英文故事,长一点的,有哲理的,两页a4纸,不要是有名的故事

英文故事,长一点的,有哲理的,两页a4纸,不要是有名的故事
英文故事,长一点的,
有哲理的,两页a4纸,不要是有名的故事

英文故事,长一点的,有哲理的,两页a4纸,不要是有名的故事
1. The Piece of String 一根小绳头
The Incident That Changed a Man’s Life
On all the roads about Goderville, the peasants were coming toward the town, for it was market day.
Some led a cow or a calf, and some carried on their arms great baskets, from which heads of chickens or of ducks were thrust forth.
Master Hauchecorne, from Breaute, was walking toward the central square when he observed a remnant of string lying on the ground.
Economical, like every true Norman, he thought that it was well to pick up everything that may be of use, and he stooped painfully, for he suffered with rheumatism.
He was just about to roll it up carefully when he noticed, standing in the doorway watching him, Monsieur Malandain, the harness maker, with whom he had formerly had a dispute over a harness.
Hauchecorne felt a sort of shame at being seen thus by his enemy, fumbling in the mud for a bit of string.
He hurriedly concealed his treasure; then he pretended to look on the ground for something else, which he didn’t find; and finally he went on toward the market, his head thrust forward, bent double by his pains.
He lost himself at once in the slow­moving, shouting crowd, kept in a state of continuous excitement by the interminable bargaining.
The peasants felt of the cows, went away, returned, sorely perplexed, always afraid of being cheated.
The women listened to offers for their fowls, adhered to their prices, short of speech and impassive of face; or else, suddenly deciding to accept the lower price offered, would call out to the customer as he walked slowly away: “all right ,Mast’Anthime. You can have it.”
Then, little by little, at the approach of midday, the square became empty as the peasants and the customers betook themselves to the various inns for their meal.
At Jourdain’s the common room was full of customers feasting on chickens, pigeons, and legs of mutton.
Suddenly a drum rolled in the yard, and in an instant everybody was on his feet, save a few indifferent ones; and they all ran to the door and windows.
Having finished his long tattoo, the public crier shouted in a jerky voice,making his pauses in the wrong places:
“The people of Godervile, and all those present at the market are informed that between nine and ten o’clock this morning on the Beuzeville―road, a black leather wallet was lost, containing five hundred Francs, and business papers. The finder is requested to carry it to the major’s office at once, or to Master Fortune Houlbreque of Manneville. A reward of twenty francs will be paid.”
Then he went away, leaving the dinners to discuss the incident, reckoning Master Houlbreque’s chance of recovering his wallet.
They were finishing their coffee when the corporal of gendarmes appeared in the doorway and inquired for Master Hauchecorne of Breaute, instructing him to appear at the mayor’s office.
The pesant, surprised and disturbed, drank his petit verre at one swallow, rose, and started off, repeating: “Here I am, here I am.”
The major was waiting for them seated in an armchair, pompous, stout, and solemn-faced.
“Master Hauchecorne,” he said, “you were seen this morning, on the Beuzewille road, picking up the wallet lost by Master Houlbreque of Manneville.”
The rustic, dumbfounded, stared at the mayor, already alarmed by this suspicion which had fallen upon him, although he failed to understand it.
He denied the accusation, upon which the mayor informed Monsieur Malandain, the harness marker.
Then the old man remembered and understood; and flushing with anger, he cried: “Ah! He saw me, did he, that sneak? He saw me pick up this string, look m’sieu’ mayor.”
And fumbling in the depths of his pocket, he produced the little piece of cord.
But he mayor was incredulous and shook his head. “You won’t make me believe, Madter Hauchecorne, that Monsieur Malandain, who is a man deserving of credit, mistook this string for a wallet.”
“It’s God’s own truth, the sacred truth, all the same, m’sieu’ mayor. I say it again, by my soul and my salvation.”
“After picking it up,” rejoined the mayor,” you hunted a long while in the mud, to see if some piece of money hadn’t fallen out.”
The good man was overcome by wrath and fear.
“If anyone can tell—if anyone can tell lies that, to ruin an honest man! If anyone can say –”
To no purpose did he protest; he was not believed, but confronted with Monsieur Malandain.
They insulted each other for a whole hour during which ,at his own request, Master Hauchecorne was searched.
They found nothing on him.
The mayor, perplexed, discharged him but warned that he proposed to inform the prosecuting attorney’s office and to ask for orders.
The news had spread. On leaving the mayor’s office, the old man was surrounded and questioned with serious or bantering curiosity.
When he began to tell the story of the string, they laughed at him.
He went his way, stopping his acquaintances, repeating again and again his story and his protestations, showing his pockets turned inside out, to prove that he had nothing.
They said to him: “You old rogue ,va !”
And he lashed himself into a rage, feverish with excitement, desperate because he was not believed, at a loss what to do, and still telling his story until night fell.
He was ill over it at night.
The next afternoon, about one o’clock, a farm hand employed by a farmer of Ymauville surrendered the wallet and its contents.
He claimed that he had found it on the road; but, being unable to read the name, he had carried it home and given it to his employer.
When the news reached Master Hauchecorne he started out triumphant to tell his story again.
He noticed,however, that people seemed to laugh while they listened to him –they did not seem convinced.
He felt as if remarks were made behind his back.
And then, on Tuesday of the next week, he went to market at Goderville, impelled solely by the longing to tell his story and have someone believe him.
He accosted a farmer from Criquetot, who did not let him finish, but poked him in the pit of his stomach, and shouted in his face: “Go on, you old fox !” Then he turned on his heel.
When he was seated at the table in Jourdain’s Inn, he was interrupted by a horse trader from Montvillivers: “Nonsense, nonsense, you old dodger! I know all about your string!”
“But they have found the wallet!” faltered Hauchecorne.
“None of that, old boy; there’s one who finds it, and there’s one who carries it back. I don’t know just how you did it, but I understand you.”
The peasant was fairly stunned. He understood at last.
He was accused of having sent the wallet back by a confederate, an accomplice.
He returned home, shamefaced and indignant, suffocated by wrath, by confusion, and all the more cast down because, with his Norman cunning, he was quite capable of doing the thing with which he was charged, and even of boasting of it as a shrewd trick.
His innocence was impossible to established, his craftiness being so well known.
And he was cut to the heart by the injustice of the suspicion.
He made the story longer, added new arguments, and made more solemn oaths, but the more complicated his defense the less he was believed.
He exhausted himself in vain efforts; he grew perceptibly thinner and in late December, took to his bed.
In January he died, in the delirium of his death agony still protesting his innocence, repeating, “A little piece of string –a little piece of string –see, here it is, m’sieu’ mayor .”
2. The Hangover宿醉
There’s no such thing as a good hangover.
They’re all bad.
But some are worse than others, and this one’s a killer.
I feel as though only every fourth or fifth brain cell is working, the rest mired in the slush left over from last night’s partying.
I had a good time at Pete and Sue’s.
At last, I think I had a good time.
I recall arriving at around seven, earlier than most of their invited guests.
Pete poured me a tall Scotch and water, but it seemed to evaporate quickly.
Being the good host, he continued to refresh the glass for me until, until…
The last thing I remember was talking to Vivian, the new computer genius at work.
I can’t remember what happened after that, but there’s no sign of her here, so I guess I struck out.
I’ll call Pete later and ask him. Maybe he’ll remember.
My hands are shaking so badly I can’t drink my coffee like a civilized human.
I have to put the cup down and lower my mouth to the brim, sucking up the hot liquid like a vacuum cleaner.
It looks like I’ll spend the day relaxing, recuperating, regurgitating.
Of course, they say the best and fastest cure for a hangover is a drink.
The way my insides feel now, I think I’ll stick to coffee for the time being.
I sit, collapse is more like it, in my favorite chair and turn on the TV.
Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to find some mindless sitcom that’ll help divert attention from my churning, grumbling stomach.
Even my name hurts.
All I can find are the midday news broadcasts.
There’s the story about the convenience store that was robbed of “an undisclosed amount” of cash; the tear—jerker about the twins who were reunited after twenty-six years apart; the hit-and-run death of a boy, ten year old, who was riding his bicycle home after visiting a friend.
Hit and run.
Ten years old.
What a shame!
I will be forever grateful to the person who invented the remote control, the gadget which has singularly redefined the act of loafing and transformed it into an art form.
With my faithful control box I am able to mount the mythical surfboard and hang ten while I effortlessly soar through all ninety worlds the cable company provides for my entertainment and edification.
All without moving more than one or two small muscles.
The hangover, miserable as it makes me feel, is worth the fun of the drink, I think I’m ready for one now.
I have to do something to steady my hands and make this awful, sick feeling go away.
I pour myself a Scotch and water. Just a small one.
Enough to get me right, to make me feel normal again.
The first one always tastes horrible, like drain cleaner.
But, the rock-steady hands and the healthy feeling make it worth the brief suffering.
Before I know it, I’m back to the local news.
The announcer now says the police are looking for a dark blue sedan in connection with the hit-and-run killing of that boy.
The incident took place about mid-way between Pere’s house and here.
My insides suddenly turn to ice as I realize that I probably passed near that area on my way home last night while drinking my dark blue sedan.
I don’t remember leaving Pete’s and I certainly don’t remember the ride home.
But I’m a good driver, a careful driver.
I couldn’t have done anything as horrible as that.
An overwhelming fear takes possession of me.
It is, at once like the sheer terror of drowning, of falling and of burning.
The shaking has now spread throughout my soul.
This sweat drips from all my body, leaving curious patterns of wetness on my shirt and pants.
My fingernails are sweating.
I reach for the bottle of Scotch and pour another drink.
Unintentionally, I fill the tall glass almost to the top.
That is alright.
I just need to stop these frightening shakes.
I turn the temperature down on the thermostat, though I see it’s seventy—two degrees in the house.
I should feel comfortable but I don’t.
I’m still sweating as if it were ninety in here.
Ice. I need ice in my drink.
I put four large cubes into the glass, swirl it around until I can feel the coolness on the glass.
Raising it to my lip, I down the contents, almost in one swallow.
I didn’t intend to drink the whole thing.
I just wanted to cool down.
But that’s alright, I feel better already.
I know I must go outside and look at my car.
Although I know I couldn’t possibly be the one who hit that kid, I’m afraid to look.
The thought of finding a dent on the car causes me to start shaking again.
I reach for the Scotch and take a mouthful, this time straight from the bottle.
But there’s nothing to worry about.
I’m a good driver, a careful driver.
I step outside and approach the car with apprehension.
I must look, but I don’t want to look.
As I near the driver’s side, I see that there is no visible damage.
My heart begins to resume a more normal rhythm as I take a deep breath and circle the automobile to look at the other side.
My heart stops.
There, above and to the right of the headlight, is a dent the size of a basketball.
My limbs begin to tremble violently and I run back inside the house before any of my neighbors see me coming apart.
Wait a minute..
There is a dent
So what?
That only means I hit something.
It doesn’t necessarily mean I hit that boy.
It requires further examination
I need to look for signs like paint, or scratches, or...blood.
Before I go back outside, I need another drink.
Once again, it is empty.
When I return to the car, the bright afternoon sun glaring in my eyes and forcing a squint, I see a small streak of red along the top edge of the dent.
The effect of the sunlight makes it difficult to see the exact shade of red.
I’m unable to tell whether it appears to be paint or…blood.
Hold on here!
It must be paint.
It can’t be blood.
I couldn’t have hit that boy.
I’m a good driver, a careful driver.
I sit back down in my chair, Scotch bottle in hand, and browse through the TV channels, looking for I don’t know what.
I can’t pay attention to the TV.
All I can see is the image of that boy lying in the street, surrounded by his own blood as life leaves him, betrayed by a stranger.
Betrayed by one he trusted to stop or to swerve and avoid hitting him.
One too cowardly to stay and help.
Too cowardly to admit his sin, his crime, and face he is punishment.
That can’t be me!
I’m not capable of doing something so heinous, so unforgivable.

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