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Unit6

This small lake was of most value as a neighbor in the intervals of a gentle rain-storm in August, when, both air and water being perfectly still, but the sky overcast, mid-afternoon had all the serenity of evening, and the wood thrush sang around, and was heard from shore to shore. A lake like this is never smoother than at such a time; and the clear portion of the air above it being shallow and darkened by clouds, the water, full of light and reflections, becomes a lower heaven itself, so much the more important. From a hill-top nearby, where the wood had been recently cut off, there was a pleasing vista southward across the pond, through a wide indentation in the hills which form the shore there, where their opposite sides sloping toward each other suggested a

stream flowing out in that direction through a wooded valley, but stream there was none. That way I looked between and over the near green hills to some distant and higher ones in the horizon, tinged with blue. Indeed, by standing on tiptoe I could catch a glimpse of some of the peaks of the still bluer and more distant mountain ranges in the northwest, those true-blue coins from heaven's own mint, and also of some portion of the village. But in other directions, even from this point, I could not see over or beyond the woods which surrounded me. It is well to have some water in your neighborhood, to give buoyancy to and float the earth. One value even of the smallest well is, that when you look into it you see that earth is not continent but insular. This is as important as that it keeps butter cool. When I looked across the pond from this peak toward the Sudbury meadows, which in time of flood I distinguished elevated perhaps by a mirage in their seething valley, like a coin in a basin, all the earth beyond the pond appeared like a thin crust insulated and floated even by this small sheet of intervening water, and I was reminded that this on which I dwelt was but dry land.

°ËÔÂÀÔÚÇáÈáµÄб·çϸÓêÔÝÍ£µÄʱºò£¬ÕâССµÄºþ×öÎÒµÄÁÚ¾Ó£¬×îΪÕä¹ó£¬ÄÇʱˮºÍ¿ÕÆø¶¼Íêȫƽ¾²ÁË£¬Ìì¿ÕÖÐÈ´Ãܲ¼×ÅÎÚÔÆ£¬ÏÂÎç²Å¹ýÁËÒ»°ëÈ´ÒѾ߱¸ÁËÒ»ÇлƻèµÄËàÄ£¬¶ø»­Ã¼ÔÚËÄÖܳª¸è£¬¸ô°¶ÏàÎÅ¡£ÕâÑùµÄºþ£¬ÔÙûÓбÈÕâʱºò¸üƽ¾²µÄÁË£»ºþÉϵÄÃ÷¾»µÄ¿ÕÆø×ÔÈ»ºÜÏ¡±¡£¬¶øÇÒ¸øÎÚÔÆÓ³µÃºÜ÷öµ­ÁË£¬ºþˮȴ³äÂúÁ˹âÃ÷ºÍµ¹Ó°£¬³ÉΪһ¸öϽçµÄÌì¿Õ£¬¸ü¼ÓÖµµÃÕäÊÓ¡£´Ó×î½ü±»·¥Ä¾µÄ¸½½üÒ»¸ö·å¶¥ÉÏÏòÄÏ¿´£¬´©¹ýСɽ¼äµÄ¾Þ´ó°¼´¦£¬¿´µÃ¼û¸ôºþµÄÒ»·ùÓä¿ìµÄͼ¾°£¬ÄÇ°¼´¦ÕýºÃÐγɺþ°¶£¬ÄǶùÁ½×ùСɽÆÂÏàÇãб¶øÏ£¬Ê¹È˸оõµ½ËÆÓÐÒ»ÌõϪ½§´ÓɽÁÖ¹ÈÖÐÁ÷Ï£¬µ«ÊÇ£¬È´Ã»ÓÐϪ½§¡£ÎÒÊÇÕâÑùµØ´Ó½ü´¦µÄÂÌɫɽ·åÖ®¼äºÍÖ®ÉÏ£¬Ô¶ÍûһЩεÀ¶µÄµØƽÏßÉϵÄԶɽ»ò¸ü¸ßµÄɽ·åµÄ¡£ÕæµÄ£¬õÚÆðÁË×ã¼âÀ´£¬ÎÒ¿ÉÒÔÍû¼ûÎ÷±±½ÇÉϸüÔ¶¡¢¸üÀ¶µÄɽÂö£¬ÕâÖÖÀ¶ÑÕÉ«ÊÇÌì¿ÕµÄȾÁÏÖÆÔ쳧ÖÐ×îÕæʵµÄ³öÆ·£¬ÎÒ»¹¿ÉÒÔÍû¼û´åÕòµÄÒ»½Ç¡£µ«ÊÇÒª»»Ò»¸ö·½Ïò¿´µÄ»°£¬ËäÈ»ÎÒÕ¾µÃÈç´Ë¸ß£¬È´¸øÓôïµÄÊ÷ľΧס£¬Ê²Ã´Ò²¿´²»Í¸£¬¿´²»µ½ÁË¡£ÔÚÁÚ½ü£¬ÓÐһЩÁ÷Ë®ÕæºÃ£¬Ë®Óи¡Á¦£¬µØ¾Í¸¡ÔÚÉÏÃæÁË¡£±ãÊÇ×îСµÄ¾®Ò²ÓÐÕâÒ»µãÖµµÃÍƼö£¬µ±Äã¿úÍû¾®µ×µÄʱºò£¬Äã·¢ÏÖ´óµØ²¢²»ÊÇÁ¬ÃàµÄ´ó½£»¶øÊǸô¾øµÄ¹Âµº¡£ÕâÊǺÜÖØÒªµÄ£¬ÕýÈ羮ˮ֮ÄÜÀä²ØÅ£ÓÍ¡£µ±ÎÒµÄÄ¿¹â´ÓÕâÒ»¸öɽ¶¥Ô½¹ýºþÏòÈøµÂ²®Àï²ÝÔ­Íû¹ýÈ¥µÄʱºò£¬ÔÚ·¢´óË®µÄ¼¾½ÚÀÎÒ¾õµÃ²ÝÔ­Éý¸ßÁË£¬´óÔ¼ÊÇÕôÌÚµÄɽ¹ÈÖÐÏÔʾ³öº£ÊÐò×Â¥µÄЧ¹û£¬ËüºÃÏñ³ÁÔÚË®Åèµ×ϵÄÒ»¸öÌìÈ»Öý³ÉµÄÍ­ÊУ¬ºþÖ®ÍâµÄ´óµØ¶¼ºÃÏñ±¡±¡µÄ±íƤ£¬³ÉÁ˹µº£¬¸øССһƬºáبµÄË®²¨¸¡ÔØ×Å£¬ÎҲű»ÌáÐÑ£¬ÎÒ¾ÓסµÄµØ·½Ö»²»¹ýÊǸÉÔïµÄÍÁµØ¡£

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Unit13

The pillow rose about her shoulders and pressed against her heart and the memory was being squeezed out of it: oh, push down the pillow, somebody£ºit would smother her if she tried to hold it. Such a fresh breeze blowing and such a green day with no threats in it. But he had not come, just the same. What does a woman do when she has put on the white veil and set out the white cake for a man and he doesn't come?She tried to remember. No, I swear he never harmed me but in that. He never harmed me but in that... and what if he did? There was the day, the day, but a whirl of dark smoke rose and covered it, crept up and over into the bright field where everything was

planted so carefully in orderly rows. That was hell, she knew hell when she saw it. For sixty years she had prayed against remembering him and against losing her soul in the deep pit of hell, and now the two things were mingled in one and the thought of him was a smoky cloud from hell that moved and crept in her head when she had just got rid of Doctor Harry and was trying to rest a minute. Wounded vanity, Ellen, said a sharp voice in the top of her mind. Don't let your wounded vanity get the upper hand of you. Plenty of girls get jilted. You were jilted, weren't you? Then

stand up to it. Her eyelids wavered and let in streamers of blue-gray light like tissue paper over her eyes. She must get up and pull the shades down or she'd never sleep. She was in bed again and the shades were not down. How could that happen? Better turn over, hide from the light, sleeping in the light gave you nightmares. \forehead. But I don't like having my face washed in cold water!

ÕíͷͻȻ´ÓËýµÄË«¼çÉýÆð£¬Ñ¹ÔÚËýµÄÐØ¿ÚÉÏ£¬°ÑÂñÔÚÐĵ׵ÄÍùʶ¼Òª¼·Ñ¹³öÀ´ÁË£º°¡£¬¿ìÀ´ÈË°ÑÕíÍ·ÍÆ¿ª°É£¡ÕâÕíÍ·¿ÉÒª°ÑËýÃÆËÀÁË£¬Èç¹ûËýÏë¾ÍÕâÑùÌÉ×ŵĻ°¡£ÕâÒ»Ìì΢·çÇá·÷£¬ÎÂůÈç´º£¬¼ª¼ªÀûÀûµÄ¡£¿ÉÊǾ¡¹ÜÈç´ËËû»¹ÊÇûÓÐÀ´¡£Å®ÈËÒѾ­ÃÉÉÏ°×É«ÃæÉ´£¬×¼±¸ºÃ½á»éµ°¸â£¬¶øÄеÄÈ´»¹Ã»ÓÐÀ´£¬Ëý¸ÃÔõô°ìÄØ£¿Ëý½ßÁ¦»ØÒä¡£²»£¬³ýÁËÕâÒ»´ÎÍ⣬Ëû¿É´ÓÀ´Ã»ÓÐÉ˺¦¹ýÎÒѽ¡£³ýÁËÕâÒ»´Î£¬´ÓÀ´Ã»ÓÐÉ˺¦¹ýÎÒ¡­¡­Èç¹ûÉ˺¦¹ýÎÒ£¬ÓÖÔõôÑùÄØ£¿ÊÇÓÐÄÇôһÌ죬ÄÇÒ»Ì죬һ¹ÉºÚÑÌôÁôÁÉýÆð°ÑÄÇÒ»ÌìÕÚ¸ÇסÁË£¬ºÚÑÌÖð½¥ÂûÑÓ¿ªÀ´£¬Æ®µ½Ñô¹â²ÓÀõÄÌïÒ°£¬ÄÇÀïׯ¼ÚÖÖÖ²µÃ¾®¾®ÓÐÌõ¡£ÄÇÊǵØÓü£¬ËýÒ»¼û¾ÍÖªµÀ¡£ÁùÊ®ÄêÀ´ËýÒ»Ö±ÔÚÆíµ»£¬Ï£ÍûÓÀÔ¶²»ÒªÔÙÏëÆðËû£¬²»ÒªÊ¹×Ô¼ºµÄÁé»ê¶éÈëµØÓüµÄÍòÕÉÉîÔ¨¡£¿ÉÏÖÔÚ£¬Ëý¸Õ¸Õ°ÚÍÑÁ˹þÀïÒ½Éú£¬ÏëÐÝÏ¢Ò»»áʱ£¬ÕâÁ½¼þ¿ÉŵÄʾ¹È»ÈÚ³ÉÁËÒ»Ì壺¶ÔËûµÄ»ØÒä¾ÍÏóÊÇ´ÓµØÓüÉî´¦ÉýÆðµÄÑÌÎíÔÚËýµÄÄÔº£À︡µ´¡£Í»È»ÔÚÄÔ¶¥¸Ç´¦ÏìÆðÁËÒ»¸ö¼âÈñµÄÉùÒô£º°¬Â×£¬ÕâÊÇÊÜ´ìµÄÐéÈÙÐÄ¡£¿É±ðÈÃÕâÖÖÊÜ´ìµÄÐéÈÙÐÄÕ¼ÁËÉÏ·ç°¡¡£ºÜ¶àÅ®º¢×Ó¶¼Ôâµ½¹ý±»ÒÅÆúµÄÃüÔË£¬ÄãÊǸøÒÅÆúÁË£¬ÊÇÂð£¿ÄÇôÓ¸ҼáÇ¿µØÃæ¶ÔÏÖʵ°É¡£ËýµÄÑÛƤ¶¶¶¯×Å£¬Çà»ÒÉ«µÄ¹â⣬ÏóÒ»Õű¡Ö½ÕÚ¸ÇÔÚÑÛƤÉÏ£¬ÔÚËýÑÛÇ°ÉÁ˸¡£Ëý±ØÐëÆðÉíÈ¥°Ñ´°Á±À­ÉÏ£¬²»È»µÄ»°Ò»¶¨Ë¯²»×Å¡£ËýÓֻص½ÁË´²ÉÏ£¬¿ÉÊÇ´°Á±»¹ÊÇûÓÐÀ­ÉÏ¡£ß×£¬ÕâÊÇÔõô»ØÊ£¿×îºÃ·­¹ýÉíÈ¥£¬±³¶Ô×ÅÁÁ¹â£¬ÔÚÁÁ¹âÀïÈë˯ÊÇ»á×ö¶ñÃεġ£¡°ÂèÂ裬Äã¸Ð¾õÔõÑù£¿¡±´Ì¹ÇµÄ³±ÊªÌùÔÚËýµÄÇ°¶î¡£Îҿɲ»Ï²»¶ÓÃÀäˮϴÁ³£¡

Unit14

One of my most vivid memories is of coming back West from prep school and later from college at Christmas time. Those who went farther than Chicago would gather in the old dim

Union Station at six o'clock of a December evening, with a few Chicago friends, already caught up into their own holiday gayeties, to bid them a hasty good-by. I remember the fur coats of the girls returning from Miss This-or-that's and the chatter of frozen breath and the hands waving overhead as we caught sight of old acquaintances, and the matchings of invitations: \

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Ordways'? the Herseys'? the Schultzes'?\hands. And last the murky yellow cars of the Chicago, Milwaukee and St. Paul railroad looking cheerful as Christmas itself on the tracks beside the gate.

When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly into the air. We drew in deep breaths of it as we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange hour, before we melted indistinguishably into it again.

That's my Middle West ¡ª not the wheat or the prairies or the lost Swede towns, but the thrilling returning trains of my youth, and the street lamps and sleigh bells in the frosty dark and the shadows of holly wreaths thrown by lighted windows on the snow. I am part of that, a little solemn with the feel of those long winters, a little complacent from growing up in the Carraway house in a city where dwellings are still called through decades by a family's name. I see now that this has been a story of the West, after all ¡ª Tom and Gatsby, Daisy and Jordan and I, were all Westerners, and perhaps we possessed some deficiency in common which made us subtly unadaptable to Eastern life.

ÎÒ¼ÇÒäÖÐ×îÏÊÃ÷µÄ¾°ÏóÖ®Ò»¾ÍÊÇÿÄêÊ¥µ®½Ú´ÓÔ¤±¸Ñ§Ð££¬ÒÔ¼°ºóÀ´´Ó´óѧ»Øµ½Î÷²¿µÄÇé¾°¡£µ½Ö¥¼Ó¸çÒÔÍâµÄµØ·½È¥µÄͬѧÍùÍùÔÚÒ»¸öÊ®¶þÔ»ƻèÁùµãÖÓ¾ÛÔÚÄÇ×ù¹ÅÀÏ¡¢ÓÄ°µµÄÁª°î³µÕ¾£¬ºÍ¼¸¸ö¼ÒÔÚÖ¥¼Ó¸çµÄÅóÓÑ´Ò´Ò»°±ð£¬Ö»¼ûËûÃÇÒѾ­¹üÈëÁËËûÃÇ×Ô¼ºµÄ½ÚÈÕ»¶ÓéÆø·Õ¡£ÎҼǵÃÄÇЩ´Ó¶«²¿Ä³Ä³Ë½Á¢Å®Ð£»ØÀ´µÄŮѧÉúµÄƤ´óÒÂÒÔ¼°ËýÃÇÔÚÑϺ®µÄ¿ÕÆøÖк°º°ÔûÔûµÄЦÓ¼ÇµÃÎÒÃÇ·¢ÏÖÊìÈËʱÇÀÊÖºô»½£¬¼ÇµÃ»¥Ïà±È½ÏÊÕµ½µÄÑûÇ룺¡°Äãµ½°ÂµÂÍþ¼ÒÈ¥Â𣿺ÕÎ÷¼ÒÄØ£¿Êæ¶û´Ä¼ÒÄØ£¿¡±»¹¼ÇµÃ½ô½ô×¥ÔÚÎÒÃÇ´÷ÁËÊÖÌ×µÄÊÖÀïµÄ³¤ÌõÂÌÉ«³µÆ±¡£×îºó»¹ÓÐÍ£ÔÚÔĄ̂ÃÅ¿Ú¹ìµÀÉϵÄÖ¥¼Ó¸ç£­ÃܶûÎÖ»ù£­Ê¥±£ÂÞÌú·µÄëüëʵĻÆÉ«¿Í³µ£¬¿´ÉÏÈ¥¾ÍÏñÊ¥µ®½ÚÒ»ÑùµØʹÈËÓä¿ì¡£

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Unit 15

Presently he could see the grove of oaks and cedars and the other flowering trees and shrubs and where the house would be, though not the house yet. They walked beside a fence massed with honeysuckle and Cherokee roses and came to a gate swinging open between two brick pillars, and now, beyond a sweep of drive, he saw the house for the first time and at that instant he forgot his father and the terror and despair both, and even when he remembered his father again (who had not stopped) the terror and despair did not return. Because, for all the twelve movings, they had sojourned until now in a poor country, a land of small farms and fields and houses, and he had never seen a house like this before. Hit's big as a courthouse he thought quietly, with a surge of peace and joy whose reason he could not have thought into words, being too young for that: They are safe from him. People whose lives are a part of this peace and dignity are beyond his touch, he no more to them than a buzzing wasp: capable of stinging for a little moment but that's all; the spell of this peace and dignity rendering even the barns and stable and cribs which belong to it impervious to the puny flames he might contrive... this, the peace and joy, ebbing for an instant as he looked again at the stiff black back, the stiff and implacable limp of the figure which was not dwarfed by the house, for the reason that it had never looked big anywhere and which now, against the serene columned backdrop, had more than ever that impervious quality of something cut ruthlessly from tin, depthless, as though, sidewise to the sun, it would cast no shadow.

Watching him, the boy remarked the absolutely undeviating course which his father held and saw the stiff foot come squarely down in a pile of fresh droppings where a horse had stood in the drive and which his father could have avoided by a simple change of stride. But it ebbed only for a moment, though he could not have thought this into words either, walking on in the spell of the house, which he could ever want but without envy, without sorrow, certainly never with that ravening and jealous rage which unknown to him walked in the ironlike black coat before him: Maybe he will feel it too. Maybe it will even change him now from what maybe he couldn't help but be.

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