupt and that people will push past you.You will mi smiles, brief conversations, small courtesies with strangers.Don't take it personally.This is because people value time highly, and they resent someone else “wasting” it beyond a certain courtesy point.This view of time affects the importance we attach to patience.In the American system of values, patience is not a

high priority.Many of us have what might be called “a short fuse.” We begin to move restlely about if we feel time is slipping away without some return — be this in terms of pleasure, work value, or rest.Those coming from lands where time is looked upon differently may find this matter of pace to be one of their most difficult adjustments in both busine and daily life.Many newcomers to the States will mi the opening courtesies of a busine call, for example.They will mi the ritual socializing that goes with a welcoming cup of tea or coffee that may be traditional in their own country.They may mi leisurely busine chats in a cafe or coffee house.Normally, Americans do not ae their visitors in such relaxed surroundings over prolonged small talk;much le do they take them out for dinner, or around on the golf course while they develop a sense of trust and rapport.Rapport to most of us is le important than performance.We seek out evidence of past performance rather than evaluate a busine colleague through social courtesies.Since we generally ae and probe profeionally rather than socially, we start talking busine very quickly.Most Americans live according to time segments laid out in engagement calendars.These calendars may be divided into intervals as short as fifteen minutes.We often give a person two or three(or more)segments of our calendar, but in the busine world we almost always have other appointments following hard on the heels of whatever we are doing.Time is therefore always ticking in our inner ear.As a result we work hard at the task of saving time.We produce a steady flow of labor-saving devices;we communicate rapidly through telexes, phone calls or memos rather than through personal contacts, which though pleasant, take longer — especially given our traffic-filled streets.We therefore save most personal visiting for after work hours or for social weekend gatherings.To us the impersonality of electronic communication has little or no relation to the importance of the matter at hand.In some countries no major busine is carried on without eye contact, requiring face-to-face conversation.In America, too, a final agreement will normally be signed in person.However, people are meeting increasingly on television screens, conducting “teleconferences” to settle problems not only in this country but also — by satellite — internationally.An increasingly high percentage of normal busine is being done these days by voice or electronic device.Mail is slow and uncertain and is growing ever more expensive.The U.S.is definitely a telephone country.Almost everyone uses the telephone to conduct busine, to chat with friends, to make or break social engagements, to say their “Thank you's,” to shop and to obtain all kinds of information.Telephones save your feet and endle amounts of time.This is due partly to the fact that the telephone service is good here, whereas the postal service is le efficient.Furthermore, the costs of secretarial labor, printing, and stamps are all soaring.The telephone is quick.We like it.We can do our busine and get an answer in a matter of moments.Furthermore, several people can confer together without moving from their desks, even in widely scattered locations.In a big country that, too, is important.Some new arrivals will come from cultures where it is considered impolite to work too quickly.Unle a certain amount of time is allowed to elapse, it seems in their eyes as if the task being considered were insignificant, not worthy of proper respect.Aignments are thus felt to be given added weight by the paage of time.In the U.S., however, it is taken as a sign of competence to solve a problem, or fulfill a job succefully, with rapidity.Usually, the more important a task is, the more capital, energy, and attention will be poured into it in order to “get it moving.” Leon Four

“Take Over, Bos'n!” Oscar Schisgall

一艘失事船只的10名幸存水手在救生艇上漂流了20天，水手们干渴难忍，三副因不许他们碰艇上最后一小壶淡水，成了众矢之的，尤其是副水手长，对他是更是恨之入骨。为了保住那壶水，3天来，他没有合眼，一直把枪口对准了其他水手，不许他们轻举妄动。他明白，那点水是10个人活下去的动力。他疲乏至极，就在他倒下之际，他低声说：“水手长，接过去!”后来„„Hour after hour I kept the gun pointed at the other nine men.From the lifeboat's stern, where I'd sat most of the twenty days of our drifting, I could keep them all covered.If I had to shoot at such close quarters, I wouldn't mi.They

realized that.Nobody jumped at me.But in the way they all glared I could see how they'd come to hate my guts.Especially Barrett, who'd been bos'n's mate;Barrett said in his harsh, cracked voice, “You're a fool, Snyder.Y-you can't hold out forever!You're half asleep now!” I didn't answer.He was right.How long can a man stay awake? I hadn't dared to shut my eyes in maybe seventy-two hours.Very soon now I'd doze off, and the instant that happened they'd jump on the little water that was left.The last canteen lay under my legs.There wasn't much in it after twenty days.Maybe a pint.Enough to give each of them a few drops.Yet I could see in their bloodshot eyes that they'd gladly kill me for those few drops.As a man I didn't count any more.I was no longer third officer of the wrecked Montala.I was just a gun that kept them away from the water they craved.And with their tongue swollen and their cheeks sunken, they were half crazy.The way I judged it, we must be some two hundred miles east of Ascension.Now that the storms were over, the Atlantic swells were long and easy, and the morning sun was hot — so hot it scorched your skin.My own tongue was thick enough to stop my throat.I'd have given the rest of my life for a single gulp of water.But I was the man with the gun — the only authority in the boat — and I knew this: once the water was gone we'd have nothing to look forward to but death.As long as we could look forward to getting a drink later, there was something to live for.We had to make it last as long as poible.If I'd given in to the curses, we'd have emptied the last canteen days ago.By now we'd all be dead.The men weren't pulling on the oars.They'd stopped that long ago, too weak to go on.The nine of them facing me were a pack of bearded, ragged, half-naked animals, and I probably looked as bad as the rest.Some sprawled over the gunwales, dozing.The rest watched me as Barrett did, ready to spring the instant I relaxed.When they weren't looking at my face they looked at the canteen under my legs.Jeff Barrett was the nearest one.A constant threat.The bos'n's mate was a heavy man, bald, with a scarred and brutal face.He'd been in a hundred fights, and they'd left their marks on him.Barrett had been able to sleep — in fact, he'd slept through most of the night — and I envied him that.His eyes wouldn't close.They kept watching me, narrow and dangerous.Every now and then he jeered at me in that hoarse, broken voice:“Why don't you quit? You can't hold out!”“Tonight,” I said.“We'll ration the rest of the water tonight.”“By tonight some of us'll be dead!We want it now!”“Tonight,” I said.Couldn't he understand that if we waited until night the few drops wouldn't be sweated out of us so fast? But Barrett was beyond all reasoning.His mind had already cracked with thirst.I saw him begin to rise, a calculating look in his eyes.I aimed the gun at his chest — and he sat down again.I'd grabbed my gun on instinct, twenty days ago, just before running for the lifeboat.Nothing else would have kept Barrett and the rest away from the water.These fools — couldn't they see I wanted a drink as badly as any of them? But I was in command here — that was the difference.I was the man with the gun, the man who had to think.Each of the others could afford to think only of himself;I had to think of them all.Barrett's eyes kept watching me, waiting.I hated him.I hated him all the more because he'd slept.As the boat rose and fell on the long swells, I could feel sleep creeping over me like paralysis.I bent my head.It filled my brain like a cloud.I was going, going...Barrett stood over me, and I couldn't even lift the gun.In a vague way I could gue what would happen.He'd grab the water first and take his drop.By that time the others would be screaming and tearing at him, and he'd have to yield the canteen.Well, there was nothing more I could do about it.I whispered, “Take over, bos'n.”Then I fell face down in the bottom of the boat.I was asleep before I stopped moving...When a hand shook my shoulder, I could hardly raise my head.Jeff Barrett's hoarse voice said, “Here!Take your share o' the water!”Somehow I propped myself up on my arms, dizzy and weak.I looked at the men, and I thought my eyes were going.Their figures were dim, shadowy;but then I realized it wasn't because of my eyes.It was night.The sea was black;there were stars overhead.I'd slept the day away.So we were in our twenty-first night adrift — the night in which the tramp Croton finally picked us up — but now, as I turned my head to Barrett there was no sign of any ship.He knelt beside me, holding out the canteen, his other hand with the gun steady on the men.I stared at the canteen as if it were a mirage.Hadn't they finished that pint of water this morning? When I looked up at Barrett's ugly face, it was grim.He must have gueed my thoughts.“You said,‘Take over, bos'n, ' didn't you?” he growled.“I've been holding off these apes all day.” He lifted the gun in his hand.“When you're bo-man,” he added, “in command and responsible for the rest — you — you sure get to see things different, don't you?”

Leon Five

Are you Giving Your Kids Too Much? benjamin Spock

天下的父母哪个不疼爱自己的孩子？天下的父母又有哪个不望子成龙、盼女成凤？一个普遍存在的错误观念是：给孩子的越多，越能体现对孩子的爱；相当多的家长对孩子的物质要求不愿说“不”。殊不知孩子最需要的是父母对他们的关心和爱护，无节制地满足孩子的物质愿望不利于他们的健康成长，也不是他们的愿望。有时孩子的哭闹仅仅是发出信号，请求家长规定界限。家长应该让孩子从小就学习如何面对回绝、挫折和失败。

 1 While traveling for various speaking engagements, I frequently stay overnight in the home of a family and am aigned to one of the children's bedrooms.In it, I often find so many playthings that there's almost no roomfor example, when parents send a child to an expensive summer camp that the parents can't really afford.Why parents give their children too much, or give things they can't afford? I believe there are several reasons.One fairly common reason is that parents overindulge their children out of a sense of guilt.Parents who both hold down full-time jobs may feel guilty about the amount of time they spend away from their children and may attempt to compensate by showering them with material poeions.Other parents overindulge because they want their children to have everything they had while growing up, along with those things the parents yearned for but didn't get.Still others are afraid to say no to their children's endle requests for toys for fear that their children will feel unloved or will be ridiculed if they don't have the same playthings their friends have.Overindulgence of a child also happens when parents are unable to stand up to their children's unreasonable demands.Such parents vacillate between saying no and giving inexcept perhaps as a birthday or holiday gifteven if it means saying no to a requestthe crisis stageat least they should do so.“ However, after he got to know Hughie better, he liked him quite as much for his bright, cheerful spirits, and his generous, carele nature, and had asked him to come to his studio whenever he liked.When Hughie came in he found Trevor putting the finishing touches to a wonderful life-size picture of a beggar-man.The beggar himself was standing on a raised platform in a corner of the room.He was a wizened old man with a wrinkled face and a sad expreion.Over his shoulder was thrown a rough brown coat, all torn and full of holes;his thick boots were old and patched;and with one hand he leant on a rough stick, while with the other he held out his battered hat for money.”What an amazing model!“ whispered Hughie, as he shook hands with his friend.”An amazing model?“ shouted Trevor at the top of his voice;”I should think so!Such beggars are not met with every day.Good heavens!What a picture Rembrandt would have made of him!“ ”Poor old fellow!“ said Hughie, ”How miserable he looks!But I suppose, to you painters, his face is valuable.“”Certainly,“ replied Trevor, ”you don't want a beggar to look happy, do you?“”How much does a model get for sitting?“ asked Hughie, as he found himself a comfortable seat.”A shilling an hour.“”And how much do you get for your picture, Alan?“”Oh, for this I get two thousand.“”Pounds?“”Guineas.Painters, poets, and doctors always get guineas.“”Well, I think the model should have a percentage,“ cried Hughie, laughing;”they work quite as hard as you do.“”Nonsense, nonsense!Why, look at the trouble of laying on the paint alone, and standing all day in front of the picture!It's easy, Hughie, for you to talk, but I tell you that there are moments when art almost reaches the importance of manual work.But you mustn't talk;I'm very busy.Smoke a cigarette, and keep quiet.“After some time the servant came in, and told Trevor that the frame-maker wanted to speak to him.”Don't run away, Hughie,“ he said, as he went out, ”I will be back in a moment.“The old beggar-man took advantage of Trevor's absence to rest for a moment on a wooden seat that was behind him.He looked so miserable that Hughie pitied him, and felt in his pockets to see what money he had.All he could find was a pound and some pennies.”Poor old fellow,“ he thought to himself, ”he wants it more than I do, but I shan't have much money myself for a week or two“;and he walked acro the studio and slipped the pound into the beggar's hand.The old man startled, and a faint smile paed acro his lips.”Thank you, sir,“ he said, ”thank you.“Then Trevor arrived, and Hughie left, blushing a little at what he had done.He spent the day with Laura, was charmingly blamed for giving away a pound, and had to walk home.Leon Eight

The Model Millionaire(II) Oscar Wilde

当休吉得知那老乞丐原来是欧洲少有的巨富，十分懊丧；听说朋友把自己为婚事发愁的隐私也告诉了那老头，性格随和的他也动怒了。次日，富翁派人来访，休吉断定他是代表主人来向他讨个歉意；没想到老头解决了他的燃眉之急„„That night Hughie went to a club about eleven o'clock, and found Trevor sitting by himself in the smoking room drinking.”Well, Alan, did you finish the picture all right?“ he said, as he lit his cigarette.”Finished and framed, my boy!“ answered Trevor;”and, by the way, that old model you saw has become very fond of you.I had to tell him all about youdo you think he would care for any of them? Why, his rags were falling to bits.“”But he looks splendid in them,“ said Trevor.”I should never want to paint him in a frock coat for anything.What you call rags I call romance.What seems poverty to you is charm to me.However, I'll tell him of your offer.“”Alan,“ said Hughie seriously, ”you painters are a heartle lot.“”An artist's heart is his head,“ replied Trevor;”and besides, our busine is to show the world as we see it, not to make it better.And now tell me how Laura is.The old model was quite interested in her.“”You don't mean to say you talked to him about her?“ said Hughie.”Certainly I did.He knows all about the cruel father, the lovely Laura, and the ten thousand pounds.“”You told the old beggar all about my private affairs.?“ cried Hughie, looking very red and angry.”My dear boy,“ said Trevor, smiling, ”that old beggar, as you call him, is one of the richest men in Europe.He could buy all London tomorrow.He has a house in every capital, has his dinner off gold plate, and can prevent Ruia going to war when he wishes.“”What on earth do you mean?“ cried Hughie.”What I say,“ said Trevor.”the old man you saw today in the studio was Baron Hausberg.He is a great friend of mine, buys all my pictures and that sort of thing, and gave me a commiion a month ago to paint him as a beggar.What do you expect? It is the whim of a millionaire.You know these rich men.And I must say he looked fine in his rags, or perhaps I should say in my rags;they are an old suit I got in Spain.“ ”Baron Hausberg！“ cried Hughie.”Good heavens!I gave him a pound!“ and he sank into an arm-chair the picture of dismay.”Gave him a pound!“ shouted Trevor and he burst into a roar of laughter.”My dear boy, you'll never see it again.His busine is with other men's money.“ ”I think you ought to have told me, Alan,“ said Hughie in a bad temper, ”and not have let me make such a fool of myself.“”Well, to begin with, Hughie,“ said Trevor, ”It never entered my mind that you went about giving money away in that carele manner.I can understand your kiing a pretty model, but your giving money to an ugly one-, no!Besides, when you came in I didn't know whether Hausberg would like his name mentioned.You know he wasn't in full dre!“”How stupid he must think me!“ said Hughie.”Not at all.He was in the highest spirits after you left;kept laughing to himself and rubbing his old wrinkled hands together.I couldn't understand why he was so interested to know all about you;but I see it all now.He'll invest your pound for you, Hughie, pay you the interest every six months, and have a wonderful story to tell after dinner.“”I'm an unlucky devil,“ said Hughie.”The best thing I can do is to go to bed;and, my dear Alan, you mustn't tell anyone.I shouldn't dare to show my face if people knew.“ ”Nonsense!It shows your kindne of spirit, Hughie.And don't run away.Have another cigarette, and you can talk about Laura as much as you like.“However, Hughie wouldn't stay, but walked home, feeling very unhappy, and leaving Alan Trevor helple with laughter.The next morning, as he was at breakfast, the servant brought him a card on which was written, ”Monsieur Gustave Naudin, for M.le Baron Hausberg.“ ”I suppose he has come for an apology,“said Hughie to himself;and he told the servant to bring the visitor in.An old gentleman with gold glaes and grey hair came into the room and said, in a slight French accent, ”Have I the honour of speaking to Monsieur Erskine?“Hughie bowed.”I have come from Baron Hausberg,“ he continued.”The Baron-“ he continued.”The Baron-“”I beg, sir, that you will offer him my sincerest apologies,“stammered Hughie.”The Baron,“ said the old gentleman with a smile, ”has commiioned me to bring you this letter“;and he held out a sealed envelope.On the outside was written, ”A wedding present to Hugh Erskine and Laura Merton, from an old beggar,“ and inside was a cheque for ten thousand pounds.When they were married Alan Trevor was the best man, and the Baron made a speech at the wedding breakfast.31 ”Millionaire models,“ remarked Alan, ”are rare enough;but model millionaires are rarer still!“ Leon Nine

Only Three More Days William L.Shirer

第二次世界大战结束已经五十多年，但是这场人类有史以来最大的灾难，至今仍然给人们留下许多值得反思的问题，仍然是影视、文学、艺术作品热衷于挖掘的题材。经受了这场战争的人不会忘记那个年代，也希望今天的年轻人牢记这场战争给人们的教训，不让历史重演。从这个意义上来说，60年代出版并风靡世界的《第三帝国的兴亡》的作者如何在纳粹分子鼻子底下携带大量珍贵资料大模大样登上德国航空公司的班机逃离柏林的故事，仍然具有现实意义。My Berlin diary for December 2 was limited to four words.”Only three more days!“Next day, December 3: ”...The Foreign Office still holding up my paport and exit visa, which worries me.Did my

last broadcast from Berlin tonight.“”Berlin, December 4: Got my paport and official permiion to leave tomorrow.Nothing to do now but pack.“There was one other thing to do.For weeks I had thought over how to get my diaries safely out of Berlin.At some moments I had thought I ought to destroy them before leaving.There was enough in them to get me hangedby the Gestapo.”I felt grateful that there were at least a half-dozen seals.The two officials talked in whispers for a moment.“Where were those bags sealed?” one of them snapped.“At Gestapo Headquarters,” I said.This information impreed them.But still they seemed suspicious.“Just a minute,” one said.His colleague picked up the phone at a table behind them.Obviously he was checking.The man hung up, walked over to me, and without a word chalked the two suitcases.I was free at last to get to the ticket counter to check my luggage.“Where to?” a Lufthansa man asked.“Lisbon,” I said.31 The thought of the German airline delivering my diaries to me safely in Portugal, beyond the reach of the last German official who could seize them, extremely pleased me.32 The airport tower kept postponing the departure of our plane.I went to the restaurant and had a second breakfast.I really was not hungry.But I had to do something to relieve the tension.I started to glance at the morning papers I had bought automatically on arriving at the airport.33 “I don't have to read any of this trash anymore!” I thought.34 Before the end of this day, when we would arrive in Barcelona, I wouldn't have to put up with anything anymore in the great Third Reich.The sense of relief I felt was tremendous.I had only to hold out this one more day, and the whole nightmare for me would be over, though it would go on and on for millions of others.35 We had survived the Nazi horror and its mindle suppreion of the human spirit.But many others, I felt sadly, had not survived-the Jews above all, but also the Czechs and now the Poles.Even for the great ma of Germans who supported Hitler, I felt a sort of sorrow.They did not seem to realize what the poison of Nazism was doing to them.Leon Ten

The Washwoman I.B.Singer

一个年近八旬、瘦小的老妇人，不愿增加儿子和社会的负担，一不乞讨，二不进孤老院，顽强地靠为他人洗衣维持生活。经她洗熨过的衣物又干净又平整；一旦收了活儿，即使是大病一场她也要完成自己的职责，冒着大雪严寒也要让洗熨好的衣物尽快物归原主。这个尽职的洗衣妇体现了人类的优秀的品质，她那衰弱的身躯体现了人类坚韧不拔的意志，她那粗糙的双手创造出了光辉灿烂的人类文明。有谁比她更平凡？但有谁比她更崇高？Our home had little contact with Gentiles.But there were the Gentile washwomen who came to the house to fetch our laundry.My story is about one of these.She was a small woman, old and wrinkled.When she started washing for us, she was already past seventy.Most Jewish women of her age were sickly, weak, broken in body.But this washwoman, small and thin as she was, poeed a strength that came from generations of peasant ancestors.Mother would count out to her a bag of laundry that had accumulated over several weeks.She would lift the heavy bag, load it on her narrow shoulders, and carry it the long way home.It must have been a walk of an hour and a half.She would bring the laundry back about two weeks later.My mother had never been so pleased with any washwoman.Every piece of laundry was as clean as polished silver.Every piece was neatly ironed.Yet she charged no more than the others.She was a real find.Mother always had her money ready, because it was too far for the old woman to come a second time.Washing clothes was not easy in those days.The old woman had no tap where she lived, but had to bring in the water from a pump.For the clothes and bedclothes to come out so clean, they had to be scrubbed thoroughly in a washtub, rinsed with washing soda, soaked, boiled in an enormous pot, starched, then ironed.Every piece was handled ten times or more.And the drying!It had to be hung in the attic.She could have begged at the church door or entered a home for the poor and aged.But there was in her a certain pride and love of labor with which many Gentiles have been bleed.The old woman did not want to become a burden, and so bore her burden.The woman had a son who was rich.I no longer remember what sort of busine he had.He was ashamed of his mother, the washwoman, and never came to see her.Nor did he ever give her any money.The old woman told this without bitterne.One day the son was married.It seemed that he had made a good match.The wedding took place in a church.The son had not invited the old mother to his wedding, but she went to the church and waited at the steps to see her son lead the “young lady” to the altar...The story of the faithle son left a deep impreion on my mother.She talked about it for weeks and months.It was an insult not only to the old woman but to all mothers.Mother would argue,“Does it pay to make sacrifices for children? The mother uses up her last strength, and he does not even know the meaning of loyalty.” That winter was a harsh one.The streets were icy.No matter how much we heated our stove, the windows were covered with frost.The newspapers reported that people were dying of the cold.Coal became dear.The winter had become so severe that parents stopped sending children to school.On one such day the washwoman, now nearly eighty years old, came to our house.A good deal of laundry had accumulated during the past weeks.Mother gave her a pot of tea to warm herself, as well as some bread.The old woman sat on a kitchen chair trembling and shaking, and warmed her hands against the teapot.Her fingers were rough from work, and perhaps from arthritis, too.Her fingernails were strangely white.These hands spoke of stubbornne of mankind, of the will to work not only as one's strength permits but beyond the limits of one's power.The bag was big, bigger than usual.When the woman placed it on her shoulders, it covered her completely.At first she stayed, as though she were about to fall under the load.But an inner stubbornne seemed to call out: No, you may not fall.A donkey may permit himself to fall under his burden, but not a human being, the best of creation.She disappeared, and mother sighed and prayed for her.More than two months paed.The frost had gone, and then a new frost had come, a new wave of cold.One evening, while Mother was sitting near the oil lamp mending a shirt, the door opened and a small puff of steam, followed by a gigantic bag, entered the room.I ran toward the old woman and helped her unload her bag.She was even thinner now, more bent.Her head shook from side to side as though she were saying no.She could not utter a clear word, but mumbled something with her sunken mouth and pale lips.After the old woman had recovered somewhat, she told us that she had been ill.Just what her illne was, I cannot remember.She had been so sick that someone called a doctor, and the doctor had sent for a priest.Someone had informed the son, and he had contributed money for a coffin and for the funeral.But God had not yet wanted to take this soul full of pain to Himself.She began to feel better, she became well, and as soon as she was able to stand on her feet once more, she began her washing.Not just ours, hut the wash of several other families, too.“I could not rest easy in my bed because of the wash,” the old woman explained.“The wash would not let me die.”“With the help of God you will live to be a hundred and twenty,”said my mother, as a bleing.“God forbid!What good would such a long life be? The work becomes harder and harder...my strength is leaving me...I do not want to be a burden on anyone!” The old woman croed herself, and raised her eyes toward heaven.Fortunately there was some money in the house and Mother counted out what she owed.Then she left, promising to return in a few weeks for a new load.But she never came back.The wash she had returned was her last effort on this earth.She had been driven by an indomitable will to return the property to its rightful owners, to fulfill the task she had undertaken.And now at last her body, which had long been supported only by the force of honesty and duty, had fallen.Her soul paed into those spheres where all holy souls meet, regardle of the roles they played on this earth, in whatever tongue, of whatever religion.I cannot imagine paradise without this Gentile washwoman.I cannot even imagine a world where there is no reward for such effort.Leon Eleven

How I Served My Apprenticeship  Andrew Carnegie

人类进入新的千年之际，越来越多的青少年享受着父辈们创造的物质文明的成果，从小生活在“刻罐”里，不知道什么叫“匮乏”，不晓得何谓“贫困”，更不了解从小就要干活、帮助父母养家糊口的艰辛。与此同时，人类尚

未消灭贫困，世界上还有穷人，在穷困生活中挣扎的青少年还大有人在。一个青少年时期经历一段艰苦的生活未必是件坏事。俗话说穷则思变，穷能使人发奋图强。一位少年时期有过一段贫困生活经历的大富翁如是说„„ It is a great pleasure to tell how I served my apprenticeship as a busineman.But there seems to be a question preceding this: Why did I become a busineman? I am sure that I should never have selected a busine career if I had been permitted to choose.The eldest son of parents who were themselves poor, I had, fortunately, to begin to perform some useful work in the world while still very young in order to earn an living and therefore came to understand even in early boyhood that my duty was to aist my parents and become, as soon as poible, a breadwinner in the family.What I could get to do, not what I desired, was the question.When I was born my father was a well-to-do master weaver in Scotland.This was the days before the steam engines.He owned no fewer than four handlooms and employed apprentices.He wove cloth for a merchant who supplied the material.When the steam engine came, handloom weaving naturally declined.The first serious leon of my life came to me one day when I was just about ten years old.My father took the last of his work to the merchant, and returned home greatly distreed because there was no more work for him to do.I resolved then that the wolf of poverty should be driven from our door some day.The question of starting for the United States was discued from day to day in the family council.It was finally resolved that we would join relatives already in Pittsburgh.I well remember that both father and mother thought the decision was a great sacrifice for them, but that “it would be better for the two boys.” On arriving, my father entered a cotton factory.I soon followed, and served as a “bobbin-boy,” and that was how I began my preparation for subsequent apprenticeship as a busineman.I cannot tell you how proud I was when I received my first week's earnings — one dollar and twenty cents.It was given to me because I had been of some use in the world!And I became a contributing member of my family!I think this makes a man out of a boy sooner than almost anything else.It is everything to feel that you are useful.I have had to deal with great sums.Many millions of dollars have since paed through my hands.But the genuine satisfaction I had from that one dollar and twenty cents outweighs any subsequent pleasure in money making.It was the direct reward of honest, manual labor;it represented a week of very hard work — so hard that it might have been described as slavery if it hadn't been for its aim and end.It was a terrible task for a lad of twelve to rise every morning, except Sunday, go to the factory while it was still dark, and not be released until after darkne came again in the evening, forty minutes' break only being allowed at noon.But I was young and had my dreams, and something within always told me that this would not, could not, should not lastwithout interference by one of the drops in that stream-man.“

Silent Springthe sea.However, because she was a true scientist and an aware human being, she knew that everything on this planet is connected to everything else.Thus, she became increasingly alarmed by the development and use of DDT and other pesticides of its type.These chemicals, she knew, do not break down in the soil.Instead, they tend to be endlely recycled in the food chains on which birds and animals and man himself are completely dependent.The Poisonous Cycle.One might gue that at this time Carson the reader might have reminded Carson the scientist of some paages in Shakespeare's most famous play.Prince Hamlet used revoltingly grisly images in vicious baiting of his hated uncle when he told him that in nature's food chain, the worm is king.We fatten other creatures so that they can feed us, and we fatten ourselves to ultimately feed maggots.The worms eat the king and the beggar alike;they are simply two dishes but the same meal for the worm.The worm that has eaten the king may be used by a man(who could be a beggar)for fishing, and he, in turn, eats the fish that ate the worm.In this way, a king can pa through the guts of a beggar.Rachel Carson knew of this poisonous cycle.And she knew now, as her own observations were confirmed by fellow scientists all over the country, that this ”worm“ now carried a heavy concentration of poison.It could be paed on to fish, to other animals, to their food supply, and to men and women and children throughout the earth.In spite of fierce opposition from the chemical industry, from powerful government agencies, and from farmer organizations, she persisted in her research and writing.Then in 1962 she published Silent Spring.The book exploded into the public consciousne.It received great praise from some, great criticism from others.The little girl from the Pennsylvania woods, now approaching middle age, had fired a major salvo in the battle for the environment.Leon Thirteen

Who Shall Dwell? H.C.Neal

这是一个虚构的故事，因为除了美国于1945年8月在日本广岛和长崎投下了两枚原子弹之外，还没有任何核大国使用过这种大规模的杀伤武器。

但是故事提出的问题却具有现实意义，尤其是在冷战时期，两个超级大国的核军备竞赛使西方不少作家、文人探索人类如何面对可能会发生的核攻击，使自己所创造的物质和精神财富得以继承。

故事也提出了一个与核战无关但更为现实的问题：在危难之际，生的机会应该给谁?故事中这对夫妇的最后决定，令人看到了普通劳动人民的美德和人类的希望。It came on a Sunday afternoon.They had prayed that it would never come, ever, but suddenly here it was.The father was resting on a couch and half-listening to some music on the radio.Mother was in the kitchen preparing dinner and the younger boy and girl were in the bedroom drawing pictures.The older boy was working in the shed out back.Suddenly the music was cut off.Then, the announcer almost shouted:”Bomb alert!Attention!A number of miiles have just been launched acro the sea, heading this way.They are expected to strike within the next sixteen minutes.This is a verified alert!Take cover!Keep your radios tuned for further instructions.“ ”My God!“ the father gasped.His face was ashen, puzzled, as though he knew that this was real — but still could not quite believe it.”Get the children,“ his wife blurted, then dashed to the door to call the older boy.He stared at her a brief moment, seeing the fear in her face, but also a loathing for all men involved in the making and dispatch of nuclear weapons.The father jumped to his feet, and ran to the bedroom.”Let's go,“ he snapped, ”shelter drill!“ Although they had had many rehearsals, his voice and bearing sent the youngsters dashing for the door without a word.He hustled them through the kitchen to the rear door and sent them to the shelter.As he returned to the bedroom, the older boy came running in.”This is the hot one, son,“ said his father tersely, ”the real one.“ He and the boy stared at each other a long moment, both knowing what must be done and each knowing the other would more than do his share, yet wondering still at the frightening fact that it must be done at all.”How much time have we got, dad?“”Not long,“ the father replied, glancing at his watch, ”twelve, maybe fourteen minutes.“The boy left.The father stepped to the closet, slid the door open and picked up the metal box containing their important papers.He then picked up the big family Bible from the headboard on the bed.Everything else they would need had been stored in the shelter the past several months.He heard his wife approaching and turned as she entered the room.”Ready, dear?“ she asked.”Yes,“ he replied, ”are the kids gone in?“”They're all down,“ she answered, ”I still can't believe it's real.“”We've got to believe it,“ he said, looking at her steadily in the eye, ” we can't afford not to.“ Outside, the day was crisp and clear, typical of early fall.He looked at his watch again.Four minutes had elapsed since the first alarm.Twelve minutes, more or le, remained.Inside the shelter, he latched the door, and looked around to see that his family was squared away.Now it began.The waiting.The man and his wife knew that others would come soon, begging and crying to be taken in now that the time was here.They had argued about this when the shelter was being built.It was in her mind to share their refuge.”We can't call ourselves Christians and then deny safety to our friends when the showdown comes,“ she contended, ”that isn't what God teaches.“ ”That's nothing but religious pap,“ he retorted with a degree of anger.”God created the family as the basic unit of society,“ he reasoned.”That should make it plain that a man's primary Christian duty is to protect his family.“”But don't you see?“ she protested, ”We must prepare to purify ourselves...to rise above this ‘ mine' thinking and be as God's own son, who said, ‘love thy neighbor.'“ ”No,“ he replied, ”I can't buy that.“ Then, after a moment's thought, ”It is my family I must save, no one more.You.These kids.Our friends are like the people of Noah's time: he warned them of the coming flood when he built the ark on God's command.He was ridiculed and scoffed at, just as we have been ridiculed.No,“and here his voice took on a new sad surene, ”it is meant that if they don't prepare, they die.I see no need for further argument.“With seven minutes left, the first knock rang the shelter door.”Let us in!For God's sake.“He recognized the voice.It was his first neighbor toward town.”No!“ shouted the father, ”There is only room for us.Go!“Again came the pounding.Louder.More urgent.”You let us in or we'll break down this door!“ He wondered if they were actually getting a ram of some sort to batter at the door.He was reasonably certain it would hold.The seconds ticked relentlely away.Four minutes left.His wife stared at the door and moaned slightly.”Steady, girl,“he said, evenly.The children looked at him, frightened, puzzled.He glared at his watch, ran his hands through his hair, and said nothing.31 Three minutes left.32 At that moment, a woman cried from the outside, ”If you won't let me in, please take my baby, my little girl.“

He was stunned by her plea.What must I do? He asked himself in sheer agony.What man on earth could deny a child the chance to live?

At that point, his wife rose, and stepped to the door.Before he could move to stop her, she let down the latch and dashed outside.Instantly a three-year-old girl was thrust into the shelter.He hastily fought the door latch on again, then stared at the frightened little newcomer in anger, hating her for simply being there in his wife's place and knowing he could not turn her out.35 He sat down heavily, trying desperately to think.The voices outside grew louder.He glanced at his watch, looked at the faces of his own children a long moment, then rose to his feet.There were two minutes left, and he made his decision.He marveled now that he had even considered any other choice.36 ”Son,“ he said to the older boy, ”you take care of them.“ It was as simple as that.37 Unlatching the door, he thrust it open and stepped out.The crowd surged toward him.Blocking the door with his body, he snatched up the two children nearest him, and shoved them into the shelter.”Bar that door,“ he shouted to his son, ”and don't open it for at least a week!“

Hearing the latch drop into place, he turned and glanced around at the faces in the crowd.Some of them were still babbling incoherently, utterly panic-stricken.Others were quiet now, no longer afraid.39 Stepping to his wife's side, he took her hand and spoke in a warm, low tone.”They will be all right, the boy will lead them.“He grinned reauringly and added, ”We should be together, you and Ⅰ．“

She smiled wordlely through her tears and squeezed his hand, exchanging with him in the one brief gesture a lifetime and more of devotion.41 Then struck the first bomb, blinding them, burning them, blasting them into eternity.Leon Fourteen

Cipher in the Snow Jean E.Mizer

一个母亲再嫁，与继父一起生活，没有家庭温暖的少年，在学校里成绩不好，沉默寡言，默默无闻，极少参加学校活动。在一个寒冷的早晨，上学的路上，他突然倒了下去，死于“心力衰竭”。一位老师进行了家访，阅读了他的全部档案之后，发出了愤怒的呼声：“是学校的‘教育’扼杀了他的信心，‘教育’对他的早逝有不可推卸的责任。这是为什么 ? ” It started on a biting cold February morning.I was driving behind the Milford Corners bus as I did most snowy mornings on my way to school.It stopped short at a hotel, and I was annoyed, as I had to come to an unexpected stop.A boy staggered out of the bus, stumbled, and collapsed on the snowbank at the curb.The bus driver and I reached him at the same moment.His thin, hollow face was white even against the snow.” He's dead, “ the driver whispered.I glanced quickly at the scared young faces staring down at us from the school bus.” A doctor!Quick!“ ” No use.I tell you he's dead.“ The driver looked down at the boy's still body.” He never even said he felt bad, “ he muttered, ” just tapped me on the shoulder and said, quietly, I'm sorry.I have to get off at the hotel.' That's all.Polite and apologizing.“ At school, the giggling morning noise quieted as the news went down the halls.I paed a group of girls.” Who was it? Who dropped dead on the way to school? “ I heard one of them half-whisper.” Don't know his name;some kid from Milford Corners “ was the reply.It was like that in the faculty room and the principal's office.” I'd appreciate your going out to tell the parents, “ the principal told me.” They haven't a phone and, anyway, somebody from school should go there in person.I'll cover your claes.“ ” Why me? “ I asked.” Wouldn't it be better if you did it? “ ” I didn't know the boy, “ the principal admitted.” And in last year's sophomore personalities column I note that you were listed as his favorite teacher.“ I drove through the snow and cold down the bad road to the Evans place and thought about the boy, Cliff Evans.His favorite teacher!I could see him in my mind's eye all right, sitting back there in the last seat in my afternoon literature cla.He came in the room by himself and left by himself.” Cliff Evans, “ I muttered to myself, ” a boy who never talked, a boy who never smiled.“ The big ranch kitchen was clean and warm.I blurted out the news somehow.Mrs.Evans reached blindly toward a chair.” He never said anything about being ill.“ His stepfather said impatiently, ” He has said nothing about anything since I moved in here.“ Mrs.Evans pushed a pan to the back of the stove and began to untie her apron.” Now hold on, “ her husband said angrily.” I've got to have breakfast before I go to town.Nothing we can do now anyway.If Cliff hadn't been so dumb, he'd have told us he didn't feel well.“ After school I sat in the office and stared at the records spread out before me.I was to close the file and write the obituary for the school paper.The almost bare sheets in the file mocked the effort.Cliff Evans, white, never legally adopted by stepfather, five young half brothers and sisters.These bits of information and the list of D grades were all the records had to offer.Cliff Evans had silently come in the school door in the mornings and gone out the school door in the evenings, and that was all.He had never belonged to a club.He had never played on a team.He had never held an office.As far as I could tell, he had never done one happy, noisy kid thing.He had never been anybody at all.How do you go about making a boy into a zero? The grade school records showed me.The first and second grade teachers' notes read ” sweet, shy child “;” timid but eager.“ Then the third grade note had opened the attack.Some teacher had written in a good, firm hand, ” Cliff won't talk.Uncooperative.Slow learner.“ The other academic sheep had followed with ” dull “;” slow-witted “;” low I.Q.“ They became correct.The boy's I.Q.score in the ninth grade was listed at 83.But his I.Q.in the third grade had been 106.The score didn't go under 100 until the seventh grade.Even shy, timid, sweet children have resilience.It takes time to break them.I went angrily to the typewriter and wrote a savage report pointing out what education had done to Cliff Evans.I slapped a copy on the principal's desk and another in the sad file.I banged the typewriter and slammed the file and crashed the door shut, but didn't feel much better.A little boy kept walking after me, a little boy with a thin, pale face;a skinny body in faded jeans;and big eyes that had looked and searched for a long time and then had become veiled.I could gue how many times he'd been chosen last to play sides in a game, how many whispered child conversations had excluded him, how many times he hadn't been asked.I could see and hear the faces and voices that said over and over, ” You're dumb.You're nothing, Cliff Evans.“ A child is a believing creature.Cliff undoubtedly believed them.Suddenly it seemed clear to me: When finally there was nothing left at all for Cliff Evans, he collapsed on a snowbank and went away.The doctor might list ” heart failure “ as the cause of death, but that wouldn't change my mind.We couldn't find ten students in the school who had known Cliff well enough to attend the funeral as his friends.So the student-body officers and a committee from the junior cla went as a group to the church, being politely sad.I attended the service with them and sat through it with a lump of cold lead in my chest and a big resolution growing through me.I've never forgotten Cliff Evans nor that resolution.He has been my challenge year after year, cla after cla.I look up and down the rows carefully each September at the new faces.I look for veiled eyes or bodies scrounged into a seat in an unfamiliar world.” Look, kids, “ I say silently, ” I may not do anything else for you this year, but not one of you is going to come out of here a nobody.I'll work or fight to the bitter end doing battle with society and the school board, but I won't have one of you coming out of here thinking himself into a zero.“ Most of the time — not always, but most of the time — I've succeeded.Leon Fifteen

Bribery — An lnevitable Evil? David Cotton

随着各国经济的全球化，随着跨国性投资的迅速增加以及经济的自由化，世界性的贪污受贿现象也更加普遍

和严重，经济犯罪成了世界瘟疫。世界各国都在打击贪污和受贿，但似乎是“道高一尺，魔高一丈”，“上有政策，下有对策”。本文作者列举了许多事例说明行贿和索贿以各种各样的手段和形式腐蚀着上上下下的政府机关；虽然各国人民和政府都严厉谴责，但行贿和受贿大有势不可挡、有增无减之势。对于如何铲除这个毒瘤，作者认为目前尚无行之有效的办法。Students taking busine courses are sometimes a little surprised to find that lectures on busine ethics have been included in their syllabuses of study.They often do not realize that, later in their careers, they may be tempted to bend their principles to get what they want;perhaps also they are not fully aware that bribery in various forms is on the increase in many countries and, in some, this type of corruption has been a way of life for centuries.In dealing with the topic of busine ethics, some lecturers ask students how they would act in the following situation: Suppose you were head of a major soft-drinks company and you want to break into a certain overseas market where the growth potential for your company is likely to be very great indeed.During negotiations with government officials of this country, the Minister of Trade makes it clear to you that if you offer him a substantial bribe, you will find it much easier to get an import licence for your goods, and you are also likely to avoid ” bureaucratic delays “ , as he puts it.Now, the question is: do you pay up or stand by your principles? It is easy to talk about having high moral standards but, in practice, what would one really do in such a situation? Some time ago the British car manufacturer, British Leyland, was accused of operating a ” slush fund “ , and of other questionable practices such as paying agents and purchasers with padded commiion, offering additional discounts and making payments to numbered bank accounts in Switzerland.The company rejected these allegations and they were later withdrawn.Neverthele, at this time, there were people in the motor industry in Britain who were prepared to say in private: ” Look, we're in a wheeling-dealing busine.Every year we're selling more than a ￡ 1,000 million worth of cars abroad.If we spend a few million greasing the palms of some of the buyers, who's hurt? If we didn't do it, someone else would.“It is difficult to resist the impreion that bribery and other questionable payments are on the increase.Indeed, they seem to have become a fact of commercial life.To take just one example, the Chrysler Corporation, third largest of the U.S.motor manufacturers, disclosed that it made questionable payments of more than $ 2.5 million between 1971 and 1976.By making this revelation, it joined more than 300 U.S.companies that had admitted to the U.S.Securities and Exchange Commiion that they had made dubious payments of one kind or another — bribes, facilitating payments, extra discounts, etc.— in recent years.For discuion purposes, we can divide these payments into three broad categories.The first category consists of substantial payments made for political purposes or to secure major contracts.For example, the U.S.conglomerate ITT(International Telephone and Telegraph Corporation)offered a large sum of money in support of a U.S.presidential candidate at a time when it was under investigation for poible violations of the U.S.anti-trust law.This same company, it was revealed, was ready to finance efforts to overthrow the Marxist government of Chile whose President was Salvadore Allende.In this category, we may also include large payments made to ruling families or their close advisers in order to secure arms sales or major petrochemical and construction contracts.In a court case involving an arms deal with Iran, a witne claimed that ￡ 1 million had been paid by a British company to a ” go-between “ who helped clinch a deal for supply of tanks to that country.Other countries have also been known to put preure on foreign companies to make donations to party funds.The second category covers payments made to obtain quicker official approval of some project, to speed up the wheels of bureaucracy.An interesting example of this kind of payment is provided by the story of a sales manager who had been trying for some months to sell road machinery to the Minister of Works of a Caribbean country.Finally, he hit upon the answer.Discovering that the minister was a bibliophile, he bought a rare edition of a book, slipped $ 20,000 within its pages, then presented it to the minister.This man examined its contents, then said: ” I understand there is a two-volume edition of this work.“ The sales manager, who was quick-witted, replied: ” My company cannot afford a two-volume edition, sir, but we could offer you a copy with an appendix!“ A short time later, the deal was approved.The third category involves payments made in countries where it is traditional to pay people to facilitate the paage

of a busine deal.Some Middle East countries would be included on this list, as well as certain Far Eastern countries.The payment may be made by a foreign company to ensure that a tender is put on a selective contract list or the company may pay so that an import licence for eential equipment is approved.Sometimes an expensive gift may be neceary to soften up a government official.A common type in this category is the ” facilitating payment “ — usually a smaller sum of money — made to certain customs officials to clear cargoes.One busineman has told the story of a delivery of 10,000 bottles of sterile penicillin at the airport of a Far Eastern country.It was apparently customary to pay customs officials about $ 250 upon arrival of each shipment to ” get them out of the sun “.In this case, the company was not prepared to make such a payment, so no money changed hands.The Minister of Health of that nation then ordered that each phial be opened for inspection, thereby destroying the whole shipment.Is it poible to formulate a code of rules for companies which would outlaw bribery in all its forms? The International Chambers of Commerce(ICC)favours a code of conduct which would ban the giving and seeking of bribes.This code would try to distinguish between commiions paid for real services and padded fees.A council has been proposed to administer the code.Unfortunately, opinions differ among members of the ICC concerning how to enforce the code.The British members, led by Lord Shawcro, would like the system to have enough legal teeth to make companies behave themselves.” It's no use having a dog without teeth, “ they argue.However, the French delegates think it is the busine of governments to make and impose law;the job of a busine community like the ICC is to say what is right and wrong, but not to impose anything.In a well-known British newspaper, a writer argued recently that ” industry is caught in a web of bribery “ and that everyone is ” on the take “.This is probably an exaggeration.However, today's busineman, selling in overseas markets, will frequently meet situations where it is difficult to square his busine interests with his moral conscience.Leon Sixteen

A Social Event William Inge

闻名世界的好莱坞大明星去世，美国总统、英国女王送来鲜花，引起各方人士的瞩目。能够在他的葬礼露面，对于名气不大的电影演员，是提高知名度的极好的契机。一对年轻的演员夫妇，在举行葬礼当天的早晨尚未接到邀请，急得像热锅上的蚂蚁，两口子绞尽脑汁，多方联系，设法出席这个重要的社交场面。最后给他们解决难题的却是他们的女佣„„剧作家对虚荣者的讽刺手法真是叫人佩服得五体投地。

CHARACTERS Randy Brooks

Carole Mason

Muriel

The scene is the bedroom in the home of a young Hollywood couple, Randy Brooks and Carole Mason, who have been married only a short time and whose careers are still in the promising stage.There is abundant luxury in the room but a minimum of taste.It is late morning and both Randy and Carole are asleep, but Randy soon comes awake, reaches for a cigarette, lights it, and rubs his forehead worriedly.Something profound is troubling him.He gets out of bed, slips a robe on and paces the floor worriedly.Finally, he prees the buzzer on the house phone and speaks to the cook.RANDY.(Into house phone.)Muriel? We're getting up now.Bring up the usual breakfast.(He hangs up and goes into the bathroom to wash.Now Carole wakes up.She too lights a cigarette and looks troubled.Then she calls to Randy.)

CAROLE.I hardly slept a wink all night, just thinking about it.RANDY.(From bathroom.)There's nothing to do but face the fact that we're not invited.CAROLE.Oh, there's got to be a way.There's got to be.RANDY.After all, honey, there is no reason to feel slighted.We're both pretty new in pictures.It's not as though we were old-timers who had worked with Scotty.23

CAROLE.Sandra and Don never worked with Scotty, either.Neither did Debby and Chris, or Anne and Mark.RANDY.I know, honey.We've been through all this before.CAROLE.And I may never have worked with Scotty, but I did meet him once, and he danced with me at a party.He was very nice to me, too, and said some very complimentary things.I met his wife, too.(An afterthought.)I didn't much like her.RANDY.Maybe I'd better call Mike again.(He picks up the telephone and dials.)

CAROLE.What good can an agent do? We're not looking for jobs.RANDY.He may have found some way of getting us invited.CAROLE.I bet.RANDY.(Into the telephone.)Mike? Randy.Look, Mike, Carole and I still haven't been invited, and I can't help wondering if there's been an oversight of some kind.After all, Carole was a great friend of Scotty's and she feels pretty hurt that she's been overlooked...I never knew him but everyone knows how much I've always admired him.In an interview just last week, I said, ”Scotty Woodrow is still the greatest.“ Now, I didn't have to say that...if you ask me, it showed a lot of humility on my part to say a thing like that when, after all, I've got a career of my own to consider...well look, try to do something, Mike.Carole and I both should be seen there...O.K., Mike, call us as soon as you find out.(He hangs up.)

CAROLE.He couldn't get us an invitation to Disneyland.RANCY.He said just Scotty's closest friends are being invited.CAROLE.Oh yes!Half the people going, I bet, have never met him.RANDY.Well!What are we going to do?

CAROLE.Sandra had an entire new outfit made.Perfectly stunning.And she had the dre made so that she can have the sleeves taken out later and wear it to cocktails and supper parties.After all, black is a very smart color now.RANDY.Did you tell Sandra and Don we weren't invited?

CAROLE.Of course not.I lied and said we were going.Now, if we don't get an invitation, I'll have to lie again and say we came down with food poisoning, or something.RANDY.How did Anne and Mark get invited?

CAROLE.Mark played Scotty's son in a picture once.RANDY.When? I don't remember.CAROLE.A long time ago, before either of us came on the scene.RANDY.(Thinks a moment.)That means Mark's a little older than he admits.CAROLE.I don't know.The part was very young, practically an infant.RANDY.Just the same, I'll bet Mark's thirty.CAROLE.Damn, what am I going to tell Sandra? She invited us to come to her house afterwards and I accepted.RANDY.(A little shocked.)She's not giving a party!

CAROLE.No.She just invited some friends to come in afterwards to have a few drinks and talk about what a great guy Scotty was, and everything.She said she thought we'd all feel terribly depreed.After all, Scotty Woodrow was practically a landmark, or something.Think of it.He's been a star for forty years.RANDY.Yes.He was really great.It makes me very humble to think of a guy like Scotty.CAROLE.They say flowers came from the President, and from Queen Elizabeth, and...RANDY.The guest list is going to be published in every paper in the country.CAROLE.You know we could crash.RANDY.No, honey.CAROLE.Who'd know the difference?

RANDY.How would we feel afterwards, when we had to shake hands with Mrs.Woodrow?

CAROLE.She's probably forgotten whether she invited us or not.RANDY.Honey, I'm not going to crash.That's all.I'm not.CAROLE.Everyone would just take it for granted we'd been invited.I mean, we're both just as prominent as Sandra and Don, or any of the others.If you ask me, it'd be a lot better to crash than not to be seen at...well, you can't call it a social affair exactly, but it's a social event.Anyway, everyone will be there.Everyone.24

RANDY.It could be some of the others who are lying about their invitations, too.You realize that, don't you?

CAROLE.(Considers this.)I wonder...well, anyway, they're all going.I think they got invitations.RANDY.I don't know why the studio couldn't have managed it for us with a little pull.They should realize it's in the best interests of my career to be seen there, and my career means as much to them as it does to me.CAROLE.Same here.Oh, I just don't know how I can face Sandra and Anne and all the others, and make them believe that we really did have food poisoning.RANDY.You know, we could give ourselves food poisoning.Just a light case.A little rotten meat would do it.Then we'd call the doctor and...CAROLE.(Horrified.)No!I'm not going to make myself sick.RANDY.Just a slight case so you could tell them with a straight face...(A soft tap comes at the door.)Come in.(Muriel, the maid, enters with a tray.)Hi Muriel!

MURIEL.Good morning!

CAROLE.Hi, Muriel.Put it here on the coffee table.(Muriel does as she is told.)

MURIEL.Mi Carole, I hope you remember I told you I'd be gone this morning.CAROLE.Oh, yes, I'd forgotten.What time will you be back, Muriel?

MURIEL.Oh, I'll be back in time to fix dinner.RANDY.Is this your day off, Muriel?

MURIEL.No, Mr.Randy.I'm going to Mr.Woodrow's funeral.(There is a slight air of superiority about her now.Randy and Carole look at her with sudden surprise.)

RANDY.Oh...is that right?

MURIEL.And after the funeral, Mrs.Woodrow has asked me to join the family at their home.CAROLE.Muriel, you didn't tell me!

RANDY.Uh...were you a friend of Scotty, Muriel?

MURIEL.My mother worked for him when he was starting out in the busine.I was born in Mr.Woodrow's beach house, before he bought that big house up in the canyon.(She has thus established herself as near-royalty to Randy and Carole.)

RANDY.(Amazed.)Really?

MURIEL.Oh, yes.Mr.Woodrow was very good to me when I was a child.Mama worked for him until she died.I could have stayed on, but after Mr.Woodrow got married the last time, she hired a lot of French servants I didn't get on with, at all.But they went right on sending me Christmas cards every year.RANDY.Uh...Muriel, do you have a ride to the funeral?

MURIEL.No, Mr.Brooks.Mrs.Woodrow's secretary said I could bring my family, but now that Vincent has left me and taken the car, I'll have to take a taxi.RANDY.Gee...that's too bad.CAROLE.(Thinking.)Yes.Isn't it?

MURIEL.(Starts for the door.)Well, I have to be getting ready now.I got a new black dre to wear.All the big names in Hollywood will be there.I want to look my best.RANDY.(Holding her.)Uh...Muriel, you don't want to go to the services all alone!

MURIEL.Oh, I don't mind.CAROLE.Look, Muriel, why don't we all go together? I mean...well, of course, Randy and I are invited, too, but we'd be glad to go along with you...as your family, you know.Well, after all, you're one of us, Muriel.MURIEL.(Appears to examine the idea.)All of us go together, huh?

CAROLE.Of course.RANDY.I'll drive us all there in the Cadillac.MURIEL.(This idea appeals to her.)Oh...that'd be nice.CAROLE.And then after the funeral, we'll take you to the house.MURIEL.(Without sarcasm.)I see.RANDY.And you won't have to worry about coming back to fix dinner.CAROLE.Of course not.25

MURIEL.Well, it suits me.I didn't want to have to call a taxi.If you folks want to come along, fine and dandy.You'll have to pardon me now.I have to get into my new black dre.RANDY.We'll meet you downstairs in fifteen minutes, Muriel.(Muriel exits.Carole and Randy both jump into action, getting their clothes out of their respective closets.)

CAROLE.I told you we'd find a way.RANDY.Yah.(Taking a suit from closet.)Say, this suit could stand a preing.Do I have to wear black?

CAROLE.Of course, honey.After all, it's a very solemn occasion.RANDY.Well, O.K.CAROLE.I'll have to call Sandra.(She picks up the telephone and dials.)

RANDY.It's going to look all right, isn't it? I mean, our going with Muriel.CAROLE.Of course.You don't worry about things like that at a funeral.(Into the telephone.)Sandra? Carole.Darling, I'm awfully sorry but Randy and I won't be able to come to your house after the funeral...well, you see, we have a duty to Muriel, our cook.She's the daughter of Scotty's old housekeeper...yes, Scotty practically raised her.And we feel that we should take her with us, and then, of course, we'll have to go to the home afterwards.Just family and a few of his very closest friends.We can't get out of it...you'll forgive us, won't you, darling? Oh, it's all going to be terribly sad.RANDY.(To himself, while dreing.)I gue it'll look all right.After all, funerals are very democratic affairs.下册

Leon One Courtesy: Key to a Happier World Dr.Norman Vincent Peale

人生活在群体之中，为了解决自己的衣食住行，处处都要与他人打交道。即使是在英国人称之为“自己的城堡”的家里，人们也必须和睦相处，才能相安无事。风烟四起，舌战连绵，轻者使团体和家庭面和心不和，重者会导致团体瓦解，家庭破裂。处理好人际关系的秘诀是什么？本文作者在多年心理咨询工作中得出结论：以礼待人。他认为，不可小看如何对待他人一事，礼貌不仅仅是个人举止问题，而且也反映一个人的人生观。他还提出了一些化解矛盾和冲突的具体建议，你不妨试试。Many years ago trying to help people with every kind of trouble left me with one sure conviction: in case after case the difficulty could have been overcome — or might never have arisen — if the people involved had just treated one another with common courtesy.Courtesy, politene, good manners — call it what you will, the supply never seems to equal the demand.” It's not so much what my husband says, “ a tearful wife confides, ” as the way he says it.Why does he have to yell at me? I hate my bo, “ a grim-faced office worker mutters.” He never shows appreciation for anything.“ ” All we get from our teenagers, “ a worried parent says, ” is a moody sullenne.“ Such complaints are not limited to people who sit in my study.Human beings everywhere hunger for courtesy.”Good manners,“said Ralph Waldo Emerson, ”are the happy way of doing things.“ And the reverse is equally true.Bad manners can ruin a day — or wreck a friendship.What are the basic ingredients of good manners? Certainly a strong sense of justice is one;courtesy is often nothing more than a highly developed sense of fair play.A friend once told me of driving along a one-lane, unpaved mountain road.Ahead was another car that produced clouds of choking dust, and it was a long way to the nearest paved highway.Suddenly, at a wider place, the car ahead pulled off the road.Thinking that its owner might have engine trouble, my friend stopped and asked if anything was wrong.” No, “ said the other driver.” But you've endured my dust this far;I'll put up with yours the rest of the way.“ There was a man with manners, and an innate sense of fair play.Another ingredient of courtesy is empathy, a quality that enables a person to see into the mind or heart of someone

else, to understand the pain or unhappine there and to do something to minimize it.Recently in a book about a famous restaurant chain I came acro such an episode.A man dining alone was trying to unscrew the cap of a bottle of catsup but his fingers were so badly crippled by arthritis that he couldn't do it.He asked a young busboy to help him.The boy took the bottle, turned his back momentarily and loosened the cap without difficulty.Then he tightened it again.Turning back to the man, he feigned a great effort to open the bottle without succe.Finally he took it into the kitchen and returned shortly, saying that he had managed to loosen it — but only with a pair of pliers.What impelled the boy to take so much trouble to spare the feelings of a stranger? Courtesy, compaionate courtesy.Yet another component of politene is the capacity to treat all people alike, regardle of all status or importance.Even when you have doubts about some people, act as if they are worthy of your best manners.You may also be astonished to find out that they really are.I truly believe that anyone can improve his or her manners by doing three things.First, by practicing courtesy.All skills require constant repetition to become second nature;good manners are no exception.One simple way is to concentrate on your performance in a specific area for about a week.Telephone manner, for example.How often do you talk too long, speak abruptly, fail to identify yourself, keep people waiting, display impatience with the operator or fail to return a call? Or driving a car, why not watch yourself sternly for aggreive driving, unneceary horn-blowing, following too closely, failing to yield the right-of-the-way? One difficult but eential thing to remember is to refuse to let other people's bad manners goad you into retaliating in kind.I recall a story told by a young man who was in a car with his father one night when a driver in an oncoming vehicle failed to dim his lights.”Give him the brights, Dad!“ the young man urged in exasperation.”Son,“ replied the father, ”that driver is certainly discourteous and probably stupid.But if I give him the brights he'll be discourteous, stupid and blind — and that's a combination I don't want to tangle with!“ The second requirement for improving your manners is to think in a courteous way.In the long run, the kind of person you are is the result of what you've been thinking over the past twenty or thirty years.If your thoughts are predominantly self-directed, a discourteous person is what you will be.If on the other hand you train yourself to be considerate of others, if you can acquire the habit of identifying with their problems and hopes and fears, good manners will follow almost automatically.Nowhere is thinking courtesy more important than in marriage.In the intimacy of the home it is easy to displace disappointment or frustration or anger onto the nearest person, and that person is often a husband or wife.”When you feel your anger getting out of control,“ I have often said to married couples, ”force yourself for the next ten minutes to treat your married partner as if he or she were a guest in your home.“ I knew that if they could impose just ten minutes of good manners on themselves, the worst of the storm would blow over.Finally, to have good manners you must be able to accept courtesy, receive it gladly, rejoice when it comes your way.Strangely, some people are suspicious of gracious treatment.They suspect the other person of having some ulterior motive.But some of the most precious gifts in life come with no strings attached.You can't achieve a beautiful day through any effort on your part.You can't buy a sunset or even the scent of a rose.Those are the world's courtesies to us, offered with love and without thought of reward or return.Good manners are, or should be, like that.In the end, it all comes down to how you regard people — not just people in general, but individuals.Life is full of minor irritations and trials and injustices.The only constant, daily, effective solution is politene — which is the golden rule in action.I think that if I were allowed to add one small beatitude as a footnote to the other it might be: Bleed are the courteous.(1,084 words)

Leon Two

The Man Who Could Work Miracles(I)H.G.Wells

一个青年本来不相信有违反自然规律的所谓奇迹，却偶然发现自己能以意志力来创造奇迹。开始他对此困惑不解，甚至有些害怕。反复的试验证实他确实有这种本领，愉悦的情绪油然而生。这一特异功能实在太有用了，既能为他的早餐增加一个新鲜的鹅蛋，又能使他在10分钟之内完成全天的工作，还能把自己讨厌的人一下子贬到阴曹

地府。不过这种非凡的天赋对自己、对他人究竟是福还是祸，此刻下结论还为时过早，要等到第3课才能见分晓。Until he was thirty years old, Fotheringay did not believe in miracles.It was while he was aerting the impoibility of miracles that he discovered his extraordinary powers.He was having a drink in a bar.Toddy Beamish opposed everything he said by a monotonous but effective ”So you say,“ and drove him to the limit of his patience.Angry with Mr.Beamish, Mr.Fotheringay determined to make an unusual effort.”Look here, Mr.Beamish,“ said Mr.Fotheringay.”Let us clearly understand what a miracle is.It's something contrary to the course of nature done by power of Will.“”So you say,“ said Mr.Beamish.”For instance,“ said Mr.Fotheringay.”Here would be a miracle.That lamp, in the natural course of nature, couldn't burn like that upside down, could it, Beamish?“”You say it couldn't,“ said Beamish.”And you?“ said Fotheringay.”You don't mean to say...?“ ”No,“ said Beamish reluctantly.”No, it couldn't.“”Very well,“ said Mr.Fotheringay.”Then here comes someone, perhaps myself, and stands here, and says to that lamp, as I might do, collecting all my will — 'Turn upside down without breaking, and go on burning steady, ' and — Hullo!“ It was enough to make anyone say ”Hullo!“ The incredible was visible to them all.The lamp hung upside down in the air, burning quietly with its flame pointing down.Mr.Fotheringay stood with a forefinger stretched out and the troubled face of one expecting a terrible crash.A cyclist, who was sitting next to the lamp, ducked and jumped acro the bar.For nearly three seconds the lamp remained still.A faint cry of mental distre came from Mr.Fotheringay;”I can't keep it up,“ he said, ”any longer.“ He staggered back, and the lamp suddenly fell.It was lucky it had a metal container, or the whole place would have been on fire.Mr.Cox, the landlord, was the first to speak, and his remark was to the effect that Fotheringay was a fool.Fotheringay himself was astonished beyond measure at the thing that had occurred.The subsequent conversation threw no light on the matter, and everyone accused Fotheringay of a silly trick.He himself was terribly puzzled, and he rather agreed with them.He went home red-faced and hot.It was only when he found himself alone in his little bedroom that he was able to think clearly and ask, ”What on earth happened?“He had removed his coat and boots, and was sitting on the bed with his hands in his pocket.He was repeating for the seventeenth time, ”I didn't want the thing to turn over,“ when it occurred to him that at the precise moment he said the commanding words he had willed the thing that he said.And when he saw the lamp in the air he had felt that it depended on him to maintain it there without being clear how this was to be done.He decided on another experiment.He pointed to his candle and collected his mind, though he felt he did a foolish thing.”Be raised up,“ he said.The candle was raised, hung in the air for a moment, and then fell with a crash on his table, leaving him in darkne.For a time Mr.Fotheringay sat perfectly still, ”It did happen, after all,“ he said.”And how I'm going to explain it, I don't know.“ He signed heavily, and began feeling in his pockets for a match.He could find none, and he groped about the table.”I wish I had a match,“ he said.He tried his coat, and there were none there, and then it dawned upon him that miracles were poible even with matches.He stretched out a hand.”Let there be a match in that hand,“ he said.He felt some light object fall acro his palm, and his fingers closed upon a match.After several futile attempts to light this, he threw it down, and then it occurred to him that he might have willed it to be lit.He did so, and saw it burning on the table.He caught it up hastily, and it went out.His perception of poibilities enlarged, and he felt for and replaced the candle in its candlestick.”Here!You be lit,“ said Mr.Fotheringay, and at once the candle was burning.For a time he stared at it, and then looked up and met his own gaze in the looking gla.”What about miracles now?“ said Mr.Fotheringay, addreing his own reflection.The subsequent thoughts of Mr.Fotheringay were confused.So far as he could see, he had only to will the thing.After his first experiences, he wished to make only very cautious experiments.But he lifted a sheet of paper, and turned a

gla of water pink, and then green, and got himself a toothbrush.In the early hours of the morning he had reached the fact that his will power must be unusual and strong.The fears of his first discovery were now mixed with pride and ideas of advantage.He heard the church clock striking one, and decided to get into bed without further delay.As he struggled to get his shirt over his head, he was struck with a brilliant idea.”Let me be in bed,“ he said, and found himself so.”Undreed,“ he added;and, finding the sheets cold, he said hastily, ”and in my nightshirt — no, in a nice soft woollen nightshirt.Ah!“ he said with immense enjoyment.”And now let me be comfortably asleep...“ He awoke at his usual hour and was thoughtful all through breakfast-time.He wondered whether his experience might not be a dream.At last his mind turned again to cautious experiments.For instance, he had three eggs for breakfast;two were supplied by his landlady, good, but from the shop, and one was a delicious fresh goose-egg, laid, cooked, and served by his extraordinary will.He hurried to work in a state of profound but carefully concealed excitement.All day he could do no work because of his astonishing knowledge, but this caused him no inconvenience, because he made up for it miraculously in his last ten minutes.As the day paed, his state of mind paed from wonder to delight.He intended, among other things, to increase his personal property by acts of creation, and called into existence a number of nice things.But he could see that the gift required caution and watchfulne.After supper one night, he went out to try a few miracles in private by the gasworks.He stuck his walking stick into the ground and commanded the dry wood to bloom.The air was immediately full of the scent of roses.He struck a match and saw that this beautiful miracle was indeed accomplished.His satisfaction was ended by advancing footsteps.Afraid that someone would discover his powers, he said to the stick hastily, ”Go back.“ What he meant was ”Change back“;but the stick moved backwards at a considerable speed, and there came a cry of anger from the approaching person.”Who are you throwing rosebushes at, you fool?“ cried a voice.”I'm sorry,“ said Mr.Fotheringay.He saw Winch, a policeman, advancing.”What do you mean by it?“ asked Winch.”Hullo!It's you, is it? The man who broke the lamp at that bar!What did you do it for?Do you know that stick hurt?“For the moment Fotheringay could not utter a word.His silence seemed to irritate Mr.Winch.”You've been aaulting the police, young man, this time.“”Look here, Mr.Winch,“ said Fotheringay, annoyed and confused.”I'm very sorry.The fact is...“”Well?“ He could think of no answer but the truth.”I was working a miracle.“ He tried to speak as casually as he could.”Working a...!Look!Don't talk rot.Working a miracle, indeed!Well, that's really funny!You're the man who doesn't believe in miracles...The fact is, this is another of your silly tricks.Now I tell you...“ But Mr.Fotheringay never heard what Mr.Winch was going to tell him.He realized that he had given himself away.He became violently irritated.He turned on the policeman swiftly and fiercely.”Listen,“ he said.”I've had enough of this.I'll show you a silly trick, Go to Hades!“He was alone!

Mr.Fotheringay performed no more miracles that night, nor did he trouble to see what had become of his flowering stick.He went back, scared and very quiet.”Good Heavens!“ he said, ”It's an extremely powerful gift.I didn't mean as much as that.Not really...I wonder what Hades is like.“

He sat on the bed taking off his shoes.Struck by a happy thought he transferred the policeman to San Francisco, and then went to bed.33 The next day Fotheringay heard two interesting pieces of news.Someone had planted a most beautiful climbing rose near the gasworks, and everyone was looking for Constable Winch.Leon Three

The Man Who Could Work Miracles(II)H.G.Wells

小说的主人公正如他自己所说的那样，是个极普通的人，对自己奇妙的力量虽颇为自得，可心里总不踏实，尤其是对那位警察的下场感到内疚。礼拜天牧师的布道内容恰好是关于违法的事情，于是他去找牧师咨询。不料咨询

29的结果最后却迫使他不得不主动放弃他的特异功能。On Sunday evening Mr.Fotheringay went to church, and Mr.Maydig preached about ”things that are not lawful“.Mr.Fotheringay suddenly decided to consult Mr.Maydig, who took him to his study.”You don't believe, I suppose,“ said Mr.Fotheringay, ”that some common sort of person — like myself, for instance, — is able to do things by his will.“ ”Something of the sort, perhaps, is poible,“ said Mr.Maydig.”I think I can show you by a sort of experiment,“ said Mr.Fotheringay.”Now, take that tobacco jar on the table, for instance.What I want to know is whether what I am going to do with it is a miracle or not.“He pointed to the tobacco jar, and said: ”Be a bowl of violets.“ The tobacco jar did as it was ordered.Mr.Maydig stared at the change, and presently he ventured to lean over the table and smell the violets.Mr.Fotheringay said, ”Just told it — and there you are.Is that a miracle? What do you think is the matter with me?“”It's a most extraordinary thing.“ ”And this day last week I knew no more that I could do things like that than you did.It came quite suddenly.It's something odd about my will, I suppose.“ ”Is that — the only thing? Could you do other things besides that?“ ”Oh, yes,“ said Mr.Fotheringay.”Just anything.“ He thought a little.”Here!Change into a gla bowl full of water with goldfish swimming in it.You see that, Mr.Maydig?“”It's incredible.“ ”I could change it into just anything,“ Said Mr.Fotheringay.”Here!Be a pigeon, will you?“ In another moment a blue pigeon was fluttering round the room.”Stop there, will you?“ said Mr.Fotheringay, and the pigeon hung motionle in the air.”I could change it back to a bowl of flowers,“ he said, and after placing the pigeon on the table he worked that miracle.Then he restored the tobacco jar.Mr.Maydig had followed all these changes with small cries.”Well,“ he said.Mr.Fotheringay told Mr.Maydig all about his strange experiences;the latter listened intently.”Amazing,“ he said, ”The power to work miracles is a gift, and a very rare gift.Go on.Go on.“ Mr.Fotheringay mentioned Winch.”That's what troubled me most,“ he sad, ”and what I'm in need of advice for most is about Winch;of course he's in San Francisco.You see, I'm in very great difficulties...“ Mr.Maydig looked serious.”Yes, it's a difficult position,“ he said.”But we'll leave Winch for a little and discu the larger question.I don't think this is criminal at all.No, it's just miracles, miracles of the very highest cla.“He began to walk about, while Mr.Fotheringay sat at the table, looking worried.”I don't see what I can do about Winch,“ he said.”If you can work miracles,“ said Mr.Maydig, ”you can find a way about Winch.My dear sir, you are a most important man — a man of the most astonishing poibilities.The things you may do...“ ”Yes, I've thought of a thing or two,“ said Mr.Fotheringay.”But I thought it better to ask someone.“”Quite right,“ said Mr.Maydig.”It's practically an unlimited gift.Let us test your powers.“ And so, urged on by Mr.Maydig, Mr.Fotheringay began to work miracles.At first the miracles he worked were little things with cups and such things.But after they had worked a dozen of these, their sense of power grew, their imagination increased, and their ambition enlarged.”And about Mr.Winch...“ said Mr.Fotheringay.Mr.Maydig waved the Winch difficulty away, and made a series of wonderful proposals.The small hours found Mr.Maydig and Mr.Fotheringay outside under the moon.Mr.Fotheringay was no longer afraid of his greatne.They had reformed every drunkard in the area;they had changed all the beer and alcohol to water;they had improved the railway communication of the place, drained a swamp, and improved the soil.”The place,“ gasped Mr.Maydig, ”won't be the same place tomorrow.“ And just at that moment the church clock struck three.”I say,“ said Mr.Fotheringay, ”I must be getting back.I've got to be at busine by eight.“

”We're only beginning,“ said Mr.Maydig, full of the sweetne of unlimited power.”Think of all the good we're doing.“

”But...“ said Mr.Fotheringay.33 Mr.Maydig gripped his arm suddenly.His eyes were bright and wild.”My dear chap,“ he said, ”there's no hurry.Look!“ He pointed to the moon.”Stop it!“

”That's a bit tall,“ he said after a pause.35 ”Why not?“ said Mr.Maydig.”Of course it doesn't stop.You stop the rotation of the earth, you know.Time stops.It isn't as if we were doing harm.“

”Well,“ said Mr.Fotheringay.”I'll try.“

He spoke to the turning earth.”Just stop rotating, will you?“

Immediately he was flying head over heels through the air at the rate of dozens of miles a minute.He was turning round and round.He thought in a second, and willed.”Let me down safe and sound.“

He willed it only just in time, for his clothes, heated by his rapid flight through the air, were already beginning to burn.He came down with a forcible bump on what appeared to be some fresh turned earth.A flying cow hit the ground and smashed like an egg.There was a crash that made all the most violent crashes of his past life seem like the sound of falling dust.A vast wind roared throughout earth and heaven, so that he could scarcely lift his head to look.For a while he was too breathle and astonished even to see where he was or what had happened.40 ”Good heavens!“ he gasped.”I was nearly killed!What has gone wrong? And only a minute ago, a fine night.What a wind!Where's Maydig?“

He looked around him.”The sky's all right,“ said Mr.Fotheringay.”There's the moon overhead.Just as it was.But the rest? Where's the village? Where's anything? And what started this wind? I didn't order the wind.“

Mr.Fotheringay struggled to get to his feet in vain and remained on all fours, holding on.43 Far and wide nothing was visible through the dust that flew in the wind except maes of earth and heaps of ruins.No trees, no houses, no familiar shapes, only a wilderne of disorder and a rising storm.44 When Mr.Fotheringay stopped the rotation of the solid globe, he said nothing about the movables upon its surface.And the earth spins so fast that the surface at its equator is travelling at more than a thousand miles an hour.So that the village, and everything and everybody had been thrown violently forward at about nine miles per second — much more violently than if they had been fired out of a cannon.And every human being, every living creature, every house, and every tree had been so jerked and smashed and utterly destroyed.That was all.45 These things Mr.Fotheringay did not fully appreciate.But he perceived that his miracle had miscarried, and with that a great disgust of miracles came upon him.A great roaring of wind and waters filled the earth and sky, and he saw a wall of water pouring towards him.46 ”Stop!“ cried Mr.Fotheringay to the advancing water.47 ”Stop just a moment while I collect my thoughts...“ said Mr.Fotheringay to the storm and the thunder.”And now what shall I do? Oh, I wish Maydig was about.“

He remained on all fours leaning against the wind, intent to have everything right.49 ”I know,“ said Mr.Fotheringay.”Let nothing that I'm going to order happen until I say 'Off!'.“

He lifted his voice against the whirlwind, shouting louder and louder in a vain desire to hear himself speak.”Now!Remember what I said just now.In the first place, when all I've got to say is done, let me lose my miraculous power;let all these dangerous miracles be stopped.And second, let me be back just before the miracles began;let everything be just as it was before that lamp turned upside down.It's a big job, but it's the last.Have you got it? That's it!Yes.“

He dug his fingers into the earth, closed his eyes, and said ”Off!“

Everything became perfectly still.53 ”So you say,“ said a voice.54 He opened his eyes and found himself in the bar, arguing about miracles with Toddy Beamish.He had a vague sense of some great thing forgotten, which paed immediately.Except for the lo of his miraculous powers, everything was back as it had been.And among other things, of course, he did not believe in miracles.55 ”I tell you that miracles can't poibly happen,“ he said, ”and I'm prepared to prove it.“

”That's what you think,“ said Toddy Beamish.57 ”Look here, Mr.Beamish,“ said Mr.Fotheringay.”Let us clearly understand what a miracle is...“ Leon Four

Zero Hour: Forty-Three Seconds over Hiroshima Peter Goldman

1945年8月 6日，一架 B-29 轰炸机在日本广岛投下了一颗原子弹，两天之后又在长崎投下了第二颗。8月15日，日军宣布无条件投降。美国的这两颗原子弹对结束第二次世界大战的作用，历史学家至今仍是见仁见智，众说纷纭，但有一点他们是没有争议的：日本人民对此付出了沉重的代价，肉体上和精神上均遭受了极大的痛苦，日本军国主义分子应对此负责。任何企图否定这一侵略战争事实的做法，都是全世界人民，包括日本人民在内，所不能允许的。本文作者在广岛事件40周年之际，通过一位当时核辐射受害者——一个18岁的青春少女的经历提醒人们记住广岛，防止悲剧重演。On a brilliant summer's morning in 1945, Kaz Tanaka looked up into the sky over Hiroshima and saw the beginning of the end of her world.She was 18 then, and her mind was filled with teenage things.She had wakened with a slight fever, just bothersome enough to keep her home from her job in a war plant.But she felt well enough to be up and about;her father had asked her to water a tree in front of their house.She ran acro the courtyard and let herself out the front gate.A girlfriend was standing acro the street.Kaz waved, and the two were goiping happily when they heard the drone of a B-29 bomber six miles up.It was a minute or so before 8 ∶ 15.The plane did not frighten Kaz.For one thing, Hiroshima had gone almost untouched by the air war.For another, Kaz had been born in California, and although her father had returned to Japan while she was still in diapers, she liked to tell people she was the American in the family.She even felt a kind of distant kinship with the B-29s that flew regularly overhead, bound north for Tokyo and other targets.She waved at the plane.”Hi, angel!“ she called.A white spot appeared in the sky, as small and innocent-looking as a scrap of paper.It was falling away from the plane, drifting down toward them.The journey took 43 seconds.The air exploded in blinding light and color, the rays shooting outward as in a child's drawing of the sun, and Kaz was flung to the ground so violently that her two front teeth broke off;she had sunk into unconsciousne.Kaz's father had been out back tending the vegetables, in his under shorts.When he came staggering out of the garden, blood was running from his nose and mouth.By the next day the exposed parts of his body would turn a chocolate brown.What had been the finest house in the neighborhood came crashing down.Kaz had herself been hit in the back by the flying timber.She felt nothing.People were only shapes in dense, gray fog of dust and ash.A mushroom cloud towered seven miles over the remains of the city, the signature of a terrifying new age.Kaz never saw it.She was inside it.Kaz Tanaka had wakened in a frightening new world — a world whose dominant sound was a silence broken only by the cries of the dying.The very air seemed hostile, so thick with dust and ash that she could barely see.She found her girlfriend next to her.”What happened?“ they both blurted at once.There were no answers;no one knew.”Are you hurt?“ Kaz asked.”No, I can get up,“ her girlfriend answered.”Thank heaven!“ Kaz said.She struggled to her own feet then, and took her first steps onto the ruin of her life.The life had been a comfortable one, wanting in nothing — not, at least, until the war.Kaz's father had been born to a family of some wealth and social position in Hiroshima, and had migrated to America in the early 1920s in the spirit of adventure, not of need or flight;he never intended to stay.He moved back to Hiroshima at 40;it was expected of him as the sole male heir to their name.But he brought his American baby girl with him, and a life-style flavored with American ways.The house he built was a spacious one.There was a courtyard in front of the place and two gardens in back, one to provide vegetables, one to delight the eye in the formal Japanese fashion.One of the two living-rooms was American, with

easy chairs instead of tatami, and so were the kitchen and bathroom fittings.Dinner was Japanese, the family sitting on the floor in the traditional way.Breakfast was American, pancakes or bacon and eggs, taken at the kitchen table.When the news came that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor, Kaz's father retired to his garden and stayed all day, shaking his head and refusing to speak to anyone.But he could not shut the war out of the sheltered world he had built for himself and his family.His children went to the factories part time.Food was short;his vegetable garden became le a hobby than a neceity, helping feed not only his own household but his neighbors as well.What remained of the life he had made was blown to bits though his home was more than a mile from the hypocenter.He was working on the side facing zero, and had the front of his body burnt.His flesh, when Kaz touched him, had the soft feel of a boiled tomato.Kaz was anxiously waiting for the return of another member of her family when a tall figure appeared where the gate had been.”He's back!“ she shouted;her brother, at six feet, towered over most Japanese men, and she knew at a glimpse that it was he.But when she drew closer, she could barely recognize him through his wounds.His school had fallen down around him.He had struggled to a first-aid station.They had splashed some medicine on the wounds, tied them with a bandage and sent him on his way.For a moment, he stood swaying at the ruins of the gate.Kaz stared at him.Later, when night fell, Kaz and her brother made for the mountains;a friend from Kaz's factory lived in a village on a hill behind the city and had offered to take them in.It was midnight by the time they found her place.Kaz looked back.The city was on fire.She was seized with fear, not for herself, but for her parents.She left her brother behind, and was running down the hillside toward the flames.The streets were filled with the dead and the barely living.She kept on running, knowing only that she had to be home.Kaz's family had been luckier than most.Her father had to lie outdoors on a tatami with his burns, and her brother's wounds refused to close.But they had at least survived, and they began, painfully, to rebuild their lives.They had two wells for water and an uncle who lived on an island off the coast brought them a great sack of food every week.Kaz's father found a carpenter willing to raise anew house out of the wreckage of the old in exchange for what ever wood was left over.The house more nearly resembled a hovel.Kaz could see the first snowflakes of winter through cracks between the boards on the roof.By the standards of Hiroshima after the bomb, it was a mansion.In time the visible wounds healed.The bums on Kaz's father's chest left sears which looked like maps of Japan and America, side by side the way they ought to be, and when the subject of the bomb came up, he resisted blaming anyone.”The war,“ he would say, ”is finished.“ But as the others were recovering, Kaz had fallen ill with all the symptoms of radiation sickne.The disease was one of the frightening aftershocks of the bomb;the scientists in Los Alamos were surprised by its extent — they thought the blast would do most of the killing.Kaz felt as if she was dying.She ran a fever.She felt sick and dizzy, almost drunk.Her gums and her bowels were bleeding.She looked like a ghost.”I'm next,“ she thought matter-of-factly;she was an 18-year-old girl waiting her turn to die.On the first day of 1946, Kaz's mother was determined that Kaz would spend at least a bit of it on her feet.It was an old superstition among the Japanese that a person would spend the entire year as he or she spent New Year's Day.A neighbor helped.They got her outside, and propped her upright for a few minutes.The medicine worked better than anything in the doctor's bag, since the only known treatment for radiation sickne was rest.As winter gave way to spring and spring to summer, Kaz began to mend.The illne had not really left her;it had gone into hiding, instead, and the physical and mental after effects of August 6,1945 would trouble Kaz all the rest of her life.(1,435 words)Leon Five

First Principles Frances Gray Patton

本课情节简单。韦德一家如何在丈夫失业，亲戚告急求助这样困难的情况下，愉快地度过了圣诞节。故事也给了我们一些启发，当一个家庭突然遇到一些不幸的事件时，家庭的成员应该如何面对这些。学习这课文时，还要注意作者的叙事方法。作者打破传统小说情节发展的时间顺序，用意识流的方式来组织故事。

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1.No family had ever had a nicer Christmas, Emily Wade thought happily as she drove the children to school for the first time after the holidays, and, of course, it had been largely Laura's doing.She glanced at Laura, a slim, dark-haired girl of fourteen, sitting beside her, and felt warm with that most comfortable of parental emotions, gratitude to one's own child.The air was soft with the vapors of melting snow, and almost fragrant, as if some delicate flowers were blooming near at hand.”It's like spring, isn't it?“ she said to Laura.”And tomorrow we'll probably have a raging sleet storm.“

2.”King Claudius weather,“ said Laura, looking prettily shy as she made the literary allusion.”It can smile and smile and still be a villain.“

3.”Exactly,“ Emily agreed.She wasn't sure for a moment who King Claudius was, and then she saw a copy of ”Hamlet“ among Laura's books.She thought her heart would burst with pride(imagine a child saying that!), and thought how wise she and Henry had been when they'd decided to make every poible sacrifice for the sake of Laura's education.4.Laura, who was in first-year high, had gone to the same public school that her brothers now attended, but this year she was a pupil at Green Valley Academy, a small country day school on the outskirts of the city.It was a very good school and a very expensive one, and most of the Wades' friends thought they were being rather fancy in sending Laura there.They knew Laura was smart, of course, but some of the other Baltimore private schools for girls were excellent and had lower tuition, and even the public high schools were all right.Lots of nice kids, whose fathers had twice as big an income as Henry Wade, went to them.Besides, you weren't doing a girl a favor when you encouraged her to develop tastes she couldn't afford to gratify.You either spoiled her or made her bitter.These arguments were cogent, Emily Wade admitted, but they simply didn't apply to Laura's case.Nothing was too good for that child.Moreover, it was Emily's theory that children learned love as well as discipline by family example;if you did all you could for them, keeping their best interests in mind, they wouldn't let you down in a crisis.And events had certainly proved her theory.5.How true that had been, thought Emily, driving slowly because she had a quarter hour to spare and she might as well give Laura time to study.Her mind went back to that black moment, a month before, when she'd met Henry for lunch in a restaurant and he'd told her that he was out of a job.The branch sales office he'd been managing had been absorbed by a larger firm, and its whole staff was out in the cold without so much as a month's salary to tide them over.He was pretty sure he could get another and a better position;there was a firm that had been making overtures to him, and only a sense of loyalty to his old firm had made him ignore them up to this point.But the man he'd have to see was out of town and wouldn't be back until the first of the year.Then, too, he'd just had a letter from his brother in Ohio;it seemed that the whole family out there was shot to hell.His brother, who was a schoolteacher, was broke, his stomach ulcers were troubling him, one of his children had to have a serious operation, and his wife was about to have twins.He needed five hundred dollars.6.”I should think he would!“ Emily had said.”We'll have to send it to him.“

7.”I gue if we let him have it, we can still eat,“ Henry had said, brooding gloomily.”But it knocks Christmas into a cocked hat.I hate to borrow on my insurance.“

8.”Oh, no!“ Emily had exclaimed.”We'll manage.We can cut our list to the bone and concentrate on the kids.You know how they are — all they want is the illusion of abundance and cheerful confusion.“

9.”That goes for the young ones,“ Henry had said, ”but what does Laura want?“

10.”The only thing she's mentioned is a ballerina dre.It's priced at $ 125.She's been invited to some parties by her friends at school.“

11.”Well...Couldn't you charge that?“ Henry had asked.12.”No,“ she'd said.”I'm charged to the hilt already, and I don't want to risk being refused.As a matter of fact, I'd planned to pay my bill today.“ She had sat silent for a moment, looking at Henry's discouraged face.”The only thing to do, dear,“ she'd said at last,”is to return to first principles.“

13.”What do you mean by that?“

14.”Christmas has been commercialized out of its real meaning.The gifts people give have become a sort of advertising display.What we ought to do is give to people we love — give memorable things according to our ability.If you could give your child a horse, say, that would be fine.But if you can't, give her a little locket or a book of verse.“

15.Henry had looked hopeful but skeptical.34

16.”I'll tell you what we'll do,“ she had continued.”We'll go to the farm for the holidays.We'll have a good time there.We won't have to do any entertaining — the liquor bills alone are always staggering at Christmas.We'll have our turkey and our tree and take long walks and sing carols and forget the world.“

17.”Did you ever have a Christmas like that?“ Henry had asked.18.”Lord, no!“ she'd answered.19.”Well, you're the captain.But try to break it gently to Laura.“

20.”Laura'll be all right,“ Emily had said with a smile.21.”Poor Daddy!“ the girl had cried when Emily explained the situation to her.And then, being reaured as to his future prospects, she had clasped her hands.”But how marvelous to go to the farm, Mother!It'll be just like a picture on a Christmas card.I adore it there, and I don't care a thing about presents or parties!“ She had raised herself on the tips of her toes, as if she were about to dance.22.Several days before Christmas, they'd gone down to their little farm.It was just a half-dozen acres that Henry had bought and had hung on to.It made him feel good to own a piece of land.They'd all had a wonderful time, really.They had cut a tree in their own woods.They had eaten and slept, and read by the light of oil lamps.The children had been more than satisfied with their presents;there had been balls, erector sets, a number of story books, and a lot of junk from the five-and-ten for the boys, and for Laura, a picture Emily had found cheap in a second-hand art shop and a small brooch that had belonged to Henry's mother.It was Laura's obvious pleasure that had brightened everything.Whether she was chopping wood, or romping with her brothers, or basting the turkey, or talking politics very sensibly with her father, she'd seemed to radiate happine.On New Year's Eve, they had given her a weak highball, the first she'd ever had, and she had gone to sleep sitting on the floor with her rosy cheek against Henry's knee.”By God, I believe she's the best girl in the world,“ he had said softly.23.”She probably is,“ Emily had said.24.”If I don't hand her the earth some day, on a silver platter,“Henry had declared, ”may I be damned from here to eternity!“

25.Emily slowed the car to a full stop near the gates of the Academy.”Here we are,“ she said.”I'm going to mi you today.“

26.”I'll mi you, too,“ she said.”It's been a beautiful holiday.I love the picture and the pin!“

27.”Of course you do, Laura,“ said Emily.”Now run!“

28.She watched Laura hurry up the path.She drove about aimlely for a while.Then she went to a market and bought some groceries and a big bunch of flowers.The cool blooms perfumed the car all the way home.They made her think of the ballerina dre, and of all the pure, proud, filmy beauty of the world that belonged, by right, to Laura.Leon Six

The Beauty of Britain J.B.Priestley

学习英语的人一定希望有朝一日能到英语的发源地英伦三岛走走。实现这个愿望之前，你不妨先从语言大师的文字图画里领略一下那里的风光。与文化渊源相同的美国相比，英国幅员远非辽阔。但它的景物也是气象万千，山川、平原、河流、湖泊样样俱全，令人流连忘返；此外你还可以欣赏众多文学名著所描绘的田园景色；更可贵的是，你会发现在工业高度发达的英国，自然与人工之间达到了巧妙的平衡。与此同时，你也会对作者文字的优美赞叹不已。

1.The beauty of our country — or at least all of its south of North Scotland — is as hard to define as it is easy to enjoy.Remembering other and larger countries, we see at once that one of its charms is that it is immensely varied within a small range.We have here no vast mountain ranges, no boundle plains, no miles of forest, and are deprived of the grandeur that may accompany these things.But we have superb variety.A great deal of everything is packed into little space.I suspect that we are always faintly conscious of the fact that this is a smallish island, with the sea always round the comer.We know that everything has to be neatly packed into a small space.Nature, we feel, has carefully adjusted things — mountains, plains, rivers, lakes — to the scale of the island itself.A mountain 12,000 feet high would be a horrible monster

here, as wrong as a plain 400 miles long, a river as broad as the Miiippi.In America the whole scale is too big, except for aviators.There is always too much of everything.There you find yourself in a region that is all mountains, then in another region that is merely part of one immense plain.You can spend a long, hard day in the Rockies simply travelling up or down one valley.You can wander acro prairie country that has the desolating immensity of the ocean.Everything is too big;there is too much of it.2.Though the geographical features of this island are comparatively small, and there is astonishing variety almost everywhere, that does not mean that our mountains are not mountains, our plains not plains.Consider that piece of luck of ours, the Lake District.You can climb with ease — as I have done many a time — several of its mountains in one day.Neverthele, you feel that they are mountains and not mere hills — as a correspondent pointed out in The Times recently.This same correspondent told a story that proves my point.A party of climbers imported a Swi guide into the Lake District, and on the first morning, surveying the misty peaks before him, he pointed to a ledge about two thirds of the way up one of them and suggested that the party should spend the night there.He did not know that that ledge was only an hour or two's climb away and that before the light went they would probably have conquered two or three of these peaks.He had not realised the scale of the country.He did not know that he was looking at mountains in miniature.What he did know was that he was certainly looking at mountains, and he was right, for these peaks, some of them le than 3,000 feet high, have all the air of great mountains.3.With variety goes surprise.Ours is the country of happy surprises.You have never to travel long without being pleasantly astonished.It would not be difficult to compile a list of such surprises that would fill the next fifty pages, but I will content myself with suggesting the first few that occur to me.If you go down into the West Country, among rounded hills and soft pastures, you suddenly arrive at the bleak tablelands as if the North had left a piece of itself down there.But before you have reached them you have already been surprised by the queer bit of marshland, as if a former inhabitant had been sent to Cambridge and had brought his favourite marshland walk back from college with him into the West.4.The Weald is another of them.East Anglia has a kind of rough heath country of its own that I for one never expect to find there and am always delighted to see.Then, after the easy rolling Midlands, the dramatic Peak District, with its genuine steep slopes, never fails to astonish me, for I feel that it has no busine to be there.A car will take you all round the Peak District in a morning.It is nothing but a crumpled green pocket handkerchief.Again, there has always been something surprising to me about those cone-shaped hills that suddenly pop up in Shropshire and along the Welsh border I have never explored this region properly, and so it remains to me a country of mystery, with a delightful fairy-tale quality about its cone-shaped hills.Neverthele, we hear of search parties going out there to find lost travellers.I could go on with this list of surprises, but perhaps you had better make your own.5.Another characteristic of our landscape is its exquisite moderation.It looks like the result of one of those happy compromises that make our social and political plans so irrational and yet so succeful.It has been born of a compromise between wildne and tamene, between Nature and Man.In many countries you pa straight from regions where men have left their mark in every inch of ground to other regions that are desolate wilderne.Abroad, we have all noticed how abruptly most of the cities seem to begin;here, no city;there, the city.With us the cities pretend they are not really there until we are well inside them.They almost insinuate themselves into the countryside.This comes from another compromise of ours, the suburb.There is a great deal to be said for the suburb.To people of moderate means, compelled to live fairly near their work in a city, the suburb offers the most civilised way of life.Nearly all Englishmen are at heart country gentlemen.The suburban villa enables the salesman or the clerk, out of hours, to be a country gentleman.(Let us admit that it offers his wife and children more solid advantages.)A man in a newish suburb feels that he has one foot in the city and one in the country.As this is the kind of compromise he likes, he is happy.6.We must return, however, to the landscape, which I suggest is the result of a compromise between wilderne and cultivation, Nature and Man.One reason for this is that it contains that exquisite balance between Nature and Man.We see a cornfield and a cottage, both solid evidences of man's presence.But notice how these things, in the middle of the scene, are surrounded by witnees to that ancient England that was nearly all forest and heath.The fence and the gate are man-made, but are not severely regular and trim — as they would be in some other countries.The trees and hedges, the gra and wild flowers in the foreground, all suggest that Nature has not been forced into obedience.Even the cottage, which has an

irregularity and colouring that make it fit snugly into the landscape(as all good cottages should do), looks nearly as much a piece of natural history as the trees: you feel it might have grown there.In some countries, that cottage would have been an uncompromising cube of brick, which would have declared, ”No nonsense now.Man, the drainer, the tiller, the builder, has settled here.“ In this English scene there is no such direct opposition.Men and trees and flowers, we feel, have all settled down comfortably together.The motto is, ”Live and let live.“ This exquisite harmony between Nature and Man explains in part the enchantment of the older Britain, in which whole towns fitted snugly into the landscape, as if they were no more than bits of woodland;and roads went winding the easiest way as naturally as rivers;and it was impoible to say where cultivation ended and wild life began.It was a country rich in.trees, birds, and wild flowers, as we can see to this day.Leon Seven

Some Meanings of Authentic Love Gerald Correy & Marianne Schneider Correy

爱是文艺作品永恒的主题，是人们永远关心的话题。爱是何物 ? 它为什么受到古今中外文人雅士的歌颂，男女老少锲而不舍的追求，哲学家潜心的探索 ? 为什么人人都渴望真爱，却又都抱怨说真爱难觅 ? 追求爱的人们未必懂得真爱的含义。爱究竟包含那些内容 ? 这里两位作者提出的见解可能会帮助我们澄清一些模糊的对爱的概念。So far, we've discued mostly what we think love is not.Now we'd like to share some of the positive meanings love has for us.Love means that I know the person I love.I'm aware of the many sides of the other person — not just the beautiful side but also the limitations, inconsistencies and flaws.I have an awarene of the other's feelings and thoughts, and I experience something of the core of that person.I can penetrate social masks and roles and see the other person on a deeper level.Love means that I care about the welfare of the person I love.To the extent that it is genuine, my caring is not a smothering of the person or a poeive clinging.On the contrary, my caring liberates both of us.If I care about you, I'm concerned about your growth, and I hope you will become all that you can become.Consequently, I don't put up roadblocks to what you do that enhances you as a person, even though it may result in my discomfort at times.Love means having respect for the dignity of the person I love.If I love you, I can see you as a separate person, with your own values and thoughts and feelings, and I do not insist that you surrender your identity and conform to an image of what I expect you to be for me.I can allow and encourage you to stand alone and to be who you are, and I avoid treating you as an object or using you primarily to gratify my own needs.Love means having a responsibility toward the person I love.If I love you, I'm responsive to most of your major needs as a person.This responsibility does not entail my doing for you what you are capable of doing for yourself;nor does it mean that I run your life for you.It does imply acknowledging that what I am and what I do affects you, so that I am directly involved in your happine and your misery.A lover does have the capacity to hurt or neglect the loved one, and in this sense I see that love entails an acceptance of some responsibility for the impact my way of being has on you.Love means growth for both myself and the person I love.If I love you, I am growing as a result of my love.You are a stimulant for me to become more fully what I might become, and my loving enhances your being as well.We each grow as a result of caring and being cared for;we each share in an enriching experience that does not detract from our being.Love means making a commitment to the person I love.This commitment does not entail surrendering our total selves to each other;nor does it imply that the relationship is necearily permanent.It does entail a willingne to stay with each other in times of pain, uncertainty, struggle, and despair, as well as in times of calm and enjoyment.Love means trusting the person I love.If I love you, I trust that you will accept my caring and my love and that you won't deliberately hurt me.I trust that you will find me lovable and that you won't abandon me;I trust the reciprocal nature of our love.If we trust each other, we are willing to be open to each other and can shed masks and pretenses and reveal our true selves.Love can tolerate imperfection.In a love relationship there are times of boredom, there are times when I may feel like giving up, times of real strain, and times I experience an impae.Authentic love does not imply enduring happine.I

can stay during rough times, however, because I can remember what we had together in the past, and I can picture what we will have together in our future if we care enough to face our problems and work them through.We agree with Reverend Maier when he writes that love is a spirit that changes life.Love is a way of life that is creative and that transforms.However, Maier does not view love as being reserved for a perfect world.” Love is meant for our imperfect world where things go wrong.Love is meant to be a spirit that works in painful situations.Love is meant to bring meaning into life where nonsense appears to reign.“ In other words, love comes into an imperfect world to make it livable.Love is freeing.Love is freely given, not doled out on demand.At the same time, my love for you is not dependent on whether you fulfill my expectations of you.Authentic love does not imply ” I'll love you when you become perfect or when you become what I expect you to become.“ Authentic love is not given with strings attached.There is an unconditional quality about love.Love is expansive.If I love you, I encourage you to reach out and develop other relationships.Although our love for each other and our commitment to each other might bar certain actions on our parts, we are not totally and exclusively wedded to each other.It is a pseudolove that cements one person to another in such a way that he or she is not given room to grow.Casey and Vanceburg put this notion well:The honest evidence of our love is our commitment to encouraging another's full development.We are interdependent personalities who need one another's presence in order to fulfill our destiny.And yet, we are also separate individuals.We must come to terms with our struggles alone.Love means having a want for the person I love without having a need for that person in order to be complete.If I am nothing without you, then I'm not really free to love you.I love you and you leave, I'll experience a lo and be sad and lonely, but I'll still be able to survive.If I am overly dependent on you for my meaning and my survival, then I am not free to challenge our relationship;nor am I free to challenge and confront you.Because of my fear of losing you, I'll settle for le than I want, and this settling will surely lead to feelings of resentment.Love means identifying with the person I love.If I love you, I can empathize with you and see the world through your eyes.I can identify with you because I'm able to see myself in you and you in me.This closene does not imply a continual ” togetherne, “ for distance and separation are sometimes eential in a loving relationship.Distance can intensify a loving bond, and it can help us rediscover ourselves, so that we are able to meet each other in a new way.Love is selfish.I can only love you if I genuinely love, value, appreciate, and respect myself.If I am empty, then all I can give you is my emptine.If I feel that I'm complete and worthwhile in myself, then I'm able to give to you out of my fullne.One of the best ways for me to give you love is by fully enjoying myself with you.Love involves seeing the potential within the person we love.In my love for another, I view her or him as the person she or he can become, while still accepting who and what the person is now.Goethe's observation is relevant here: by taking people as they are, we make them worse, but by treating them as if they already were what they ought to be, we help make them better.We conclude this discuion of the meanings that authentic love has for us by sharing a thought from Fromm's The Art of Loving(1956).His description of mature love sums up the eential characteristics of authentic love quite well:Mature love is union under the condition of preserving one's integrity, one's individuality.In love this paradox occurs that two beings become one and yet remain two.Leon Eight How l Designed an A-Bomb in My Junior Year at Princeton John A.Phillips and David Michaelis

一般人认为要设计出一颗可使用的原子弹，设计者需要有天才，需要有专门知识，还必须获得绝密资料。事实并非如此。普林斯顿大学有这样一位学生，第一学期成绩极差，校方对他提出警告，如果他再有一门功课不及格，就要勒令他退学。第二学期开始，他决心取得优秀成绩。他没有窃取国家绝密资料，凭着原子弹的原理和已经解密的材料，经过几个月的奋战，终于设计出了他的原子弹。此项设计一举两得：为他赢得了一个最高分，并证实了制造一颗原子弹并不一定要窃取国家机密。The first semester of my junior year at Princeton University is a disaster, and my grades show it.D's and F's

predominate, and a note from the dean puts me on academic probation.Flunk one more course, and I'm out.Fortunately, as the new semester gets under way, my courses begin to interest me.Three hours a week, I attend one called Nuclear Weapons Strategy and Arms Control.One morning, Freeman Dyson, an eminent physicist aisting Hal Feiveson in the course, opens a discuion on the atomic bomb: ”Let me describe what occurs when a 20-kiloton bomb is exploded, similar to the two dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.First, the sky becomes illuminated by a brilliant white light.Temperatures are so high around the point of explosion that the atmosphere is actually made incandescent.To an observer standing six miles away the ball of fire appears brighter than a hundred suns.“As the fireball begins to spread up and out into a mush room shaped cloud, temperatures spontaneously ignite all flammable materials for miles around.Wood-frame houses catch fire.Clothing bursts into flame, and people suffer intense third-degree lash burns over their exposed flesh.The very high temperatures also produce a shock wave and a variety of nuclear radiation capable of penetrating 20 inches of concrete...” Silence falls over the room as the titanic proportions of the destruction begin to sink in.“It takes only 15 pounds of plutonium to fabricate a crude atomic bomb, ” adds Hal Feiveson.“If breeder reactors come into widespread use, there will be sufficient plutonium shipped around the country each year to fashion thousands of bombs.Much of it could be vulnerable to theft or hijacking.” The cla discues the poibility of terrorists' using a homemade atomic bomb to push their extravagant political demands.“That's impoible, ” a student objects.“Terrorists don't have the know-how to build a bomb.Besides, they don't have acce to the knowledge.”Impoible? Or is it? The question begins to haunt me.I turn to reference books and find, according to a famous nuclear physicist, that a terrorist group could easily steal plutonium or uranium from a nuclear reactor and then design a workable atomic bomb with information available to the general public, and that all the ingredients — except plutonium — are legally available at hardware stores and chemical-supply houses.Suddenly, an idea comes to mind.Suppose an average — or below-average in my case — physics student could design a workable atomic bomb on paper? If I could design a bomb, almost any intelligent person could.But I would have to do it in le than three months to turn it in as my junior independent project.I decide to ask Freeman Dyson to be ry adviser.“You understand, ” said Dyson, “my government security clearance will prevent me from giving you any more information than that which can be found in physics libraries.And that the law of 'no comment' governing scientists who have clearance to atomic research requires that, if asked a question about the design of a bomb, I can answer neither yes nor no? ” “Yes, sir, ” I reply.“I understand.”“Okay, then.I'll give you a list of textbooks outlining the general principles — and I wish you luck.”A few days later, Dyson hands me a short list of books on nuclear-reactor technology, general nuclear physics and current atomic theory.“That's all? ” I ask incredulously, having expected a bit more direction.At subsequent meetings Dyson explains only the basic principles of nuclear physics.If I ask about a particular design or figure, he will glance over what I've done and change the subject.At first, I think this is his way of telling me I am correct.To make sure, I hand him an incorrect figure.He reads it and changes the subject.Over spring vacation, I go to Washington, D.C., to search for records of the Los Alamos Project that were declaified between 1954 and 1964.I discover a copy of the literature given to scientists who joined the project in the spring of 1943.This text carefully outlines all the details of atomic fiioning known to the world's most advanced scientists in the early '40s.A whole batch of copies costs me about $ 25.I gather them together and go over to the bureaucrat at the front desk.She looks at the titles and then looks up at me.“Oh, you want to build a bomb, too? ” she asks matter-of factly.I can't believe it.Do people go in there for bomb-building information every day? When I show the documents to Dyson, he is visibly shaken.His reaction indicates to me that I actually stand a chance of coming up with a workable design.The material neceary to explode my bomb is plutonium-239.Visualize an atomic bomb as a marble inside a

grapefruit inside a basketball inside a beach ball.At the center of the bomb is the initiator, a marble-size piece of metal.Around the initiator is a grapefruit-size ball of plutonium-239.Wrapped around the plutonium is a three-inch reflector shield made of beryllium.High explosives are placed symmetrically around the beryllium shield.When these detonate, an imploding shock wave is set off, compreing the grapefruit-size ball of plutonium to the size of a plum.At this moment, the proce of atoms fiioning — or splitting apart begins.There are many subtleties involved in the explosion of an atomic bomb.Most of them center on the actual detonation of the explosives surrounding the beryllium shield.The grouping of these explosives is one of the most highly claified aspects of the atomic bomb, and it poses the biggest problems for me as I begin to design my bomb.As the next three weeks go by, I stop going to claes altogether and work day and night.I develop a terrible case of bloodshot eyes.Sleep comes rarely.I approach every problem from a terrorist's point of view.The bomb must be inexpensive to construct, simple in design, and small enough to sit unnoticed in the trunk of a car.As the days and nights flow by, I scan government documents for gaps indicating an area of knowledge that is still claified.Eentially, I am putting together a huge jigsaw puzzle.The edge pieces are in place and various areas are getting filled in, but pieces are miing.Whenever the outline of one shows up, I sit down to devise the solution that will fill the gap.With only two weeks left, the puzzle is nearly complete, but two pieces are still miing: which explosives to use, and how to arrange them around the plutonium.Seven days before the design is due, I'm still deadlocked.I realize something drastic must be done, and I start all over at the beginning.Occasionally I find errors in my old calculations, and I correct them.I lose sense of time.With le than 24 hours to go, I run through a series of new calculations, mathematically figuring the arrangement of the explosives around the plutonium.If my equations are correct, my bomb might be just as effective as the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombs.But I can't be sure until I know the exact nature of the explosives I will use.Next morning, with my paper due at 5 p.m., I call the Du Pont Company from a pay phone and ask for the head of the chemical explosives division, a man I'll call Mr.Graves.“Hello, Mr.Graves.My name is John Phillips, a student doing work on a physics project.I'd like to get some advice, if that's poible.”“What can I do for you? ”“Well, ” I stammer, “I'm doing research on the shaping of explosive products that create a very high density in a spherically shaped metal.Can you suggest a Du Pont product that would fit in this category? ” “Of course, ” he says, in a helpful manner.“We sell [the names of the product] to do the job in similar density-problem situations to the one you're talking about.”

Mr.Graves has given me just the information I need.Now, if my calculations are correct with respect to the new information, all I have to do is complete my paper by five.32 Five minutes to five, I race over to the physics building and bound up the stairs.Inside the office, everybody stops talking and stares at me.I haven't shaved in over a week.33 “I came to hand in my project, ” I explain.34 A week later, I return to the office to pick up my project.My paper is not there.35 “Aren't you the boy who designed the atomic bomb? ” the secretary looks up, then freezes.36 “Yes, ” I reply.37 She takes a deep breath.“The question has been raised by the department whether your paper should be claified by the U.S.government.”

“What!Claified? ”

She takes my limp hand, shaking it vigorously.“Congratulations, ” she says, all smiles.“You've got one of the only A's in the department.”

40.For a second I don't say anything.Here I have put on paper the plan for a device capable of killing thousands of people, and all I was worrying about was flunking out.40

Leon Nine

Forty Years On Norah Lofts

人有时像马一样，须要从后面戳一下才肯动起来，才能不断前进。戳的方式可以多种多样，课文所描述的是其中之一。两个未曾谋面、年龄相仿的远亲，从孩提时期到成年一直想像对方从长相到智力都远远胜过自己。双方家长也不断用对方的成绩激励自己的儿子上进。当两人已过花甲之年，都已小有名气终于见面时，才恍然大悟：原来双方家长玩的是同样的把戏，他们不禁开怀大笑。之后，他们举杯怀念这把戏的导演、他们已故的嘉丽阿姨。不论故事是真是假，难道你不认为一个人的精神面貌对事业成功与否十分重要吗? John Bullyer and I met for the first time in 1956 when we were both in our early sixties, but it is true to say that he did more to shape my life than any other person.John Bullyer came into my life through my Aunt Carrie.She was also aunt to John Bullyer, whom she referred to as “ Little-John-my-other-nephew ” all in one word, and she referred to him too often.From Aunt Carrie's point of view it was fortunate, from mine, disastrous, that John Bullyer and I were the same age.Probably hundreds of comparisons were made before I became aware of them.The first that I remember was made soon after I began school where I had lain on the floor and wailed that I wanted to go home.Shortly after that my mother reported that Little-John-Aunt-Carrie's-other nephew had started school on the same day and taken to it like a duck to water.And so it went on.Incredible boy, he knew his nine-times table, while I was still hopelely bogged in the fours;I began to dread Aunt Carrie's formerly most welcome visits.She was certain to produce chocolate or sixpence from her purse;but as soon as she had gone, Mother was sure to say the dread words: “ Aunt Carrie was telling me that John Bullyer...” The comparisons were, without exception, to my disadvantage.The wretched boy never set foot upon a football field without scoring a goal;I became conscious of my inferiority, for I was hopele at games.To me it seemed sinister that Mother always paed on any small achievement of mine.Once, at my prep.school, I had a story in the magazine and Mother was beside herself.“ I must have another copy of that, ” she said, “ so that Aunt Carrie can send it to John Bullyer's mother.” What a boomerang that proved!By return of post came the news that John had won a scholarship.It will seem strange that we boys never met, but in those days Gloucestershire was as far removed, in travelling time, from Suffolk, as New York is today.Aunt Carrie kept saying, “ Really, you boys should know one another, I'm sure you'd be such friends, ” and once or twice she tried to arrange that John should stay with her in the holidays.Mercifully for me something always prevented him from doing so.I did have, however, one horribly narrow escape.An elderly couple, distant relatives of my father's, were celebrating their golden wedding.They lived in London, and they iued such a sentimentally-worded invitation that Father was bound to accept.As soon as he had done so Aunt Carrie came over in a state of excitement.Wasn't the world a small place, the Bullyer family and Father's relatives had once been near neighbours, and all three Bullyers had been invited to the feast.When Aunt Carrie had gone Mother said to me: “ You sit there huddled over a book until your back is bent like a bow.Go out and get some air.You look so much better with a little tan.” I realised that she and I visualised John Bullyer in the same way, tall and straight, big for his age, with a handsome brown face.I stood up, obediently.Walking made no noticeable difference to my back and the sun remained hidden, so Mother tried another tack:“ You'll need a new suit at Easter anyway, you might as well have it now.” On the evening before we were to make our early morning start for London, Mother came into my room and made me try on the new suit.I could see, by the expreion on her face, that it worked no miracle.But Mother did not take defeat easily;looks weren't everything, my manners, at least, should pa muster!So she gave me a few final instructions.I kept saying, “ Yes, Mother ” and “ No,Mother ” , and “ I'll remember, Mother ”.Finally she said:

41“ Well, hurry into bed and get a good night's sleep.” I did not sleep well;I had the worst night I had ever known.My jaws ached.The pain spread up into my head, back into my ears, down into my throat.In addition to my physical woes I had mental agonies;I prayed that something might occur to prevent this meeting.I saw the dawn that morning and heard the first bird chorus.After several centuries had dragged by I heard the alarm go off in my parents' room and thankfully rose from my bed.I washed more thoroughly than usual;then I dreed, and in honour of the occasion, went to the looking gla to arrange my tie.For a moment, I thought that nervousne had affected my eyesight;the face that looked back at me was only just recognisable.My ears were hidden by the bulge of my jaws and I seemed to have no neck.Horrified I reeled into my parents' room.“ Do you think I look funny this morning? ” They both turned.Mother screamed.Father said, “ I wouldn't say funny.You look damned peculiar.”It was mumps.It left me open-minded about prayer.Time went on;so did the comparisons.By word of mouth during the holidays, by phrases in letters during term time, I was kept up to date with John's cleverne and progre.Thus goaded I began at last to look round for something that I could do, something at which I could excel.When I found it I worked savagely, minding nothing else;let this be mine, John Bullyer could have all the rest.I was still a Grub Street hack, counting it a good week in which I made five pounds, when John attained some glittering appointment in India.That ability to master the nine-times table had proved no momentary succe.He had developed into some kind of financial wizard.There was a paragraph in the daily papers about this appointment.Aunt Carrie took the cutting to show to my mother.That was her last report.She was dead before her other nephew reached his destination.Three or four times during the next forty years I saw mention of John Bullyer in the pre.Those paragraphs recorded a steady succe which eventually led to a knighthood when he retired in 1956.On that occasion there was half a newspaper column about him.When asked, in an interview, what he intended to do with his leisure, Sir John replied, “ I hope to take up golf;I have never had time to take it seriously.” I pictured him again, lean and tanned, with a head of well-kept grey hair.I was sorry that there was no photograph;I could have looked at it almost without fear, I thought.I was, by that time, not unsucceful in my own line.Late that year, in November, I was in my club, sipping a gla of sherry before dinner.A cough at my elbow made me look round.I saw a short stout man, glitteringly bald, with a little snub nose that looked too small to support the framework of his heavy glaes.Diffidently, he spoke my name and I admitted my identity.Since I attained a little fame I have on occasion been addreed by strangers and no matter how flatteringly they speak I am always horribly embarraed.“ My name's John B-Bullyer, ” stammered the little man.“ We once sh-shared an aunt.” I leaped up and shook hands, expreing my pleasure at meeting him at last, and then we settled down to drink sherry together.His stammer, like my shyne, soon wore off.“ I used to hear so much about you, ” he said with a grin.“ Then I learned that you were a member here and I could not resist asking someone to point you out to me.Though, if you'd looked the least bit as I always imagined I don't think I'd have d-dared to approach you.You see...I grew up with the idea that you were at least eight feet tall, tremendously handsome and more talented than da Vinci.” His grin broadened — and I knew why!“ Really, ” he said, “ the letters Aunt Carrie used to write about you and the way my mother used to read them out.You were the b-bugbear of my life.” “ They were nothing, ” I said, “ to the letters your mother used to write about you.I was told every time you got a sum right.I always thought of you as nine feet high, better looking than Robert Taylor and more versatile than Churchill.So they played the game both ways, did they? ”

We laughed.32 We looked at one another.Then it probably dawned on us both that the place in which we sat is not the haunt of men who have been failures in life, and that, boys being what they are, an occasional prod in the rear is no such bad thing.Together we lifted our glaes, and though neither of us spoke, I know that we drank to the memory of Aunt Carrie.Leon Ten

On Friendship

Margaret Mead and Rhoda Metranx

自古以来，人们对友情的渴望不亚于对爱情的追求。俗话说“一个好汉三个帮”，人需要朋友!然而对不同的文化，不同的民族，不同的国家来说，“朋友”二字的含义不尽相同。了解这些差异，有助于理解别的民族的价值观，有助于避免和消除跨文化交往中的误会。在与其他国家的人交友时，千万不可按自己民族对朋友的期待值去要求他们。Few Americans stay put for a lifetime.We move from town to city to suburb, from high school to college in a different state, from a job in one region to a better job elsewhere, from the home where we raise our children to the home where we plan to live in retirement.With each move we are forever making new friends, who become part of our new life at that time.For many of us the summer is a special time for forming new friendships.Today millions of Americans vacation abroad, and they go not only to see new sights but also — in those places where they do not feel too strange — with the hope of meeting new people.No one really expects a vacation trip to produce a close friend.But surely the beginning of a friendship is poible? Surely in every country people value friendship? They do.The difficulty when strangers from two countries meet is not a lack of appreciation of friendship, but different expectations about what constitutes friendship and how it comes into being.In those European countries that Americans are most likely to visit, friendship is quite sharply distinguished from other, more casual relations, and is differently related to family life.For a Frenchman, a German or an Englishman friendship is usually more special and carries a heavier burden of commitment.But as we use the word, “friend” can be applied to a wide range of relationships to someone one has known for a few weeks in a new place, to a close busine aociate, to a childhood playmate, to a man or woman, to a trusted confidant.There are real differences among these relations for Americans — a friendship may be superficial, casual, situational or deep and enduring.But to a European, who sees only our surface behavior, the differences are not clear.As they see it, people known and accepted temporarily, casually, flow in and out of Americans' homes with little ceremony and often with little personal commitment.They may be parents of the children's friends, house guests of neighbors, members of a committee, busine aociates from another town or even another country.Coming as a guest into an American home, the European visitor finds no visible landmarks.The atmosphere is relaxed.Most people, old and young, are called by first names.Who then is a friend? Even simple translation from one language to another is difficult.“You see,” a Frenchman explains, “if I were to say to you in France, 'This is my good friend,' that person would not be as close to me as someone about whom I said only, 'This is my friend.'Anyone about whom I have to say more is really le.” In France, as in many European countries, friends generally are of the same sex, and friendship is seen as basically a relationship between men.Frenchwomen laugh at the idea that “women can't be friends,” but they also admit sometimes that for women “it's a different thing.” And many French people doubt the poibility of a friendship between a man and a woman.There is also the kind of relationship within a group — men and women who have worked together for a long time, who may be very close, sharing great loyalty and warmth of feeling.They may call one another — copains — a word that in English becomes “friends” but has more the feeling of “pals” or “buddies”.In French eyes this is not friendship, although two members of such a group may well be friends.For the French, friendship is a one-to-one relationship that demands a keen awarene of the other person's intellect, temperament and particular interests.A friend is someone who draws out your own best qualities, with whom you sparkle and become more of whatever the friendship draws upon.Your political philosophy aumes more depth, appreciation of a play becomes sharper, taste in food or wine is enhanced, enjoyment of a sport is intensified.And French friendships are divided into categories.A man may play che with a friend for thirty years without

knowing his political opinion, or he may talk politics with him for as long a time without knowing about his personal life.Different friends fill different niches in each person's life.These friendships are not made part of family life.A friend is not expected to spend evenings being nice to children or courteous to a deaf grandmother.These duties, also serious and required, are primarily for relatives.Men who are friends may meet in a cafe.Intellectual friends may meet in larger groups for evenings of conversation.Working people may meet at the little bistro where they drink and talk, far from the family.Marriage does not affect such friendships;wives do not have to be taken into account.In the past in France, friendships of this kind seldom were open to any but intellectual women.Since most women's lives centered on their homes, their warmest relations with other women often went back to their girlhood.The special relationship of friendship is based on what the French value most — on the mind, on having the same of outlook, on vivid awarene of some chosen area of life.In Germany, in contrast with France, friendship is much more clearly a matter of feeling.Adolescents, boys and girls, form deeply sentimental attachments, walk and talk together — not so much to polish their wits as to share their hopes and fears and dreams to form a common front against the world of school and family and to join in a kind of mutual discovery of each other's and their own inner life.Within the family, the closest relationship over a lifetime is between brothers and sisters.Outside the family, men and women find in their closest friends of the same sex the devotion of a sister, the loyalty of a brother.Appropriately, in Germany friends usually are brought into the family.Children call their father's and their mother's friends “uncle” and “aunt”.Between French friends, who have chosen each other for the similarity of their point of view, lively disagreement and sharpne of argument are the breath of life.But for Germans, whose friendships are based on common feelings, deep disagreement on any subject that matters to both is regarded as a tragedy.Like ties of kinship, ties of friendship are meant to be absolutely binding.Young Germans who come to the United States have great difficulty in establishing such friendships with Americans.We view friendship more tentatively, subject to changes in intensity as people move, change their jobs, marry, or discover new interests.English friendships follow still a different pattern.Their basis is shared activity.Activities at different stages of life may be of very different kinds — discovering a common interest in school, serving together in the armed forces, taking part in a foreign miion, staying in the same country house during a crisis.In the midst of the activity, whatever it may be, people fall into step — sometimes two men or two women, sometimes two couples, sometimes three people — and find that they walk or play a game or tell stories or serve on a committee with the same easy anticipation of what each will do day by day or in some critical situation.Americans who have made English friends comment that, even years later, “you can take up just where you left off.” Meeting after a long interval, friends are like a couple who begin to dance again when the orchestra strikes up after a pause.English friendships are formed outside the family circle, but they are not, as in Germany, committed to the family nor are they, as in France, separated from the family.And a break in an English friendship comes not necearily as a result of some difference of viewpoint or feeling but instead as a result of misjudgment, where one friend seriously misjudges how the other will think or feel or act, so that suddenly they are out of step.What, then, is friendship? Looking at these different styles, including our own, each of which is related to a whole way of life, are there common elements? There is the recognition that friendships are formed, in contrast with kinship, through freedom of choice.A friend is someone who chooses and is chosen.Related to this is the sense each friend gives the other of being a special individual, on whatever grounds this recognition is based.And between friends there is inevitably a kind of equality of give and take.These similarities make the bridge between societies poible, and the American's characteristic openne to different styles of relationship makes it poible for him to find new friends abroad with whom he feels at home.Leon Eleven

Selling the Post(I)Ruell Baker

三十年代初，时值美国经济大萧条时期，一个小男孩的父亲去世，母亲带着他和妹妹在舅舅家生活。小男孩成了一名获奖作家之后，以轻松、幽默的文笔和略带自嘲的口吻描述了他8岁到12岁之间，在母亲的安排下，推销杂志的尝试。他记述了他母亲如何激发他奋发图强，甚至带有强迫性地将喜爱躲在屋里看书的他推向了外面充满竞争的世界。本文生动地刻画了母子俩和兄妹俩截然不同的性格。

44I began working in journalism when I was eight years old.It was my mother's idea.She wanted me to make something of myself and, after a leve-lheaded appraisal of my strengths, decided I had better start young if I was to have any chance of keeping up with the competition.The flaw in my character which she had already spotted was lack of gumption.My idea of a perfect afternoon was lying in front of the radio rereading my favorite Big Little Book, Dick Tracy Meets Stooge Viller.My mother despised inactivity.Seeing me having a good time in repose, she was powerle to hide her disgust.“You've got no more gumption than a bump on a log, ” she said.“Get out in the kitchen and help Doris do those dirty dishes.” My sister Doris, though two years younger than I, had enough gumption for a dozen people.She positively enjoyed washing dishes, making beds, and cleaning the house.When she was only seven she could carry a piece of shortweighted cheese back to the A & P, threaten the manager with legal action, and come back triumphantly with the full quarter-pound we'd paid for and a few ounces extra thrown in for forgivene.Doris could have made something of herself if she hadn't been a girl.Because of this defect, however, the best she could hope for was a career as a nurse or schoolteacher, the only work that capable females were considered up to in those days.This must have saddened my mother, this twist of fate that had allocated all the gumption to the daughter and left her with a son who was content with Dick Tracy and Stooge Viller.If disappointed, though, she wasted no energy on self-pity.She would make me make something of myself whether I wanted to or not.“The Lord helps those who help themselves, ” she said.That was the way her mind worked.She was realistic about the difficulty.Having sized up the material the Lord had given her to mold, she didn't overestimate what she could do with it.She didn't insist that I grow up to be President of the United States.Fifty years ago parents still asked boys if they wanted to grow up to be president, and asked it not jokingly but seriously.Many parents who were hardly more than paupers still believed their sons could do it.Abraham Lincoln had done it.We were only sixty-five years from Lincoln.Many a grandfather who walked among us could remember Lincoln's time.Men of grandfatherly age were the worst for asking if you wanted to grow up to be president.A surprising number of little boys said yes and meant it.I was asked many times myself.No, I would say, I didn't want to grow up to be president.My mother was present during one of these interrogations.An elderly uncle, having posed the usual question and exposed my lack of interest in the presidency, asked, “Well, what do you want to be when you grow up? ” I loved to pick through trash piles and collect empty bottles, tin cans with pretty labels, and discarded magazines.The most desirable job on earth sprang instantly to mind.“I want to be a garbage man, ” I said.My uncle smiled, but my mother had seen the first distreing evidence of a bump budding on a log.“Have a little gumption, Ruell, ” she said.Her calling me Ruell was a signal of unhappine.When she approved of me I was always “Buddy.” When I turned eight years old she decided that the job of starting me on the road toward making something of myself could no longer be safely delayed.“Buddy, ” she said one day, “I want you to come home right after school this afternoon.Somebody's coming and I want you to meet him.”When I burst in that afternoon she was in conference in the parlor with an executive of the Curtis Publishing Company.She introduced me.He bent low from the waist and shook my hand.Was it true as my mother had told him, he asked, that I longed for the opportunity to conquer the world of busine? My mother replied that I was bleed with a rare determination to make something of myself.“That's right, ” I whispered.“But have you got the grit, the character, the never-say-quit spirit it takes to succeed in busine? ”My mother said I certainly did.“That's right, ” I said.He eyed me silently for a long pause, as though weighing whether I could be trusted to keep his confidence, then spoke man to-man.Before taking a crucial step, he said, he wanted to tell me that working for the Curtis Publishing

Company placed enormous responsibility on a young man.It was one of the great companies of America.Perhaps the greatest publishing house in the world.I had heard, no doubt, of the Saturday Evening Post ? Heard of it? My mother said that everyone in our house had heard of the Saturday Evening Post and that I, in fact, read it with religious devotion.Then doubtle, he said, we were also familiar with those two monthly pillars of the magazine world, the Ladies Home Journal and the Country Gentleman.Indeed we were familiar with them, said my mother.Representing the Saturday Evening Post was one of the weightiest honors that could be bestowed in the world of busine, he said.He was personally proud of being a part of that great corporation.My mother said he had every right to be.Again he studied me as though debating whether I was worthy of a knighthood.Finally: “Are you trustworthy? ”My mother said I was the soul of honesty.“That's right, ” I said.The caller smiled for the first time.He told me I was a lucky young man.He admired my spunk.Too many young men thought life was all play.Those young men would not go far in this world.Only a young man willing to work and save and keep his face washed and his hair neatly combed could hope to come out on top in a world such as ours.Did I truly and sincerely believe that I was such a young man?“He certainly does, ” said my mother.“That's right, ” I said.He said he had been so impreed by what he has seen of me that he was going to make me a representative of the Curtis Publishing Company.On the following Tuesday, he said, thirty freshly printed copies of the Saturday Evening Post would be delivered at our door.I would place these magazines, still damp with the ink of prees, in a handsome canvas bag, sling it over my shoulder, and set forth through the streets to bring the best in journalism, fiction, and cartoons to the American public.He had brought the canvas bag with him.He presented it with reverence fit for a religious object.He showed me how to drape the sling over my left shoulder and acro the chest so that the pouch lay easily acceible to my right hand, allowing the best in journalism, fiction, and cartoons to be swiftly extracted and sold to a citizenry whose happine and security depended upon us soldiers of the free pre.31 The following Tuesday I raced home from school, put the bag over my shoulder, dumped the magazines in, and, tilting to the left to balance their weight on my right hip, embarked on the highway of journalism.Leon Twelve

Selling the Post(II)Ruell Baker

小男孩第一天的推销失败了，母亲面授技巧也无济于事。妹妹却颇具乃母风范，推销极为成功。三年过去了，母亲终于认识到此子无缘跻身于商界，开始为他寻找其他成功之路。一天她终于发现了他的写作天赋。We lived in Belleville, New Jersey, a commuter town at the northern fringe of Newark.It was 1932, the bleakest year of the Depreion.My father had died two years before, leaving us with a few pieces of Sears, Roebuck furniture and not much else, and my mother had taken my sister, Doris, and me to live with one of her younger brothers.This was my Uncle Allen.Uncle Allen had made something of himself by 1932.As salesman for a soft-drink bottler, he had an income of $ 30 a week;wore pearl-gray spats, detachable collars, and a three-piece suit;was happily married;and took in threadbare relatives.With my load of magazines I headed toward Belleville Avenue.That's where the people were.There were two filling stations at the intersection with Union Avenue, as well as an A & P, a street fruit stall, a bakery, a barber shop, a drugstore, and a diner shaped like a railroad car.For several hours I made myself highly visible, shifting position now and then from

corner to corner, from shop window to shop window, to make sure everyone could see the heavy black lettering on the bag that said the Saturday Evening Post.When the angle of the light indicated it was suppertime, I walked back to the house.“How many did you sell, Buddy?” my mother asked.“None.”“Where did you go?”“The corner of Belleville and Union Avenues.”“What did you do?”“Stood on the corner waiting for somebody to buy a Saturday Evening Post.”“You just stood there?”“Didn't sell a single one.” “For God's sake, Ruell!” Uncle Allen intervened.“I've been thinking about it for some time,” he said, “and I've about decided to take the Post regularly.Put me down as a regular customer.” I handed him a magazine and he paid me a nickel.It was the first nickel I earned.Afterwards my mother instructed me in salesmanship.I would have to ring doorbells, addre adults with charming self-confidence, and break down resistance with a sales talk pointing out that no one, no matter how poor, could afford to be without the Saturday Evening Post in the home.I told my mother I'd changed my mind about wanting to succeed in the magazine busine.“If you think I'm going to raise a good-for-nothing,” she replied, “you've got another think coming.” She told me to hit the streets with the canvas bag and start ringing doorbells the instant school was out the next day.When I objected that I didn't feel any aptitude for salesmanship, she asked how I'd like to lend her my leather belt so she could whack some sense into me.I bowed to superior will and entered journalism with a heavy heart.My mother and I had fought this battle almost as long as I could remember.It probably started even before memory began, when I was a country child in northern Virginia and my mother, diatisfied with my father's plain workman's life, determined that I would not grow up like him and his people, with calluses on their hands, overalls on their backs, and fourth-grade educations in their heads.She had fancier ideas of life's poibilities.Introducing me to the Saturday Evening Post, she was trying to wean me as early as poible from my father's world where men left with their lunch pails at sunup, worked with their hands all their lives, and died with a few sticks of mail-order furniture as their legacy.In my mother's vision of the better life there were desks and white collars, well-preed suits, evenings of reading and lively talk, and perhaps — if a man were very, very lucky and hit the jackpot, really made something important of himself — perhaps there might be a fantastic salary of $5,000 a year to support a big house and a Buick with a rumble seat and vacation in Atlantic City.And so I set forth with my sack of magazines.I was afraid of the dogs that snarled behind the doors of potential buyers.I was timid about ringing the doorbells of strangers, relieved when no one came to the door, and scared when someone did.Despite my mother's instructions, I could not deliver an engaging sales pitch.When a door opened I simply asked, “Want to buy a Saturday Evening Post?” In Belleville few persons did.It was a town of 30,000 people, and most weeks I rang a fair majority of its doorbells.But I rarely sold my thirty copies.Some weeks I canvaed the entire town for six days and still had four or five unsold magazines on Monday evening;then I dreaded the coming of Tuesday morning, when a batch of thirty fresh Saturday Evening Post was due at the front door.One rainy night when car windows were sealed against me I came back soaked and with not a single sale to report.My mother beckoned to Doris.“Go back with Buddy and show him how to sell these magazines,” she said.Brimming with zest, Doris, then seven years old, returned with me to the corner.She took a magazine from the bag, and when the light turned red she strode to the nearest car and banged her small fist against the closed window.The driver, probably startled to see such a little girl aaulting his car, lowered the window to stare, and Doris thrust a Saturday Evening Post at him.“You need this magazine,” she piped, “and it only costs a nickel.”

47Her salesmanship was irresistible.Before the light changed half a dozen times she disposed of the entire batch.I didn't feel humiliated.I was so happy I decided to give her a treat.Leading her to the vegetable store on Belleville Avenue, I bought three apples, which cost a nickel, and gave her one.“You shouldn't waste money,” she said.“Eat your apple.” I bit into mine.“You shouldn't eat before supper,” she said.“It'll spoil your appetite.”Back at the house that evening, she dutifully reported me for wasting a nickel.Instead of a scolding, I was rewarded with a pat on the back for having the good sense to buy fruit instead of candy.My mother reached into her bottomle supply of maxims and told Doris,“An apple a day keeps the doctor away.” By the time I was ten I had learned all my mother's maxims by heart.Asking to stay up past normal bedtime, I knew that a refusal would be explained with “Early to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.” If I whimpered about having to get up early in the morning, I could depend on her to say, “The early bird gets the worm.” The one I most despised was, “If at first you don't succeed, try, try, try again.” This was the battle cry with which she constantly sent me back into the hopele struggle whenever I moaned that I had rung every doorbell in town and knew there wasn't a single potential buyer left in Belleville that week.After listening to my explanation, she handed me the canvas bag and said, “If at first you don't succeed...” Three years in that job, which I would gladly have quit after the first day except for her insistence, produced at least one valuable result.My mother finally concluded that I would never make something of myself by pursuing a life in busine and started considering careers that demanded le competitive zeal.One evening when I was eleven I brought home a short “composition” on my summer vacation which the teacher had graded with an A.Reading it with her own schoolteacher's eye, my mother agreed that it was top-drawer seventh grade prose and complimented me.Nothing more was said about it immediately, but a new idea had taken life in her mind.Halfway through supper she suddenly interrupted the conversation.31 “Buddy,” she said, “maybe you could be a writer.”

I clasped the idea to my heart.I had never met a writer, and shown no previous urge to write, and hadn't a notion how to become a writer, but I loved stories and thought that making up stories must surely be almost as much fun as reading them.Best of all, though, and what really gladdened my heart, was the ease of the writer's life.Writers did not have to trudge through the town peddling from canvas bags, defending themselves against angry dogs, being rejected by surly strangers.Writers did not have to ring doorbells.So far as I could make out, what writers did couldn't even be claified as work.33 I was enchanted.Writers didn't have to have any gumption at all.I did not dare tell anybody for fear of being laughed at in the schoolyard, but secretly I decided that what I'd like to be when I grew up was a writer.(1477 words)Leon Thirteen

How to Grow Old Bertrand Ruell

20世纪科学技术的长足进步大大提高了人的寿命，不少发达国家已经进入老年社会。老年人的生活和需要已经引起社会的广泛关注，因而联合国把1999年定为国际老人年。

老年人需要社会和子女的关怀，但更重要的是自己要正确面对迟早会到来的事实：思维的迟钝、体力的衰弱和死亡的临近。英国著名哲学家罗素的观点值得老年人借鉴，也值得目前年富力强的人深思，不仅因为他们有朝一日也会进入老年，更重要的是，因为对待老年的态度，其实也是对待人生的态度。In spite of the title, this article will really be on how not to grow old, which, at my time of life, is a much more important subject.My parents died young, I have done well in this respect as regards my other ancestors.My maternal grandfather, it is true, was cut off in the flower of his youth at the age of sixty-seven, but my other three grandparents all lived to be over eighty.Of remoter ancestors I can only discover one who did not live to a great age, and he died of a disease which is now rare, namely, having his head cut off.A great grand mother of mine lived to the age of ninety-two, and to her

last day remained a terror to all her descendants.My maternal grandmother, after having nine children who survived, one who died in infancy, and many miscarriages, as soon as she became a widow devoted herself to women's higher education.She was one of the founders of Girt on College, and worked hard at opening the medical profeion to women.She used to tell of how she met in Italy an elderly gentleman who was looking very sad.She asked him why he was so melancholy and he said that he had just parted from his two grandchildren.“Good gracious,” she exclaimed, “I have seventy-two grandchildren, and if I were sad each time I parted from one of them, I should have a miserable existence!Madre snaturale,” he replied.But speaking as one of the seventy-two, I prefer her recipe.After the age of eighty she found she had some difficulty in getting to sleep, so she habitually spent the hours from midnight to 3 a.m.in reading popular science.I do not believe that she ever had time to notice that she was growing old.This, I think, is the proper recipe for remaining young.If you have wide and keen interests and activities in which you can still be effective, you will have no reason to think about the merely statistical fact of the number of years you have already lived, still le of the probable shortne of your future.As regards health, I have nothing useful to say as I have little experience of illne.I eat and drink whatever I like, and sleep when I cannot keep awake.I never do anything whatever on the ground that it is good for health, though in actual fact the things I like doing are mostly wholesome.Psychologically there are two dangers to be guarded against in old age.One of these is too great an absorption in the past.One should not live in memories, in regrets for the good old days, or in sadne about friends who are dead.One's thoughts must be directed to the future, and to things about which there is something to be done.This is not always easy;one's own past is a gradually increasing weight.It is easy to think to oneself that one's emotions used to be more vivid than they are, and one's mind more keen.If this is true it should be forgotten, and if it is forgotten it will probably not be true.The other thing to be avoided is clinging to youth in the hope of finding strength in its vitality.When your children are grown up they want to live their own lives, and if you continue to be as interested in them as you were when they were young, you are likely to become a burden to them, unle they are unusually insensible.I do not mean that one should be without interest in them, but one's interest should be contemplative and, if poible, philanthropic, but not too emotional.Animals become indifferent to their young as soon as their young can look after themselves, but human beings, owing to the length of infancy, find this le easy.I think that a succeful old age is easiest for those who have strong impersonal interests leading to suitable activities.It is in this sphere that long experience is really fruitful, and that the wisdom born of experience can be used without becoming a burden.It is no use telling grown-up children not to make mistakes, both because they will not believe you, and because mistakes are an eential part of education.But if you are one of those who are incapable of impersonal interests, you may find that your life will be empty unle you concern yourself with your children and grandchildren.In that case you must realise that while you can still help them in material ways, as by making them an allowance or knitting them jumpers, you must not expect that they will enjoy your company.Some old people are troubled by the fear of death.In the young there is a justification for this feeling.Young men who have reason to fear they will be killed in battle may justifiably feel bitter in the thought that they have been cheated of the best things that life has to offer.But in an old man who has known human joys and sorrows and has done whatever work it was in him to do, the fear of death is somewhat ignoble.The best way to overcome it — so at least it seems to me — is to make your interests gradually wider and more impersonal, until bit by bit the walls of the ego recede, and your life becomes increasingly part of the universal life.An individual human existence should be like a river — small at first, narrowly contained within its banks, and rushing paionately past rocks and over waterfalls.Gradually the river grows wider, the banks recede, the waters flow more quietly, and in the end, without any visible break, they become part of the sea, and painlely lose their individual being.The man who, in old age, can see his life in this way, will not suffer from the fear of death, since the thing he cares for will continue.And if, with the lo of vitality, wearine increases, the thought of rest will not be unwelcome.I should wish to die while still at work, knowing that others will carry on what I can no longer do, and content in the thought that what was poible has been done.Three Paions l Have Lived ForThree paions, simple but overwhelmingly strong, have governed my life: the longing for love, the search for knowledge, and unbearable pity for the suffering of mankind.These paions, like great winds, have blown me hither and thither, in a wayward course over a deep ocean of anguish, reaching to the very verge of despair.49I have sought love, first, because it brings ecstasy — so great that I would often have sacrificed all the rest of my life for a few hours of this joy.I have sought it, next, because it relieves loneline — that terrible loneline in which one shivering consciousne looks over the rim of the world into the cold unfathomable lifele aby.I have sought it, finally, because in the union of love I have seen, in a mystic miniature, the prefiguring vision of the heaven that saints and poets have imagined.This is what I sought, and though it might seem too good for human life, this is what — at last — I have found.With equal paion I have sought knowledge.I have wished to understand the hearts of men.I have wished to know why the stars shine A little of this, but not much, I have achieved.Love and knowledge, so far as they were poible, led upward toward the heavens.But always pity brought me back to earth.Echoes of cries of pain reverberate in my heart.Children in famine, victims tortured by oppreors, helple old people a hated burden to their sons, and the whole world of loneline, poverty, and pain make a mockery of what human life should be.I long to alleviate the evil, but I cannot, and I too suffer.This has been my life.I have found it worth living, and would gladly live it again if the chance were offered me.(304 words)

Leon Fourteen

The Listener John Berry

一位几乎与世隔绝的八旬灯塔看管人，与一位三流小提琴手不期而遇。小提琴手为了躲避即将来临的暴风雨，来到老人的灯塔里，受到热诚的欢迎与款待。灯塔之外狂风怒号，掀起阵阵巨浪；灯塔内，老人从容不迫地履行自己的职责，泰然自若地与客人交谈。小提琴手端详着老人，情不自禁地拿出他心爱的乐器，在汹涌澎湃的暴风雨伴奏之下，为老人演奏了贝多芬的名曲。从未见过小提琴，不知音乐为何物的老人频频点头，完全理解乐曲反映出的思想感情，小提琴手找到了知音。Once there was a little concert violinist named Rudolf, who lived in Sweden.Some of his friends thought he was not the best of musicians because he was restle;others thought he was restle because he was not the best of musicians.At any rate, he hit upon a way of making a living, with no competitors.Whether by choice or neceity, he used to sail about Scandinavia in his small boat, all alone, giving concerts in little seaport towns.If he found an accompanist, well and good;if not, he played works for unaccompanied violin;and it happened once or twice that he wanted a piano so badly that he imagined one, and then he played whole sonatas for violin and piano, with no piano in sight.One year Rudolf sailed all the way out to Iceland and began working his way around that rocky coast from one town to another.It was a hard, stubborn land;but people in those difficult places do not forget the law of hospitality to the stranger — for their God may decree that they too shall become strangers on the face of the earth.The audiences were small, and even if Rudolf had been really first-rate, they would not have been very demonstrative.From ancient times their energy had gone, first of all, into earnest toil.Sometimes the local schoolteacher, who reminded them of their duty to the names of Beethoven and Bach and Mozart and one or two others whose music perhaps was not much heard in those parts, collected them.Too often people sat stolidly watching the noisy little fiddler, and went home feeling gravely edified.But they paid.As Rudolf was sailing from one town to the next along a sparsely settled shore, the northeast turned black and menacing.A storm was bearing down upon Iceland.Rudolf was rounding a bleak, dangerouscape, and his map told him that the nearest harbor was half a day's journey away.He was starting to worry when he saw, le than a mile off shore, a lighthouse on a tiny rock island.At the base of the lighthouse was a deep, narrow cove, protected by cliffs.With some difficulty, in the rising seas, he put in there and moored to an iron ring that hung from the cliff.A flight of stairs, cut in the rock, led up to the lighthouse.On top of the cliff, outlined against the scudding clouds, stood a man.“You are welcome!” the voice boomed over the sound of the waves that were already beginning to break over the island.Darkne fell quickly.The lighthouse keeper led his guest up the spiral stairs to the living room on the third floor,50