一个英语小故事

简短的英语小故事~

There are two boys,they are good friends.One day,they go to the forest together.Suddenly,there comes a big bear, they are very scared.But one of them doesn't say any word, just climb a tree at once without caring his friend.So he is safe.His friend was afaid and disappointed, and he has no idea. Suddenly he gets an idea, he lay down to be dead, when the bear comes up him, he is scared to stop breath. You know the bear doesn't eat dead thing, so it goes away. Then the one who climbs the tree asks the one who is "dead","what did the bear say to you?"He says "It tells me ,don't make friends with that one who will not help you when you are in denger!" 如果太难的话就告诉我，呵呵，我再帮你想想

The Dog And The Shadow 狗和它的影子
A DOG, crossing a bridge over a stream with a piece of flesh in his mouth, saw his own shadow in the water, and took it for that of another Dog, with a piece of meat double his own in size. He therefore let go his own, and fiercely attacked the other Dog, to get his larger piece from him. He thus lost both: that which he grasped at in the water, because it was a shadow; and his own, because the stream swept it away.
一条狗嘴里叼块肉,来到一座桥上.它看见水里有自己的影子, 以为是另一条嘴里也叼着一块比自己那块肉大一倍的狗.它忙丢下自己嘴里的那块肉,猛力地攻击水里的狗.试图去抢它的肉.结果,它两块肉都得不到. 因为那只是一个影子,它自己的影子而已.真正的肉也被水冲走了.

还有:

Which do you find more important, money or friends?
B: Friends, of course.
A: Why?
B: I can always borrow money from friends.

钱和朋友
甲：你认为钱和朋友哪一个更重要？
乙：当然是朋友。
甲：为什么？
乙：我总可以从朋友那儿借到钱

还有:

1.THE ANT AND THE DOVE
蚂蚁和鸽子

One hot day, an ant was searching for some water. After walking around for some time, she came to a spring.

To reach the spring, she had to climb up a blade of grass. While making her way up, she slipped and fell into the water.

She could have drowned if a dove up a nearby tree had not seen her. Seeing that the ant was in trouble, the dove quickly plucked off a leaf and dropped it into the water near the struggling ant. The ant moved towards the leaf and climbed up there. Soon it carried her safely to dry ground.

Just at that time, a hunter nearby was throwing out his net towards the dove, hoping to trap it.

Guessing what he was about to do, the ant quickly bit him on the heel. Feeling the pain, the hunter dropped his net. The dove was quick to fly away to safety.

MORAL: One good turn deserves another.

2.A Simple Gesture 举手之劳

Mark was walking home from school one day when he noticed the boy ahead of him had tripped and dropped all of the books he was carrying, along with two sweaters, a baseball bat, a glove and a small tape recorder. Mark knelt down and helped the boy pick up the scattered articles. Since they were going the same way, he helped to carry part of the burden. As they walked Mark discovered the boy's name was Bill, that he loved video games, baseball and history, and that he was having lots of trouble with his other subjects and that he had just broken up with his girlfriend. They arrived at Bill's home first and Mark was invited in for a Coke and to watch some television. The afternoon passed pleasantly with a few laughs and some shared small talk, then Mark went home. They continued to see each other around school, had lunch together once or twice, then both graduated from junior high school. They ended up in the same high school where they had brief contacts over the years. Finally the long awaited senior year came and three weeks before graduation, Bill asked Mark if they could talk.

Bill reminded him of the day years ago when they had first met. "Did you ever wonder why I was carrying so many things home that day?" asked Bill. "You see, I cleaned out my locker because I didn't want to leave a mess for anyone else. I had stored away some of my mothers sleeping pills and I was going home to commit suicide. But after we spent some time together talking and laughing, I realized that if I had killed myself, I would have missed that time and so many others that might follow. So you see, Mark, when you picked up those books that day, you did a lot more, you saved my life."

-John W. Schlatter (true story)



它们是从美国直接带过来的)
Not long after an old Chinese woman came back to China from her visit to her daughter in the States, she went to a city bank to deposit the US dollars her daughter gave her. At the bank counter, the clerk checked each note carefully to see if the money was real. It made the old lady out of patience.

At last she could not hold any more, uttering. "Trust me, Sir, and trust the money. They are real US dollars. They are directly from America."

它们是从美国直接带来的

一位中国老妇人在美国看望女儿回来不久，到一家市银行存女儿送给她的美元。在银行柜台，银行职员认真检查了每一张钞票，看是否有假。

这种做法让老妇人很不耐烦，最后实在忍耐不住说：“相信我，先生，也请你相信这些钞票。这都是真正的美元，它们是从美国直接带来的

1.A Simple Gesture

Mark was walking home from school one day when he noticed the boy ahead of him had tripped and dropped all of the books he was carrying, along with two sweaters, a baseball bat, a glove and a small tape recorder. Mark knelt down and helped the boy pick up the scattered articles. Since they were going the same way, he helped to carry part of the burden. As they walked Mark discovered the boy's name was Bill, that he loved video games, baseball and history, and that he was having lots of trouble with his other subjects and that he had just broken up with his girlfriend. They arrived at Bill's home first and Mark was invited in for a Coke and to watch some television. The afternoon passed pleasantly with a few laughs and some shared small talk, then Mark went home. They continued to see each other around school, had lunch together once or twice, then both graduated from junior high school. They ended up in the same high school where they had brief contacts over the years. Finally the long awaited senior year came and three weeks before graduation, Bill asked Mark if they could talk.

Bill reminded him of the day years ago when they had first met. "Did you ever wonder why I was carrying so many things home that day?" asked Bill. "You see, I cleaned out my locker because I didn't want to leave a mess for anyone else. I had stored away some of my mothers sleeping pills and I was going home to commit suicide. But after we spent some time together talking and laughing, I realized that if I had killed myself, I would have missed that time and so many others that might follow. So you see, Mark, when you picked up those books that day, you did a lot more, you saved my life."

2.A CHRISTMAS STORY
December 14, 1998

It's just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past 10 years or so.

It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas---oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it-overspending...the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma---the gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think of anything else.

Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike. The inspiration came in an unusual way.

Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior level at the school he attended; and shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church, mostly black.

These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes.

As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler's ears.

It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford. Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn't acknowledge defeat.

Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, "I wish just one of them could have won," he said. "They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them."

Mike loved kids-all kids-and he knew them, having coached little league football, baseball and lacrosse. That's when the idea for his present came.

That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church.

On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me.

His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years.

For each Christmas, I followed the tradition---one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on.

The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal it's contents.

As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure. The story doesn't end there.

You see, we lost Mike last year due to dreaded cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more. Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad.

The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with our grandchildren standing around the tree with wide-eyed anticipation watching as their fathers take down the envelope. Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us.

May we all remember each other, and the Real reason for the season, and His true spirit this year and always. God bless---pass this along to your friends and loved ones.

Author Unknown --- Sent in by Edwin G. Whiting

这里有很多：http://www.rr365.com/Article/reading/200604/5990.html

1872
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
A CHEERFUL TEMPER
by Hans Christian Andersen

FROM my father I received the best inheritance, namely a "good

temper." "And who was my father?" That has nothing to do with the good

temper; but I will say he was lively, good-looking round, and fat;

he was both in appearance and character a complete contradiction to

his profession. "And pray what was his profession and his standing

in respectable society?" Well, perhaps, if in the beginning of a

book these were written and printed, many, when they read it, would

lay the book down and say, "It seems to me a very miserable title, I

don't like things of this sort." And yet my father was not a

skin-dresser nor an executioner; on the contrary, his employment

placed him at the head of the grandest people of the town, and it

was his place by right. He had to precede the bishop, and even the

princes of the blood; he always went first,- he was a hearse driver!

There, now, the truth is out. And I will own, that when people saw

my father perched up in front of the omnibus of death, dressed in

his long, wide, black cloak, and his black-edged, three-cornered hat

on his head, and then glanced at his round, jocund face, round as

the sun, they could not think much of sorrow or the grave. That face

said, "It is nothing, it will all end better than people think." So

I have inherited from him, not only my good temper, but a habit of

going often to the churchyard, which is good, when done in a proper

humor; and then also I take in the Intelligencer, just as he used to

do.

I am not very young, I have neither wife nor children, nor a

library, but, as I said, I read the Intelligencer, which is enough for

me; it is to me a delightful paper, and so it was to my father. It

is of great use, for it contains all that a man requires to know;

the names of the preachers at the church, and the new books which

are published; where houses, servants, clothes, and provisions may

be obtained. And then what a number of subscriptions to charities, and

what innocent verses! Persons seeking interviews and engagements,

all so plainly and naturally stated. Certainly, a man who takes in the

Intelligencer may live merrily and be buried contentedly, and by the

end of his life will have such a capital stock of paper that he can

lie on a soft bed of it, unless he prefers wood shavings for his

resting-place. The newspaper and the churchyard were always exciting

objects to me. My walks to the latter were like bathing-places to my

good humor. Every one can read the newspaper for himself, but come

with me to the churchyard while the sun shines and the trees are

green, and let us wander among the graves. Each of them is like a

closed book, with the back uppermost, on which we can read the title

of what the book contains, but nothing more. I had a great deal of

information from my father, and I have noticed a great deal myself.

I keep it in my diary, in which I write for my own use and pleasure

a history of all who lie here, and a few more beside.

Now we are in the churchyard. Here, behind the white iron

railings, once a rose-tree grew; it is gone now, but a little bit of

evergreen, from a neighboring grave, stretches out its green tendrils,

and makes some appearance; there rests a very unhappy man, and yet

while he lived he might be said to occupy a very good position. He had

enough to live upon, and something to spare; but owing to his

refined tastes the least thing in the world annoyed him. If he went to

a theatre of an evening, instead of enjoying himself he would be quite

annoyed if the machinist had put too strong a light into one side of

the moon, or if the representations of the sky hung over the scenes

when they ought to have hung behind them; or if a palm-tree was

introduced into a scene representing the Zoological Gardens of Berlin,

or a cactus in a view of Tyrol, or a beech-tree in the north of

Norway. As if these things were of any consequence! Why did he not

leave them alone? Who would trouble themselves about such trifles?

especially at a comedy, where every one is expected to be amused. Then

sometimes the public applauded too much, or too little, to please him.

"They are like wet wood," he would say, looking round to see what sort

of people were present, "this evening; nothing fires them." Then he

would vex and fret himself because they did not laugh at the right

time, or because they laughed in the wrong places; and so he fretted

and worried himself till at last the unhappy man fretted himself

into the grave.

Here rests a happy man, that is to say, a man of high birth and

position, which was very lucky for him, otherwise he would have been

scarcely worth notice. It is beautiful to observe how wisely nature

orders these things. He walked about in a coat embroidered all over,

and in the drawing-rooms of society looked just like one of those rich

pearl-embroidered bell-pulls, which are only made for show; and behind

them always hangs a good thick cord for use. This man also had a

stout, useful substitute behind him, who did duty for him, and

performed all his dirty work. And there are still, even now, these

serviceable cords behind other embroidered bell-ropes. It is all so

wisely arranged, that a man may well be in a good humor.

Here rests,- ah, it makes one feel mournful to think of him!-

but here rests a man who, during sixty-seven years, was never

remembered to have said a good thing; he lived only in the hope of

having a good idea. At last he felt convinced, in his own mind, that

he really had one, and was so delighted that he positively died of joy

at the thought of having at last caught an idea. Nobody got anything

by it; indeed, no one even heard what the good thing was. Now I can

imagine that this same idea may prevent him from resting quietly in

his grave; for suppose that to produce a good effect, it is

necessary to bring out his new idea at breakfast, and that he can only

make his appearance on earth at midnight, as ghosts are believed

generally to do; why then this good idea would not suit the hour,

and the man would have to carry it down again with him into the grave-

that must be a troubled grave.

The woman who lies here was so remarkably stingy, that during

her life she would get up in the night and mew, that her neighbors

might think she kept a cat. What a miser she was!

Here rests a young lady, of a good family, who would always make

her voice heard in society, and when she sang "Mi manca la voce,"*

it was the only true thing she ever said in her life.

* "I want a voice," or, "I have no voice."

Here lies a maiden of another description. She was engaged to be

married,- but, her story is one of every-day life; we will leave her

to rest in the grave.

Here rests a widow, who, with music in her tongue, carried gall in

her heart. She used to go round among the families near, and search

out their faults, upon which she preyed with all the envy and malice

of her nature. This is a family grave. The members of this family held

so firmly together in their opinions, that they would believe in no

other. If the newspapers, or even the whole world, said of a certain

subject, "It is so-and-so;" and a little schoolboy declared he had

learned quite differently, they would take his assertion as the only

true one, because he belonged to the family. And it is well known that

if the yard-cock belonging to this family happened to crow at

midnight, they would declare it was morning, although the watchman and

all the clocks in the town were proclaiming the hour of twelve at

night.

The great poet Goethe concludes his Faust with the words, "may

be continued;" so might our wanderings in the churchyard be continued.

I come here often, and if any of my friends, or those who are not my

friends, are too much for me, I go out and choose a plot of ground

in which to bury him or her. Then I bury them, as it were; there

they lie, dead and powerless, till they come back new and better

characters. Their lives and their deeds, looked at after my own

fashion, I write down in my diary, as every one ought to do. Then,

if any of our friends act absurdly, no one need to be vexed about

it. Let them bury the offenders out of sight, and keep their good

temper. They can also read the Intelligencer, which is a paper written

by the people, with their hands guided. When the time comes for the

history of my life, to be bound by the grave, then they will write

upon it as my epitaph-

"The man with a cheerful temper."

And this is my story.

THE END

---

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