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‘Twinkle, twinkle, little bat! How I wonder what you’ re at!’
“You know the song, perhaps?”
“I’ ve heard something like it.” said Alice.
“It goes on, you know,” the Hatter continued, “in this way— ‘Up above the world you fly, like a tea—tray in the sky. Twinkle, twinkle—’”
Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep “Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle—” and went on so long that they had to pinch it to make it stop.
“Well, I’ d hardly finished the first verse,” said the Hatter, “when the Queen jumped up and bawled out, ‘He’ s murdering the time! Off with his head!’”
“How dreadfully savage!” exclaimed Alice.
“And ever since that,” the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, “he won’ t do a thing I ask! It’ s always six o’ clock now.”
A bright idea came into Alice’ s head. “Is that the reason so many tea—things are put out here?” she asked.
“Yes, that’ s it,” said the Hatter with a sigh: “it’ s always tea—time, and we’ ve no time to wash the things between whiles.”
“Then you keep moving round, I suppose?” said Alice.
“Exactly so,” said the Hatter: “as the things get used up.”
“But what happens when you come to the beginning again?” Alice ventured to ask.
“Suppose we change the subject,” the March Hare interrupted, yawning. “I’ m getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story.”
From Alice’ s Adventures in Wonderland
Information Please
在别的世界里歌唱
Paul Villard
When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. I remember well the polished, old case fastened to the wall. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother used to talk to it. Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person her name was “Information Please” and there was nothing she did not know. “Information Please” could supply anybody’ s number and the correct time.
My first personal experience with this genie—in—the—bottle came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor. Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer. The pain was terrible, but there didn’ t seem to be any reason in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy. I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway.
The telephone! Quickly, I ran for the foot stool in the parlor and dragged it to the landing. Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver in the parlor and held it to my ear. “Information Please,” I said into the mouthpiece just above my head. A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear, “Information.”
“I hurt my finger.” I wailed into the phone. The tears came readily enough now that I had an audience.
“Isn’ t your mother home?” came the question.
“Nobody’ s home but me,” I blubbered?
“Are you bleeding?” the voice asked.
“No,” I replied. “I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts.”
“Can you open your icebox?” she asked. I said I could. “Then chip off a little piece of ice and hold it to your finger.” said the voice.
After that, I called “Information Please” for everything. I asked her for help with my geography and she told me where Philadelphia was. She helped me with my math. She told me my pet chipmunk that I had caught in the park just the day before, would eat fruit and nuts. Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary died. I called “Information Please” and told her the sad story. She listened, then said the usual things grown—ups say to soothe a child. But I was unconsoled. I asked her, “Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?” She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, “Paul, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in.” Somehow I felt better.
Another day I was on the telephone. “Information Please.”
“Information.” said the now familiar voice.
“How do you spell fix?” I asked.
All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. When I was nine years old, we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my friend very much. “Information Please” belonged in that old wooden box back home and I somehow never thought of trying the tall, shiny new phone that sat on the table in the hall. As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me. Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity? I would recall the serene sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.
A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I had about half—an—hour or so between planes. I spent 15minutes or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there now.
Then, without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, “Information please.”
Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well.
“Information.”
I hadn’ t planned this, but I heard myself saying, “Could you please tell me how to spell fix?”
There was a long pause. Then came the soft—spoken answer, “I guess your finger must have healed by now.”
I laughed, “So it’ s really still you,” I said. “I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time.”
“I wonder,” she said, “if you know how much your calls meant to me. I never had any children and I used to look forward to your calls.”
I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister.
“Please do,” she said. “Just ask for Sally.”
Three months later I was back in Seattle. A different voice answered, “Information.”
I asked for Sally. “Are you a friend?” she said.
“Yes, a very old friend.” I answered.
“I’ m sorry to have to tell you this,” she said. “Sally had been working part time the last few years because she was sick. She died five weeks ago.”
Before I could hang up she said, “Wait a minute. Is your name Paul?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down in case you called. Let me read it to you.” The note said, “Tell him I still say there are other worlds to sing in. He’ ll know what I mean.”
I thanked her and hung up. I knew what Sally meant.
Never underestimate the impression you may make on others. Whose life have you touched today?
The Pure Love in the Kids’ Eyes
孩子眼中纯净的爱
John Wesley
A group of professional people posed this question to a group of 4to8year—olds: “What does love mean?” The answers they got were broader and deeper than anyone could have imagined. See what you think.
“When my grandmother got arthritis, she couldn’ t bend over and paint her toenails?? anymore. So my grandfather does it for her all the time, even when his hands got arthritis too. That’ s love.” —Rebecca, age 8
“When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You know that your name is safe in their mouth.” —Billy, age 4
“Love is when you go out to eat and give somebody most of your French fries without making them give you any of theirs.” —Chris, age 6
“Love is when someone hurts you. And you get so mad but you don’ t yell at them because you know it would hurt their feelings.” —Samantha, age 6
“Love is what makes you smile when you’ re tired.”
—Terri, age 4
“Love is when my mommy makes coffee for my daddy and she takes a sip?? before giving it to him, to make sure the taste is OK.” —Danny, age 7
“Love is what’ s in the room with you at Christmas if you stop opening presents and listen.”
—Bobby, age 5
“Love is hugging. Love is kissing. Love is saying no.”
—Patty, age 8
“When you tell someone something bad about yourself and you’ re scared they won’ t love you anymore. But then you get surprised because not only do they still love you, they love you even more.” —Matthew, age 7
“There are two kinds of love. Our love. God’ s love. But God makes both kinds of them.” —Jenny, age 4
“Love is when you tell a guy you like his shirt, then he wears it everyday.” —Noelle, age 7
“Love is like a little old woman and a little old man who are still friends even after they know each other so well.” —Tommy, age 6
“During my piano recital? I was on a stage and scared. I looked at all the people watching me and saw my daddy waving and smiling. He was the only one doing that. I wasn’ t scared anymore.” —Cindy, age 8
“My mommy loves me more than anybody. You don’ t see anyone else kissing me to sleep at night.”
—Clare, age 5
“Love is when mommy sees daddy smelly and sweaty and still says he is handsomer than Robert Redford.”
—Chris, age 8
“Love is when your puppy licks your face even after you left him alone all day.” —Mary Ann, age 4
“I know my older sister loves me because she gives me all her old clothes and has to go out and buy new ones.”
—Lauren, age 4
“When you love somebody, your eyelashes go up and down and little stars come out of you.” —Karen, age 7
“You really shouldn’ t say ‘I love you’ unless you mean it. But if you mean it, you should say it a lot. People forget.” —Jessica, age 8
The Importance of Conscience
我的好妹妹
Elisha M. Webster
I was faced with a decision. While delivering laundry into the appropriate?? bedrooms, I stumbled upon my thirteen—year—old sister’ s diary, a modern—day Pandora’ s Box, suffused with temptation. What was I to do? I had always been jealous of my little sister. Her charming smile, endearing personality and many talents threatened my place as leading lady. I competed with her tacitly and grew to resent her natural abilities. I felt it necessary to shatter her shadow with achievements of my own. As a result, we seldom spoke. I sought opportunities to criticize her and relished surpassing her achievements. Her diary lay at my feet, and I didn’ t think of the result of opening it. I considered not her privacy, the morality of my actions, nor her consequential?? pain. I merely savored the possibility of digging up enough dirt to soil my competitor’ s spotless record. I reasoned my iniquity as sisterly duty. It was my responsibility to keep a check on her activities. It would be wrong of me not to.
I tentatively plucked the book from the floor and opened it, fanning through the pages, searching for my name, convinced that I would discover scheming and slander. As I read, the blood ran from my face. It was worse than I suspected. I felt faint and slouched to the floor. There was neither conspiracy nor defamation. There was a succinct description of herself, her goals and her dreams followed by a short portrayal of the person who has inspired her most. I started to cry.
I was her hero. She admired me for my personality, my achievements and ironically, my integrity. She wanted to be like me. She had been watching me for years, quietly marveling over my choices and actions. I ceased reading, struck with the crime I had committed. I had expended so much energy into pushing her away that I had missed out on her.
I had wasted years resenting someone capable of magic—and now I had violated?? her trust. It was I who had lost something beautiful, and it was I who would never allow myself to do such a thing again.
Reading the earnest words my sister had written seemed to melt an icy barrier around my heart, and I longed to know her again. I was finally able to put aside the petty insecurity that kept me from her. On that fateful afternoon, as I put aside the laundry and rose to my feet, I decided to go to her—this time to experience instead of to judge, to embrace instead of to fight. After all, she was my sister.
The Little Girl Who
Dared to Wish
许愿的小女孩
Alan D. Shultz
As Amy Hagadorn rounded the corner across the hall from her classroom, she collided?? with a tall boy from the fifth grade running in the opposite direction.
“Watch it, squirt.” The boy yelled as he dodged around the little third—grader. Then, with a smirk on his face, the boy took hold of his right leg and mimicked the way Amy limped when she walked.
Amy closed her eyes. Ignore him, she told herself as she headed for her classroom.
But at the end of the day, Amy was still thinking about the tall boy’ s mean teasing? It wasn’ t as if her were the only one. It seemed that ever since Amy started the third grade, someone teased her every single day. Kids teased her about her speech or her limping. Amy was tired of it. Sometimes, even in a classroom full of other students, the teasing made her feel all alone.
Back home at the dinner table that evening, Amy was quiet. Her mother knew that things were not going well at school. That’ s why Patti Hagadorn was happy to have some exciting news to share with her daughter.
“There’ s a Christmas wish contest on the radio station,” Amy’ s mom announced. “Write a letter to Santa, and you might win a prize. I think someone at this table with blonde curly hair should enter.”
Amy giggled. The contest sounded like fun. She started thinking about what she wanted most for Christmas.
A smile took hold of Amy when the idea first came to her. Out came pencil and paper, and Amy went to work on her letter. “Dear Santa Claus,” she began.
While Amy worked away at her best printing, the rest of the family tried to guess what she might ask from Santa. Amy’ s sister, Jamie, and Amy’ s mom both thought a three—foot Barbie doll would top Amy’ s wish list. Amy’ s dad guessed a picture book. But Amy wasn’ t ready to reveal her secret Christmas wish just then. Here is Amy’ s letter to Santa, just as she wrote it that night:
Dear Santa Claus,
My name is Amy. I am nine years old. I have a problem at school. Can you help me Santa? Kids laugh at me because of the way I walk and run and talk. I have cerebral palsy. I just want one day where no one laughs at me or makes fun of me.
Love, Amy
At radio station WJLT in Fort Wayne, Indiana, letter poured in for the Christmas wish contest. The workers had fun reading about all the different presents that boys and girls from across the city wanted for Christmas.
When Amy’ s letter arrived at the radio station, manager Lee Tobin read it carefully. He knew cerebral palsy was a muscle disorder that might confuse the schoolmates of Amy’ s who didn’ t understand her disability. He thought it would be good for the people in Fort Wayne to hear about this special third—grader and her unusual wish. Mr. Tobin called up the local newspaper.
The next day, a picture of Amy and her letter to Santa made the front page of the News Sentinel. The story spread quickly. All across the country, newspapers and radio and television stations reported the story of the little girl in Fort Wayne, Indiana, who asked for such a simple yet remarkable Christmas gift—just one day without teasing.
Suddenly the postman was a regular at the Hagadorn house. Envelopes of all sizes addressed to Amy arrived daily from children and adults all across the nation. They came filled with holiday greetings and words of encouragement.
During that unforgettable Christmas season, over two thousand people from all over the world sent Amy letters of friendship and support.
Amy and her family read every single one. Some of the writers had disabilities; some had been teased as children. Each writer had a special message for Amy. Through the cards and letters from strangers, Amy glimpsed a world full of people who truly cared about each other.
She realized that no amount or form of teasing could ever make her feel lonely again.
Many people thanked Amy for being brave enough to speak up. Others encouraged her to ignore teasing and to carry her head high. Lynn, a sixth—grader from Texas, sent this message:
“I would like to be your friend,” she wrote, “and if you want to visit me, we could have fun. No one would make fun of us, cause if they do, we will not even hear them.”
Amy did get her wish of a special day without teasing at South Wayne Elementary School. Additionally, everyone at school got another bonus? Teachers and students talked together about how bad teasing can make others feel.
That year the Fort Wayne mayor officially proclaimed December 21as AmyJo Hagadorn Day throughout the city. The mayor explained that by daring to make such a simple wish, Amy taught a universal lesson.
“Everyone,” said the mayor, “wants and deserves to be treated with respect, dignity and warmth.”