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(完整word)英语阅读 The Story of An HourKnowingthatMrs.Mallardwasafflictedwithahearttrouble,greatcarewastakentobreaktoher asgentlyaspossiblethenewsofherhusbandsdeath。ItwashersisterJosephinewhotoldher，inbrokensentences；veiledhintsthatrevealedinhalfconcealing。HerhusbandsfriendRichardswasthere,too,nearher。Itwashewhohadbeeninthenewspaperofficewhenintelligenceofthedisasterwasreceived，withBrentlyMallardsnameleadingthelistofkilled。Hehadonlytakenthetimetoassurehimselfofitstruthbyasecondtelegram,andhadhastenedtoforestallanylesscareful，lesstenderfriendinbearingthesadmessage.Shedidnothearthestoryasmanywomenhaveheardthesame，withaparalyzedinabilitytoacceptitssignificance.Sheweptatonce,withsudden，wildabandonment，inhersistersarms.Whenthestormofgriefhadspentitselfshewentawaytoherroomalone.Shewouldhavenoonefollowher.Therestood,facingtheopenwindow，acomfortable,roomyarmchair.Intothisshesank，presseddownbyaphysicalexhaustionthathauntedherbodyandseemedtoreachintohersoul.Shecouldseeintheopensquarebeforeherhousethetopsoftreesthatwereallaquiverwiththenewspringlife.Thedeliciousbreathofrainwasintheair。Inthestreetbelowapeddlerwascryinghiswares。Thenotesofadistantsongwhichsomeonewassingingreachedherfaintly,andcountlesssparrowsweretwitteringintheeaves。Therewerepatchesofblueskyshowinghereandtherethroughthecloudsthathadmetandpiledoneabovetheotherinthewestfacingherwindow.Shesatwithherheadthrownbackuponthecushionofthechair，quitemotionless,exceptwhenasobcameupintoherthroatandshookher,asachildwhohascrieditselftosleepcontinuestosobinitsdreams。Shewasyoung，withafair，calmface，whoselinesbespokerepressionandevenacertainstrength.Butnowtherewasadullstareinhereyes,whosegazewasfixedawayoffyonderononeofthosepatchesofbluesky.Itwasnotaglanceofreflection,butratherindicatedasuspensionofintelligentthought。Therewassomethingcomingtoherandshewaswaitingforit，fearfully.Whatwasit?Shedidnotknow;itwastoosubtleandelusivetoname。Butshefeltit，creepingoutofthesky，reachingtowardherthroughthesounds，thescents,thecolorthatfilledtheair。Nowherbosomroseandfelltumultuously。Shewasbeginningtorecognizethisthingthatwasapproachingtopossessher,andshewasstrivingtobeatitbackwithherwill-aspowerlessashertwowhiteslenderhandswouldhavebeen。Whensheabandonedherselfalittlewhisperedwordescapedherslightlypartedlips.Shesaiditoverandoverunderherbreath:”free,free,free！Thevacantstareandthelookofterrorthathadfolloweditwentfromhereyes。Theystayedkeenandbright.Herpulsesbeatfast,andthecoursingbloodwarmedandrelaxedeveryinchofherbody。Shedidnotstoptoaskifitwereorwerenotamonstrousjoythatheldher。Aclearandexaltedperceptionenabledhertodismissthesuggestionastrivial。Sheknewthatshewouldweepagainwhenshesawthekind，tenderhandsfoldedindeath;thefacethathadneverlookedsavewithloveuponher,fixedandgrayanddead。Butshesawbeyondthatbittermomentalongprocessionofyearstocomethatwouldbelongtoherabsolutely.Andsheopenedandspreadherarmsouttotheminwelcome.Therewouldbenoonetoliveforduringthosecomingyears；shewouldliveforherself。Therewouldbenopowerfulwillbendinghersinthatblindpersistencewithwhichmenandwomenbelievetheyhavearighttoimposeaprivatewilluponafellow-creature。Akindintentionoracruelintentionmadetheactseemnolessacrimeasshelookeduponitinthatbriefmomentofillumination.Andyetshehadlovedhimsometimes.Oftenshehadnot。Whatdiditmatter!Whatcouldlove，theunsolvedmystery,countforinfaceofthispossessionofself-assertionwhichshesuddenlyrecognizedasthestrongestimpulseofherbeing!Free！Bodyandsoulfree!shekeptwhispering。Josephinewaskneelingbeforethecloseddoorwithherlipstothekeyhole,imploringforadmission.Louise,openthedoor！Ibeg，openthedoor-youwillmakeyourselfill.WhatareyoudoingLouise?Forheavenssakeopenthedoor.”Goaway。Iamnotmakingmyselfill.”No；shewasdrinkinginaveryelixiroflifethroughthatopenwindow.Herfancywasrunningriotalongthosedaysaheadofher。Springdays，andsummerdays,andallsortsofdaysthatwouldbeherown.Shebreathedaquickprayerthatlifemightbelong.Itwasonlyyesterdayshehadthoughtwithashudderthatlifemightbelong。Shearoseatlengthandopenedthedoortohersistersimportunities。Therewasafeverishtriumphinhereyes,andshecarriedherselfunwittinglylikeagoddessofVictory.Sheclaspedhersisterswaist,andtogethertheydescendedthestairs.Richardsstoodwaitingforthematthebottom.Someonewasopeningthefrontdoorwithalatchkey.ItwasBrentlyMallardwhoentered,alittletravelstained，composedlycarryinghisgrip-sackandumbrella。Hehadbeenfarfromthesceneofaccident,anddidnotevenknowtherehadbeenone.HestoodamazedatJosephinespiercingcry;atRichardsquickmotiontoscreenhimfromtheviewofhiswife.ButRichardswastoolate。Whenthedoctorscametheysaidshehaddiedofheartdisease-ofjoythatkills。EarlyAutumn-ByLangstonHughesWhenBillwasveryyoung,theyhadbeeninlove.Manynightstheyhadspentwalking，talkingtogether.Thensomethingnotveryimportanthadcomebetweenthem，andtheydidntspeak。Impulsively，shehadmarriedamanshethoughtsheloved。Billwentaway,bitteraboutwomen.Yesterday,walkingacrossWashingtonSquare,shesawhimforthefirsttimeinyears。“BillWalker,”shesaid.Hestopped。Atfirsthedidnotrecognizeher；tohimshelookedsoold.“Mary!Wheredidyoucomefrom？”Unconsciously,sheliftedherfaceasthoughwantingakiss，butheheldouthishand.Shetookit。“IliveinNewYorknow,”shesaid.“Oh.”-Smilingpolitely,thenalittlefrowncamequicklybetweenhiseyes。“Alwayswonderedwhathappenedtoyou，Bill.”“Imalawyer.Nicefirm,waydowntown.”“Marriedyet？“Sure.Twokids。”“Oh，”shesaid。Agreatmanypeoplewentpastthemthroughthepark。Peopletheydidntknow.Itwaslateafternoon.Nearlysunset.Cold。“Andyourhusband？”heaskedher。“Wehavethreechildren.Iworkinthebursarsoffice（大学财务处)atColumbia.“Youarelookingvery”(hewantedtosayold）“well，”hesaid。2Sheunderstood。UnderthetreesinWashingtonSquare，shefoundherselfdesperatelyreachingbackintothepast.ShehadbeenolderthanhetheninOhio.Nowshewasnotyoungatall.Billwasstillyoung。“WeliveonCentralParkWest,shesaid.“Comeandseeussometime.”“Sure,”hereplied.“Youandyourhusbandmusthavedinnerwithmyfamilysomenight。Anynight。LucilleandIdlovetohaveyou。”TheleavesfellslowlyfromthetreeintheSquare.Fellwithoutwind。Autumndusk。Shefeltalittlesick.“Wedloveit,”sheanswered.“Yououghttoseemykids。”Hegrinned。SuddenlythelightscameonupthewholelengthofFifthAvenue,chainsofmistybrillianceintheblueair。“Theresmybus,shesaid.Heheldouthishand。“Goodbye。“When”,shewantedtosay,butthebuswasreadytopulloff。Thelightsontheavenueblurred,twinkled，blurred.Andshewasafraidtoopenhermouthassheenteredthebus.Afraiditwouldbeimpossibletoutteraword。Suddenlysheshriekedveryloudly，“Good-bye!”Butthebusdoorhadclosed。Thebusstarted。Peoplecamebetweenthemoutside,peoplecrossingthestreet，peopletheydidntknow。Spaceandpeople。ShelostsightofBill.ThensherememberedshehadforgottentogivehimheraddressortoaskhimforhisortellhimthatheryoungestboywasnamedBill,too。 APiece of Yellow Soap by Frank SargesonShe is dead now, that woman who used to hold a great piece of soap in her hand as she stood at her kitchen door. I was a milkman in those days。 The woman owed a bill to the firm I worked for，and each Saturday I was expected to collect a sum that would pay for the weeks milk,and pay something off the amount overdue. Well, I never collected anything at all。 It was because of that piece of yellow soap.I shall never forget those Saturday mornings. The woman had two advantages over me。 She used to stand at the top of the steps and I used to stand at the bottom； and she always came out holding a piece of yellow soap. We used to argue。 I would always start off by being very firm。 Didnt my living depend on my getting money out of the people I served ? but out of this woman I never got a penny。 The more I argued the tighter the woman would curl her fingers on to the soap ;and her fingers， just out of the washtub, were always bloodless and shrunken。 I knew what they must have felt like to her。 I didnt like getting my own fingers bloodless and shrunken。 My eyes would get fixed on her fingers and the soap， and after a few minutes I would lose all power to look the woman in the face。 I would mumble something to myself and take myself off.I have often wondered whether the woman knew anything about the power her piece of yellow soap had over me， whether she used it as effectively on other tradesmen as she used it on me。 I cant help feeling that she did know. Sometimes I used to pass her along the street， out of working hours. She acknowledged me only by staring at me， her eyes like pieces of rock。She had a way too of feeling inside her handbag as she passed me， and I always had the queer feeling that she caried there a piece of soap. It was her talisman powerful to work wonders, to create ound her a circle through which the more desperate harshnesses of the world could never penetrate。Well， she is dead now, that woman . if she has passed into Heaven I cant help wondering whether she passed in holding tight to a piece of yellow washing soap. Im not sure that I believe I dont doubt that when He looked at that piece of yellow washing soap He felt ashamed of Himself。-The washwomanOur 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, possessed 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 week later. My mother had never been so pleased with any washwoman。 Every piece of laundry was as clean as polished silver. Every piece was nearly 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 blessed. 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 business 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 bitterness。 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 altarThe story of the faithless son left a deep impression 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 tear to warm herself, as well as some bread。 The old woman sat on a kitchen chair trebling 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 the stubbornness of mankind， of the will to work not only as ones strength permits but beyond the limits of ones power。The bag was big， bigger than usual。 When she 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 stubbornness 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 passed. 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