下载掌阅APP，畅读海量书库
立即打开
The Vigorous Youth
Do in after life the freshness and light—heartedness, the craving for love and for strength of faith, ever return which we experience in our childhood’ s years?
童年时代所拥有的那些朝气蓬勃的精神，轻松愉快的心情，对爱和信仰的追求还会存在吗？
Christmas Day in the Morning
圣诞节的早晨
Pearl S. Buck
He woke suddenly and completely. It was four o’ clock, the hour at which his father had always called him to get up and help with the milking. Strange how the habits of his youth clung to him still! His father had been dead for thirty years, but, this morning it was Christmas, he did not try to sleep.
Yet what was the magic of Christmas now? His childhood and youth were long past, and his own children had grown up and gone.
Yesterday his wife had said, it isn’ t worthwhile, perhaps—And he had said, “Oh, yes, Alice, even if there are only the two for us, let’ s have a Christmas of our own.”
Then she had said, “Let’ s not trim?? the tree until tomorrow, Robert. I’ m tired.”
He had agreed, and the tree was still out by the back door.
He lay in his bed in his room. The door to her room was shut because she was a light sleeper. Years ago they had decided to use separate rooms. Neither of them slept as well as they once had. They had been married so long that nothing could separate them, actually.
Why did he feel so awake tonight? For it was still night, a clear and starry night. No moon, of course, but the stars were extraordinary! Now that he thought of it, the stars seemed always large and clear before the dawn of Christmas day.
He slipped back in time, as he did so easily nowadays. He was fifteen years old and still on his father’ s farm. He loved his father. He had not known it until one day a few days before Christmas, when he had overheard what his father was saying to his mother.
“Mary, I hate to call Rob in the mornings. He’ s growing so fast and he needs his sleep. If you could see how he sleeps when I go in to wake him up! I wish I could manage alone.”
“Well, you can’ t Adam.” His mother’ s voice as brisk, “Besides, he isn’ t a child anymore. It’ s time he took his turn.”
“Yes,” his father said slowly. “But I sure do hate to wake him.”
When he heard these words, something in him spoke: his father loved him! He had never thought of that before, taking for granted the tie of their blood. Neither his father nor his mother talked about loving their children—they had no time for such things. There was always so much to do on the farm. Now that he knew his father loved him there would be no more loitering in the mornings and having to be called again. He got up after hat, stumbling blind with sleep and pulled on his clothes.
And then on the night before Christmas, that year when he was fifteen, he lay for a few minutes thinking about the next day. They were poor, and most of the excitement was in the turkey they had raised themselves and mince pies his mother made. His sisters sewed presents and his mother and father always bought something he needed, not only a warm jacket, maybe, but something more, such as a book. And he saved and bought them each something, too.
He wished, that Christmas when he was fifteen, he had a better present for his father instead of the usual tie from the ten—cent store. He lay on his side and looked out of his attic window.
“Dad,” he had once asked when he was a little boy, “What is a stable?”
“It’ s just a barn,” his father had replied, “like ours.”
Then Jesus had been born in a barn, and to a barn the shepherds?? and the Wise Men had come, bringing their Christmas gifts!
The thought struck him like a silver dagger. Why should he not give his father a special gift too, out there in the barn? He could get up early, earlier than four o’ clock, and he could creep into the barn and get all the milking done. He’ d do it alone, milk and clean up, and then when his father went in to start the milking he’ d see it all done.
He laughed to himself as he gazed at the stars. It was what he would do, and he mustn’ t sleep too sound.
He must have waked twenty times, scratching a match each time to look at his old watch—midnight, and half past one, and then two o’ clock.
At a quarter to three he got up and put on his clothes. He crept downstairs, careful of the creaky boards, and let himself out. The cows looked at him, sleepy and surprised. It was early for them too.
But they accepted him placidly?? and he fetched some hay for each cow and then got the milking pail and the big milk cans.
He had never milked all alone before, but it seemed almost easy. He smiled and milked steadily, two strong streams rusing into the pail, frothing and fragrant. The cows were behaving well, as though they knew it was Christmas.
The task went more easily than he had ever known it to go before. Milking for once was not a chore. It was something else, a gift to his father who loved him. He finished, the two milk cans were full, and he covered them and closed the milk—house door carefully, making sure of the latch. He put the stool in its place by the door and hung up the clean milk pail. Then he went out of the barn and barred the door behind him.
Back in his room he had only a minute to pull off his clothes in the darkness and jump into bed, for he heard his father up. He put the covers over his head to silence his quick breathing. The door opened.
“Rob!” His father called. “We have to get up, son, even if it is Christmas.”
“Aw—right,” he said sleepily.
“I’ ll go on out,” his father said. “I’ ll get things started.”
The door closed and he lay still, laughing to himself. In just a few minutes his father would know. His dancing heart was ready to jump from his body.
The minutes were endless—ten, fifteen, he did not know how many—and he heard his father’ s footsteps again. The door opened and he lay still.
“Rob!”
“Yes, Dad—”
“You son of a—” His father was laughing, a queer sobbing sort of laugh.
“Thought you’ d fool me, did you?” His father was standing by his bed, feeling for him, pulling away the cover.
“It’ s for Christmas, Dad!”
He found his father had clutched him in a great hug. He felt his father’ s arms go around him. It was dark and they could not see each other’ s faces.
“Son, I thank you. Nobody ever did a nicer thing—”
“Oh, Dad, I want you to know—I do want to be good!” The words broke from him of their own will. He did not know what to say. His heart was bursting with love.
He got up and pulled on his clothes again and they went down to the Christmas tree. Oh what a Christmas, and how his heart had nearly burst again with shyness and pride as his father told his mother and made the younger children listen about how he, Rob, had got up all by himself.
“The best Christmas gift I ever had, and I’ ll remember it, son every year on Christmas morning, so long as I live.”
They had both remembered it, and now that his father was dead, he remembered it alone: that blessed Christmas dawn when, alone with the cows in the barn; he had made his first gift of true love.
Outside the window now the stars slowly faded. He got out of bed and put on his slippers and bathrobe and went softly downstairs. He brought in the tree, and carefully began to trim it. It was done very soon. He then went to his library and fetched the little box that contained his special gift to his wife a diamond brooch, not large but dainty?? in design. But he was not satisfied. He wanted to tell her—to tell her how much he loved her.
How fortunate that he had been able to love! Ah, that was the true joy of life, the ability to love! For he was quite sure that some people were genuinely unable to love anyone. But love was alive in him. It still was.
It occurred to him suddenly that it was alive because long ago it had been born in him when he knew his father loved him. That was it: Love alone could awaken love. And he could give the gift again and again.
This morning, this blessed Christmas morning, he would give it to his beloved wife. He could write it down in a letter for her to read and keep forever. He went to his desk and began his love letter to his wife: My dearest love.
Such a happy, happy, Christmas!
Childhood
童年
Lev Tolstoy
Happy, happy, never—returning time of childhood! How can we help loving and dwelling?? upon its recollections? They cheer and elevate the soul, and become to one a source of higher joys.
Sometimes, when dreaming of bygone days, I fancy that, tired out with running about, I have sat down, as of old, in my high arm—chair by the tea—table. It is late, and I have long since drunk my cup of milk. My eyes are heavy with sleep as I sit there and listen. How could I not listen, seeing that Mamma is speaking to somebody, and that the sound of her voice is so melodious and kind? How much its echoes recall to my heart!
With my eyes veiled with drowsiness?? I gaze at her wistfully. Suddenly she seems to grow smaller and smaller, and her face vanishes to a point; yet I can still see it—can still see her as she looks at me and smiles. Somehow it pleases me to see her grown so small. I blink and blink, yet she looks no larger than a boy reflected in the pupil of an eye. Then I rouse myself, and the picture fades. Once more I half—close my eyes, and cast about to try and recall the dream, but it has gone, I rise to my feet, only to fall back comfortably into the armchair.
“There! You are failing asleep again, little Nicolas,” says Mamma. “You had better go to by—by.”
“No, I won’ t go to sleep, Mamma,” I reply, though almost inaudibly, for pleasant dreams are filling all my soul. The sound sleep of childhood is weighing my eyelids down, and for a few moments I sink into slumber and oblivion until awakened by some one. I feel in my sleep as though a soft hand were caressing me. I know it by the touch, and, though still dreaming, I seize hold of it and press it to my lips. Every one else has gone to bed, and only one candle remains burning in the drawing—room.
Mamma has said that she herself will wake me. She sits down on the arm of the chair in which I am asleep, with her soft hand stroking my hair, and I hear her beloved, well—known voice say in my ear: “Get up, my darling. It is time to go by—by.”
No envious gaze sees her now. She is not afraid to shed upon me the whole of her tenderness and love. I do not wake up, yet I kiss and kiss her hand.
“Get up, then, my angel.”
She passes her other arm round my neck, and her fingers tickle me as they move across it. The room is quiet and in half—darkness, but the tickling has touched my nerves and I begin to awake. Mamma is sitting near me—that I can tell—and touching me; I can hear her voice and feel her presence. This at last rouses me to spring up, to throw my arms around her neck, to hide my head in her bosom, and to say with a sigh: “Ah, dear, darling Mamma, how much I love you!”
She smiles her sad, enchanting smile, takes my head between her two hands, kisses me on the forehead, and lifts me on to her lap.
“Do you love me so much, then?” she says. Then, after a few moments’ silence, she continues: “And you must love me always, and never forget me. If your Mamma should no longer be here, will you promise never to forget her—never, Nicolinka?” And she kisses me more fondly?? than ever.
“Oh, but you must not speak so, darling Mamma, my own darling Mamma!” I exclaim as I clasp her knees, and tears of joy and love fall from my eyes.
How, after scenes like this, I would go upstairs, and stand before the ikons, and say with a rapturous feeling, “God bless Papa and Mamma!” and repeat a prayer for my beloved mother which my childish lips had learnt to lisp—the love of God and of her blending strangely in a single emotion!
After saying my prayers I would wrap myself up in the bedclothes. My heart would feel light, peaceful, and happy, and one dream would follow another. Dreams of what? They were all of them vague, but all of them full of pure love and of a sort of expectation of happiness. I remember, too, that I used to think about Karl Ivanitch and his sad lot. He was the only unhappy being whom I knew, and so sorry would I feel for him, and so much did I love him, that tears would fall from my eyes as I thought, “May God give him happiness, and enable me to help him and to lessen his sorrow. I could make any sacrifice for him!” Usually, also, there would be some favorite toy—a china dog or hare—stuck into the bed—corner behind the pillow, and it would please me to think how warm and comfortable and well cared—for it was there. Also, I would pray God to make every one happy, so that every one might be contented, and also to send fine weather tomorrow for our walk. Then I would turn myself over on to the other side, and thoughts and dreams would become jumbled and entangled together until at last I slept soundly and peacefully, though with a face wet with tears.
Do in after life the freshness and light—heartedness, the craving for love and for strength of faith, ever return which we experience in our childhood’ s years? What better time is there in our lives than when the two best of virtues—innocent gaiety and a boundless yearning for affection—are our sole objects of pursuit?
Where now are our ardent prayers? Where now are our best gifts—the pure tears of emotion which a guardian angel dries with a smile as he sheds upon us lovely dreams of ineffable?? childish joy? Can it be that life has left such heavy traces upon one’ s heart that those tears and ecstasies are for ever vanished? Can it be that there remains to us only the recollection of them?
This Boy and His Bicycle
骑单车的男孩
Franklin B. Holleman
It’ s wonderful to be back in my boyhood hometown again to visit with my now elderly mother. It seems like centuries ago when I was growing up here. Back then, this small town was just a backdrop that formed the unremarkable environment in which I lived my everyday life.
Mom’ s doing great for her age, but she’ s moving slower these days. After a lengthy but heartwarming talk in the den about my wife, the kids and how well work is going back in the big city far from here, we have reached the point of being all talked out for now.
What a perfect time to go for a walk and get some fresh air! The outside loudly calls for a look around the neighborhood to see how things have changed, and how things have stayed the same. As I walk down the street, it’ s like I’ m on my trusted bicycle riding around as a young boy. I’ m on yet another grand mission on my bike again. Oh, the places my bike could take me, and did.
There’ s the small corner store, just a quick bike ride down one street and up another, where I can get an ice—cold soda in a glass bottle with the red metal cap. Inside is the long candy aisle?? where I must carefully consider my choices; will it be a candy bar, or pack of football cards with the bonus flat piece of bubble gum, or a handful of fireball jawbreakers? The freedom to decide continues unabated? Only the stakes are higher with time, requiring proportionally greater wisdom.
There’ s the bridge over the lazy river where I love to park my bike, and just sit on the tall ledge to think penetrating thoughts, as I look down the river into the expansive horizon. How far does this river go, and what is beyond the river, and even what is beyond that? Maybe someday I can travel to experience it on my own when I get older. Many are the places I’ ve since traveled, only to enlarge my curiosity further, as my awareness of the unknown has grown.
It’ s only a quick ride to reach the old retired doctor’ s house, whose lawn I mow weekly. He pays me a modest wage to help maintain his large yard. We always enjoy talking as we work together. I don’ t remember exactly all that we talked about, but I do remember that he always listened and I felt appreciated. He sure did know a lot about what life has in store that is common to every man. His example of deliberate?? kindness and thoughtful wisdom showed me how to pass on the same to others younger than myself, many times over the years.
Up ahead is her house, just three houses down from that corner. I sure do have a crush on her. She is so lovely with pretty blond hair. I need to ride past her house yet again to see if I might find her outside where I could maybe, just maybe, have the chance to talk with her after school. I’ m not sure what to say given the chance, but it’ s worth the risk. Too bad she never really noticed me at school, even though we shared the same classes; I wonder where she is now. Years later in college, it was just as awkward when I first met my future bride and struggled to start a conversation, but those moments surprisingly became the initial spark that turned into the real communication of our now 25—year marriage.
Where is that special tree? I know it’ s somewhere around here between these two houses, or is it the next house? I guess the tree is now long gone. Having packed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich lunch in my bicycle basket, I’ m set to spend almost the entire day climbing around in it, where I can think and dream unrestrained? It is here I have found a glorious refuge; each large branch is its own lavish room comprising my expansive estate. What a rich man I am to have found such an interesting place that I can call my own! I love to climb to the very top where the highest branch is so narrow, I must hold on tight as I sway widely with it in the wind—because the higher I go, the more I can see. I can even see past the supermarket, with a glimpse of the ocean a mile beyond that. I’ m glad my mother never knew how high I dared to climb. Ever since then, I have always found it well worth paying the price to reach the vantage point that affords life’ s best perspective.
My bicycle enabled so much adventure along the safe sidewalks and sleepy streets of my town. It offered great freedom to explore. There were so many places to ride my bike, including special places that only I knew about. There were seemingly endless opportunities for discovery, compelling experiences, and even the thrill of imagined danger.
My life then had space wide enough to ride but secure enough with all its well—defined boundaries, where I purposed to set my course towards creating an engaging life to enjoy. This was a place that couldn’ t have been more adventurous.
It’ s been decades since those days of boyhood exploration, and I’ m sure that rust has long since consumed my old bike. But even though everything is different now, nothing has changed. Life remains an adventure that continually beckons. Although I am more established now, I still fashion the places I call my own so that I may live large. I still must plan to set a direction and be careful to navigate a wise path.
This wonderful little town—this special appointed place—provided a significant time of preparation which was a microcosm of my life, where I learned, without realizing I was learning, the most important things before I ever lived them.
Hello, 6—year—old Child
你好，6岁的朋友
Amy Ozols
Seeing as how fate has brought us together here, in the crowded coach section of this expensive airplane, I thought I should introduce myself.
My name is Amy, and I’ m an adult. I suspect that you’ re too young to understand what “adult” means, so let me explain. It means that I’ m taller than you, and smarter, and that I get to do lots of awesome things, like smoke cigarettes and ovulate? It also means that I like to take naps on airplanes and read my newspaper in silence. These things seem to be very different from the things that you like to do.
I’ ve gleaned from its near—constant utterance by the woman sitting next to you—your mother, I suppose, or perhaps a social worker or a federal prisoner who’ s being paid to spend time with you—that your name is Timmy. It’ s probably Timothy, actually, but people call you Timmy because it’ s cuter. Which is appropriate, Timmy, because you’ re very cute, you really are.
I’ m going to drink this cup of coffee—would you like some? I didn’ t think so. You’ re more of a juice—box man, from what I gather. The way I gather this is by looking at the stain on my ninety—eight—dollar pants, the one you made when you put your juice box there. If I touched your pants, Timmy, I would probably be sent to jail. There are lots of differences between you and me, but that’ s one of the big ones: the quality and the seriousness of what happens when we touch other people’ s pants.
You’ re not much of a sleeper, are you, Timmy? We’ ve just met, but it seems to me like maybe you don’ t really enjoy sleeping all that much. In fact, it seems to me that one of your greatest joys in life is wakefulness—and not simply passive wakefulness but the kind of vigorous wakefulness that makes a person like me start to question the very possibility of silence as a condition that can exist in the universe. I can see that I’ ve confused you, Timmy, and I apologize; I was only trying to point out that you really seem to enjoy being awake. Let me make it up to you by giving you this modest dose of Ambien. It’ s a kind of candy for your soul. Your soul is a kind of mouth that’ s inside your brain.
Here comes the nice stewardess lady with a bag for collecting people’ s garbage. Would you like me to give her some of the garbage that’ s strewn all over your seat—and, if we’ re being perfectly honest here, Timmy, all over my seat as well? And, while we’ re at it, maybe I could give her this talking doll—the one that sings songs, very loud songs, songs of terrifying and ungodly volume, from that animated movie about adventurous insects. It’ s not that I don’ t love the doll; it’ s just that I’ m pretty sure it’ s illegal for children to carry such things on airplanes. Have you heard of terrorism, Timothy? That’ s why it’ s illegal for you to have this doll.
Your whimpering and your dripping facial parts suggest that perhaps this conversation has run its course, so I’ ll let you get back to your finger painting, your fidgeting, and your wanton, inexplicable?? shredding of the in—flight magazine. I’ ll be here in my seat, fantasizing about hurtling my childless adult body out of the airplane and into the sky. Enjoy the rest of the flight, Timmy. I’ ve really enjoyed sitting next to you. It’ s fun to make new friends.
A Funny Memory
童真记趣
Henry Rollin
Oh God! I think I was about seven and half when my sisters and I pulled this stupid stunt. I remember watching television with them and the show on happened to be our favorite program to watch. All of a sudden we heard my brother, Chris, yelling from the backyard. So we all headed out there to see what happened. When we finally located him, he was in a tree hanging from the highest tree branch. Crying, he explained to us that he had climbed up the tree and couldn’ t get down. We thought, okay, one of us should climb up and get him off, but we couldn’ t manage to get him moving down.
It was then my youngest sister, Ka, who was five and a half at the time had seen a similar situation. She suggested we grab a sheet, hold it under the branch Chris was hanging off of, and tell him to drop so we can catch him. My other sister, Yams, who is one year younger than me, peered at me to confirm the idea and I said “Yeah, let’ s try that.”
So we grabbed a sheet from the closet and went to hold it beneath the tree. Now mind you, the ages holding this blanket were ranging from seven and a half to five and a half, thus the sheet was probably being held up to our waist and also close to touching the ground. But we were confident it could work.
We looked up to Chris and he looked down at us a bit hesitant. I don’ t blame him the poor guy. It was then we told him to let go and to fall on his back. Chris looked at me and asked “Are you sure I’ ll land on the blanket?” Now, my brother at the age of four, had a cute squeaky?? voice. But because of a problem at birth with his tongue being a bit attached to the mouth, it came out more like this, “Ah you sho awill lan on da blanked?” “Yup!” I told him, “We’ re sure!” and he let go.
Now when I think about Chris letting go of that branch, I think of his faith in me and my sisters and I also think how stupid he was to trust us, cause when that boy let go he was in for a big surprise. Chris fell right through that sheet and landed right on his stomach. And no matter how tight we held on to the sheet, he still managed to get through.
We were shocked and a bit worried and we looked at the ground where he landed. This tiny seventy pound boy had made a hole right through the sheet and landed. He was positioned like one of those chalk drawings you find after a homicide? with one arm near the head another to the side and the knee bent a bit. We might as well have drawn an outline because he wasn’ t moving. So we bent down to check if he was still alive and when we asked him if he was okay he uttered these five words. “Ah stee hi da flow” in other words, “I still hit the floor!” Poor little man! But before you condemn us, Chris is fourteen now and he still bugs us about it, any tree he climbs he gets down on his own and, strangely, he wants to be a fireman when he grows up. Now he can write that he had personal experience about jumping and catching. See, no harm done.
Proud of You
为你骄傲
Jerry Harpt
Forty—three years seems like a long time to remember the name of a mere acquaintance. I have forgotten the name of an old lady, who was a customer on the paper route in my home town when I was a twelve—year—old boy. Yet it dwells in my memory that she taught me a lesson in forgiveness that I shall never forget.
On a winter afternoon, a friend and I were throwing stones onto the slanted roof of the old lady’ s house from a spot near her backyard. The object of our play was to observe how the stones changed to missiles?? as they rolled to the roof’ s edge and shot out into the yard like comets falling from the sky. I found myself a perfectly smooth rock and threw it out. The stone was too smooth, however, so it slipped from my hand as I let it go and headed straight not for the roof but for a small window on the old lady’ s back porch At the sound of fractured glass, we knew we were in trouble. We turned tail and ran faster than any of our missiles flew off her roof.
I was too scared about getting caught that first night to be concerned about the old lady with the broken window in winter. However, a few days later, when I was sure that I hadn’ t been discovered, I started to feel guilty for her misfortune. She still greeted me with a smile each day when I gave her the paper, but I was no longer able to act comfortable in her presence.
I made up my mind that I would save my paper delivery money, and in three weeks I had the seven dollars that I calculated would cover the cost of her window. I put the money in an envelope with a note explaining that I was sorry for breaking her window and hoped that the seven dollars would cover the cost for repairing it.
I waited until it was dark, snuck up to the old lady’ s house, and put the letter I didn’ t sign through the letter slot in her door. My soul felt redeemed?? and I could have the freedom of, once again, looking straight into the old lady’ s kind eyes.
The next day, I handed the old lady her paper and was able to return the warm smile that I was receiving from her. She thanked me for the paper and gave me a bag of cookies she had made herself. I thanked her and proceeded to eat the cookies as I continued my route.
After several cookies, I felt an envelope and pulled it out of the bag. When I opened the envelope, I was stunned. Inside were the seven dollars and a short note that said, “I’ m proud of you.”
Somewhere a Room of One’ s Own
我的小天地
Susan Branch
My room at home was too small for me. I barely had room for all the little knickknacks I’ d collected over the years. There were so many things I had to pack away in boxes and store in closets all over the house. Oftentimes I didn’ t quite remember exactly where everything was.
There were all the notes my girlfriends and I passed throughout junior high, along with all the goofy?? poems my first boyfriend paid his friends to write and passed along to me as his originals. I also had a separate box for rose petals collected from past birthdays, Valentine’ s Days, anniversaries, and proms. I kept all my pictures in neatly organized albums on the bottom shelf of my bookcase. I had jewelry that I never wore but I thought I might someday need stashed away all over my room. I also saved birthday and Christmas cards, leaves that had fallen from the trees the previous fall, and medals I won for participating in piano recitals. On another shelf of my bookcase I even had a brick I found on the playground at my elementary school.
I’ m not exactly sure why I saved everything, but I have some sort of idea. I never wanted to forget the great times I’ d had growing up. I always feared I’ d become one of those adults who couldn’ t relate to children because they simply couldn’ t remember having been children themselves. I wanted to remember the flowers my brother gave me when no other boy would. I wanted to someday look back at pictures of my first trip to Panama City. For some strange reason, I wanted to remember the day my playmates and I found that broken brick on the playground and thought our school was being broken into.