英語閱讀素材

　　英語閱讀：ThreePeachStones

　　Observe a child; any one will do. You will see that not a day passes in which he does not find something or other to make him happy, though he may be in tears the next moment. Then look at a man; any one of us will do. You will notice that weeks and months can pass in which day is greeted with nothing more than resignation1, and endure with every polite indifference. Indeed, most men are as miserable as sinners, though they are too bored to sin-perhaps their sin is their indifference2. But it is true that they so seldom smile that when they do we do not recognize their face, so distorted is it from the fixed mask we take for granted3. And even then a man can not smile like a child, for a child smiles with his eyes, whereas a man smiles with his lips alone. It is not a smile; but a grin; something to do with humor4, but little to do with happiness. And then, as anyone can see, there is a point (but who can define that point?) when a man becomes an old man, and then he will smile again.

　　It would seem that happiness is something to do with simplicity, and that it is the ability to extract pleasure form the simplest things-such as a peach stone, for instance.

　　It is obvious that it is nothing to do with success. For Sir Henry Stewart was certainly successful. It is twenty years ago since he came down to our village from London, and bought a couple of old cottages, which he had knocked into one. He used his house a s weekend refuge5. He was a barrister. And the village followed his brilliant career with something almost amounting to paternal pride.

　　I remember some ten years ago when he was made a King's Counsel6, Amos and I, seeing him get off the London train, went to congratulate him. We grinned with pleasure; he merely looked as miserable as though he'd received a penal sentence. It was the same when he was knighted; he never smiled a bit, he didn't even bother to celebrate with a round of drinks at the "Blue Fox"7. He took his success as a child does his medicine. And not one of his achievements brought even a ghost of a smile to his tired eyes.

　　I asked him one day, soon after he'd retired to potter about his garden,8 what is was like to achieve all one's ambitions. He looked down at his roses and went on watering them. Then he said "The only value in achieving one's ambition is that you then realize that they are not worth achieving." Quickly he moved the conversation on to a more practical level, and within a moment we were back to a safe discussion on the weather. That was two years ago.

　　I recall this incident, for yesterday, I was passing his house, and had drawn up my cart just outside his garden wall. I had pulled in from the road for no other reason than to let a bus pass me. As I set there filling my pipe, I suddenly heard a shout of sheer joy come from the other side of the wall.

　　I peered over. There stood Sir Henry doing nothing less than a tribal war dance9 of sheer unashamed ecstasy. Even when he observed my bewildered face staring over the wall he did not seem put out10 or embarrassed, but shouted for me to climb over.

　　英語閱讀：FiveBallsOfLife

　　This was written by the CEO of Coca-Cola Brian G. Dyson.It was used as Georgia Tech's Commencement Address:

　　Imagine life as a game in which you are juggling some five balls in the air. You name them work, family, health, friends and spirit and you’re keeping all of these in the air. You will soon understand that work is a rubber ball. If you drop it, it will bounce back.But the other four balls family, health, friends and spirit are made of glass. If you drop one of these, they will be irrevocably scuffed, marked, nicked, damaged or even shattered. They will never be the same. You must understand that and strive for balance in your life. How?

　　Don’t undermine your worth by comparing yourself with others. It is because we are different that each of us is special.

　　Don’t set your goals by what other people deem important. Only you know what is best for you.

　　Don’t take for granted the things closest to your heart. Cling to them as they would be your life, for without them, life is meaningless.

　　Don’t let your life slip through your fingers by living in the past or for the future. By living your life one day at a time, you live ALL the days of your life.

　　Don’t give up when you still have something to give. Nothing is really over until the moment you stop trying.

　　Don’t be afraid to admit that you are less than perfect. It is this fragile thread that binds us to each together.

　　Don’t be afraid to encounter risks. It is by taking chances that we learn how to be brave.

　　Don’t shut love out of your life by saying it’s impossible to find. The quickest way to receive love is to give it; the fastest way to lose love is to hold it too tightly; and the best way to keep love is to give it wings.

　　Don’t run through life so fast that you forget not only where you’ve been, but also where you are going.

　　Don’t forget, a person’s greatest emotional need is to feel appreciated.

　　Don’t be afraid to learn. Knowledge is weightless, a treasure you can always carry easily.

　　Don’t use time or words carelessly. Neither can be retrieved.

　　Life is not a race, but a journey to be savored each step of the way.

　　Yesterday is history, Tomorrow is a mystery and Today is a gift: that’s why we call it ‘The Present’.

　　英語閱讀：ALetterintheWallet

　　It was a freezing day, a few years ago, when I stumbled upon a wallet in the street. There was no identification inside. Just three dollars, and a crumpled letter that looked as if it had been carried around for years.

　　The only thing legible on the torn envelope was the return address. I opened the letter and saw that it had been written in 1944 — almost 60 years ago. I read it carefully, hoping to find some clue to the identity of the wallet's owner.

　　It was a "Dear John" letter. The writer, in a delicate script, told the recipient, whose name was Michael, that her mother forbade her to see him again. Nevertheless, she would always love him. It was signed Hannah.

　　It was a beautiful letter. But there was no way, beyond the name Michael, to identify the owner. Perhaps if I called information the operator could find the phone number for the address shown on the envelope.

　　"Operator, this is an unusual request. I'm trying to find the owner of a wallet I found. Is there any way you could tell me the phone number for an address that was on a letter in the wallet?"

　　The operator gave me her supervisor, who said there was a phone listed at the address, but that she could not give me the number. However, she would call and explain the situation. Then, if the party wanted to talk, she would connect me. I waited a minute and she came back on the line. "I have a woman who will speak with you."

　　I asked the woman if she knew a Hannah.

　　"Oh, of course! We bought this house from Hannah's family thirty years ago."

　　"Would you know where they could be located now?" I asked.

　　"Hannah had to place her mother in a nursing home years ago. Maybe the home could help you track down the daughter."

　　The woman gave me the name of the nursing home. I called and found out that Hannah's mother had died. The woman I spoke with gave me an address where she thought Hannah could be reached.

　　I phoned. The woman who answered explained that Hannah herself was now living in a nursing home. She gave me the number. I called and was told, "Yes, Hannah is with us."

　　I asked if I could stop by to see her. It was almost 10 p.m. The director said Hannah might be asleep. "But if you want to take a chance, maybe she's in the day room watching television."

　　The director and a guard greeted me at the door of the nursing home. We went up to the third floor and saw the nurse, who told us that Hannah was indeed watching TV.

　　We entered the day room. Hannah was a sweet, silver-haired old-timer with a warm smile and friendly eyes. I told her about finding the wallet and showed her the letter. The second she saw it, she took a deep breath. "Young man," she said, "this letter was the last contact I had with Michael." She looked away for a moment, then said pensively, "I loved him very much. But I was only sixteen and my mother felt I was too young. He was so handsome. You know, like Sean Connery, the actor."

　　英語閱讀：INeverWriteRight

　　When I was fifteen, I announced to my English class that I was going to write and illustrate my own books. Half the students sneered, the rest nearly fell out of their chairs laughing. “Don’t be silly, only geniuses can become writers,” the English teacher said smugly, “And you are getting a D this semester.” I was so humiliated I burst into tears.

　　That night I wrote a short sad poem about broken dreams and mailed it to the Capri’s Weekly newspaper. To my astonishment, they published it and sent me two dollars. I was a published and paid writer. I showed my teacher and fellow students. They laughed. “Just plain dumb luck,” the teacher said. I tasted success. I’d sold the first thing I’d ever written. That was more than any of them had done and if it was just dumb luck, that was fine with me.

　　During the next two years I sold dozens of poems, letters, jokes and recipes. By the time I graduated from high school, with a C minus average, I had scrapbooks filled with my published work. I never mentioned my writing to my teachers, friends or my family again. They were dream killers and if people must choose between their friends and their dreams, they must always choose their dreams.

　　I had four children at the time, and the oldest was only four. While the children napped, I typed on my ancient typewriter. I wrote what I felt. It took nine months, just like a baby. I chose a publisher at random and put the manuscript in an empty Pampers diapers package, the only box I could find. I’d never heard of manuscript boxes. The letter I enclosed read, “I wrote this book myself, I hope you like it. I also do the illustrations. Chapter six and twelve are my favourites. Thank you.” I tied a string around the diaper box and mailed it without a self addressed stamped envelope and without making a copy of the manuscript.

　　A month later I received a contract, an advance on royalties, and a request to start working on another book. Crying Wind, the title of my book, became a best seller, was translated into fifteen languages and Braille and sold worldwide. I appeared on TV talk shows during the day and changed diapers at night. I traveled from New York to California and Canada on promotional tours. My first book also became required reading in native American schools in Canada.

　　The worst year I ever had as a writer I earned two dollars. I was fifteen, remember? In my best year I earned 36,000 dollars. Most years I earned between five thousand and ten thousand. No, it isn’t enough to live on, but it’s still more than I’d make working part time and it’s five thousand to ten thousand more than I’d make if I didn’t write at all. People ask what college I attended, what degrees I had and what qualifications I have to be a writer. The answer is: “None.” I just write. I’m not a genius. I’m not gifted and I don’t write right. I’m lazy, undisciplined, and spend more time with my children and friends than I do writing. I didn’t own a thesaurus until four years ago and I use a small Webster’s dictionary that I’d bought at K-Mart for 89 cents. I use an electric typewriter that I paid a hundred and twenty nine dollars for six years ago. I’ve never used a word processor. I do all the cooking, cleaning and laundry for a family of six and fit my writing in a few minutes here and there. I write everything in longhand on yellow tablets while sitting on the sofa with my four kids eating pizza and watching TV. When the book is finished, I type it and mail it to the publisher. I’ve written eight books. Four have been published and three are still out with the publishers. One stinks. To all those who dream of writing, I’m shouting at you: “Yes, you can. Yes, you can. Don’t listen to them.” I don’t write right but I’ve beaten the odds. Writing is easy, it’s fun and anyone can do it. Of course, a little dumb luck doesn’t hurt。

　　英語閱讀：ThePowerfulGiftofLove

　　The passengers on the bus watched sympathetically as the attractive young woman with the white cane made her way carefully up the steps. She paid the driver and, using her hands to feel the location of the seats, walked down the aisle and found the seat he'd told her was empty. Then she settled in, placed her briefcase on her lap and rested her cane against her leg.

　　It had been a year since Susan, 34, became blind. Due to a medical misdiagnosis she had been rendered sightless, and she was suddenly thrown into a world of darkness, anger, frustration and self pity. And all she had to cling to was her husband, Mark.

　　Mark was an Air Force officer and he loved Susan with all his heart. When she first lost her sight, he watched her sink into despair and was determined to help his wife gain the strength and confidence she needed to become independent again.

　　Finally, Susan felt ready to return to her job, but how would she get there? She used to take the bus, but was now too frightened to get around the city by herself. Mark volunteered to drive her to work each day, even though they worked at opposite ends of the city.

　　At first, this comforted Susan, and fulfilled Mark's need to protect his sightless wife who was so insecure about performing the slightest task. Soon, however, Mark realized the arrangement wasn't working. Susan is going to have to start taking the bus again, he admitted to himself. But she was still so fragile, so angry - how would she react?

　　Just as he predicted, Susan was horrified at the idea of taking the bus again. "I'm blind!", she responded bitterly. "How am I supposed to know where I am going? I feel like you're abandoning me."

　　Mark's heart broke to hear these words, but he knew what had to be done. He

　　promised Susan that each morning and evening he would ride the bus with her, for as long as it took, until she got the hang of it.

　　And that is exactly what happened. For two solid weeks, Mark, military uniform and all, accompanied Susan to and from work each day. He taught her how to rely on her other senses, specifically her hearing, to determine where she was and how to adapt her new environment. He helped her befriend the bus drivers who could watch out for her, and save her a seat.

　　Finally, Susan decided that she was ready to try the trip on her own. Monday morning arrived, and before she left, she threw her arms around Mark, her temporary bus riding companion, her husband, and her best friend. Her eyes filled with tears of gratitude for his loyalty, his patience, and his love. She said good-bye, and for the first time, they went their separate ways.

　　Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday... Each day on her own went perfectly, and Susan had never felt better. She was doing it! She was going to work all by herself.

　　On Friday morning, Susan took the bus to work as usual. As she was paying the fare to exit the bus, the driver said, "Boy, I sure do envy you."

　　英語閱讀：TheFishermanandHisWife

　　There was once on a time a Fisherman who lived with his wife in a miserable hovel close by the sea, and every day he went out fishing. And once as he was sitting with his rod, looking at the clear water, his line suddenly went down, far down below, and when he drew it up again he brought out a large Flounder. Then the Flounder said to him, "Hark, you Fisherman, I pray you, let me live, I am no Flounder really, but an enchanted prince. What good will it do you to kill me? I should not be good to eat, put me in the water again, and let me go." "Come," said the Fisherman, "there is no need for so many words about it -- a fish that can talk I should certainly let go, anyhow," with that he put him back again into the clear water, and the Flounder went to the bottom, leaving a long streak of blood behind him. Then the Fisherman got up and went home to his wife in the hovel.

　　"Husband," said the woman, "have you caught nothing to-day?" "No," said the man, "I did catch a Flounder, who said he was an enchanted prince, so I let him go again." "Did you not wish for anything first?" said the woman. "No," said the man; "what should I wish for?" "Ah," said the woman, "it is surely hard to have to live always in this dirty hovel; you might have wished for a small cottage for us. Go back and call him. Tell him we want to have a small cottage, he will certainly give us that." "Ah," said the man, "why should I go there again?" "Why," said the woman, "you did catch him, and you let him go again; he is sure to do it. Go at once." The man still did not quite like to go, but did not like to oppose his wife, and went to the sea.

　　When he got there the sea was all green and yellow, and no longer so smooth; so he stood still and said,

　　"Flounder, flounder in the sea,

　　Come, I pray thee, here to me;

　　For my wife, good Ilsabil,

　　Wills not as I'd have her will."

　　Then the Flounder came swimming to him and said, "Well what does she want, then?" "Ah," said the man, "I did catch you, and my wife says I really ought to have wished for something. She does not like to live in a wretched hovel any longer. She would like to have a cottage." "Go, then," said the Flounder, "she has it already."

　　When the man went home, his wife was no longer in the hovel, but instead of it there stood a small cottage, and she was sitting on a bench before the door. Then she took him by the hand and said to him, "Just come inside, look, now isn't this a great deal better?" So they went in, and there was a small porch, and a pretty little parlor and bedroom, and a kitchen and pantry, with the best of furniture, and fitted up with the most beautiful things made of tin and brass, whatsoever was wanted. And behind the cottage there was a small yard, with hens and ducks, and a little garden with flowers and fruit. "Look," said the wife, "is not that nice!" "Yes," said the husband, "and so we must always think it, -- now we will live quite contented." "We will think about that," said the wife. With that they ate something and went to bed.