huahuaabcabc
有一天，下着很大的雨，已经过了晚饭时间了，妈妈却还没有回来。小女孩站在家门口望啊望啊，总也等不到妈妈的身影。天越来越黑，雨越下越大，小女孩决定顺着妈妈每天回来的路自己去找妈妈。她走啊走啊，走了很远，终于在路边看见了倒在地上的妈妈。她使劲摇着妈妈的身体，妈妈却没有回答她。她以为妈妈太累，睡着了。就把妈妈的头枕在自己的腿上，想让妈妈睡得舒服一点。但是这时她发现，妈妈的眼睛没有闭上！小女孩突然明白：妈妈可能已经死了！她感到恐惧，拉过妈妈的手使劲摇晃，却发现妈妈的手里还紧紧地拽着一块年糕……她拼命地哭着，却发不出一点声音……One day, there was a pouring rain. Her mother did not come back after supper time. The girl waited and waited, her mother did not appear at last. As the dusk growing darker and the rain falling heavier, she decided to look for her mom by following the way her mother went and returned everyday. She walked and walked, after a long distance walking, she found her mother was lying on the ground. She rocked her mother fiercely, but her mother showed no response. The girl thought that her mom might be too tired to wake up, so she made a pillow with her legs and let her mother rest on it to make her mom comfortable. At the very moment, the girl found her mother's eyes did not close. It suddenly began to dawn on her that her mother had already died. A great trepidation and grief overcame her, she held fast her mother's hands and kept rocking and then found her mother was still grasping a piece rice cake. She wanted to cry, but found there was no crying voice come out.
我是豆豆豆逗
El Sordo was making his fight on a hilltop. He did not like this hill and when he saw it he thought it had the shape of a chancre. But he had had no choice except this hill and he had picked it as far away as he could see it and galloped for it, the automatic rifle heavy on his back, the horse laboring, barrel heaving between his thighs, the sack of grenades swinging against one side, the sack of automatic rifle pans banging against the other, and Joaqu璯 and Ignacio halting and firing, halting and firing to give him time to get the gun in place. There had still been snow then, the snow that had ruined them, and when his horse was hit so that he wheezed in a slow, jerking, climbing stagger up the last part of the crest, splattering the snow with a bright, pulsing jet, Sordo had hauled him along by the bridle, the reins over his shoulder as he climbed. He climbed as hard as he could with the bullets spatting on the rocks, with the two sacks heavy on his shoulders, and then, holding the horse by the mane, had shot him quickly, expertly, and tenderly just where he had needed him, so that the horse pitched, head forward down to plug a gap between two rocks. He had gotten the gun to firing over the horse's back and he fired two pans, the gun clattering, the empty shells pitching into the snow, the smell of burnt hair from the burnt hide where the hot muzzle rested, him firing at what came up to the hill, forcing them to scatter for cover, while all the time there was a chill in his back from not knowing what was behind him. Once the last of the five men had reached the hilltop the chill went out of his back and he had saved the pans he had left until he would need them. There were two more horses dead along the slope and three more were dead here on the hilltop. He had only succeeded in stealing three horses last night and one had bolted when they tried to mount him bareback in the corral at the camp when the first shooting had started. Of the five men who had reached the hilltop three were wounded. Sordo was wounded in the calf of his leg and in two places in his left arm. He was very thirsty, his wounds had stiffened, and one of the wounds in his left arm was very painful. He also had a bad headache and as he lay waiting for the planes to come he thought of a joke in Spanish. It was, "_Hay que tomar la muerte como si fuera aspirina_," which means, "You will have to take death as an aspirin." But he did not make the joke aloud. He grinned somewhere inside the pain in his head and inside the nausea that came whenever he moved his arm and looked around at what there was left of his band. The five men were spread out like the points of a five-pointed star. They had dug with their knees and hands and made mounds in front of their heads and shoulders with the dirt and piles of stones. Using this cover, they were linking the individual mounds up with stones and dirt. Joaqu璯, who was eighteen years old, had a steel helmet that he dug with and he passed dirt in it. He had gotten this helmet at the blowing up of the train. It had a bullet hole through it and every one had always joked at him for keeping it. But he had hammered the jagged edges of the bullet hole smooth and driven a wooden plug into it and then cut the plug off and smoothed it even with the metal inside the helmet. When the shooting started he had clapped this helmet on his head so hard it banged his head as though he had been hit with a casserole and, in the last lung-aching, leg-dead, mouth-dry, bulletspatting, bullet-cracking, bullet-singing run up the final slope of the hill after his horse was killed, the helmet had seemed to weigh a great amount and to ring his bursting forehead with an iron band. But he had kept it. Now he dug with it in a steady, almost machinelike desperation. He had not yet been hit. "It serves for something finally," Sordo said to him in his deep, throaty voice. "_Resistir y fortificar es vencer_," Joaqu璯 said, his mouth stiff with the dryness of fear which surpassed the normal thirst of battle. It was one of the slogans of the Communist party and it meant, "Hold out and fortify, and you will win." Sordo looked away and down the slope at where a cavalryman was sniping from behind a boulder. He was very fond of this boy and he was in no mood for slogans. "What did you say?" One of the men turned from the building that he was doing. This man was lying flat on his face, reaching carefully up with his hands to put a rock in place while keeping his chin flat against the ground. Joaqu璯 repeated the slogan in his dried-up boy's voice without checking his digging for a moment. "What was the last word?" the man with his chin on the ground asked. "_Vencer_," the boy said. "Win." "_Mierda_," the man with his chin on the ground said. "There is another that applies to here," Joaqu璯 said, bringing them out as though they were talismans, "Pasionaria says it is better to die on your feet than to live on your knees." "_Mierda_ again," the man said and another man said, over his shoulder, "We're on our bellies, not our knees." "Thou. Communist. Do you know your Pasionaria has a son thy age in Russia since the start of the movement?" "It's a lie," Joaqu璯 said. "_Qu?va_, it's a lie," the other said. "The dynamiter with the rare name told me. He was of thy party, too. Why should he lie?" "It's a lie," Joaqu璯 said. "She would not do such a thing as keep a son hidden in Russia out of the war." "I wish I were in Russia," another of Sordo's men said. "Will not thy Pasionaria send me now from here to Russia, Communist?" "If thou believest so much in thy Pasionaria, get her to get us off this hill," one of the men who had a bandaged thigh said. "The fascists will do that," the man with his chin in the dirt said. "Do not speak thus," Joaqu璯 said to him. "Wipe the pap of your mother's breasts off thy lips and give me a hatful of that dirt," the man with his chin on the ground said. "No one of us will see the sun go down this night." El Sordo was thinking: It is shaped like a chancre. Or the breast of a young girl with no nipple. Or the top cone of a volcano. You have never seen a volcano, he thought. Nor will you ever see one. And this hill is like a chancre. Let the volcanos alone. It's late now for the volcanos. He looked very carefully around the withers of the dead horse and there was a quick hammering of firing from behind a boulder well down the slope and he heard the bullets from the submachine gun thud into the horse. He crawled along behind the horse and looked out of the angle between the horse's hindquarters and the rock. There were three bodies on the slope just below him where they had fallen when the fascists had rushed the crest under cover of the automatic rifle and submachine gunfire and he and the others had broken down the attack by throwing and rolling down hand grenades. There were other bodies that he could not see on the other sides of the hill crest. There was no dead ground by which attackers could approach the summit and Sordo knew that as long as his ammunition and grenades held out and he had as many as four men they could not get him out of there unless they brought up a trench mortar. He did not know whether they had sent to La Granja for a trench mortar. Perhaps they had not, because surely, soon, the planes would come. It had been four hours since the observation plane had flown over them. This hill is truly like a chancre, Sordo thought, and we are the very pus of it. But we killed many when they made that stupidness. How could they think that they would take us thus? They have such modern armament that they lose all their sense with overconfidence. He had killed the young officer who had led the assault with a grenade that had gone bouncing and rolling down the slope as they came up it, running, bent half over. In the yellow flash and gray roar of smoke he had seen the officer dive forward to where he lay now like a heavy, broken bundle of old clothing marking the farthest point that the assault had reached. Sordo looked at this body and then, down the hill, at the others. They are brave but stupid people, he thought. But they have sense enough now not to attack us again until the planes come. Unless, of course, they have a mortar coming. It would be easy with a mortar. The mortar was the normal thing and he knew that they would die as soon as a mortar came up, but when he thought of the planes coming up he felt as naked on that hilltop as though all of his clothing and even his skin had been removed. There is no nakeder thing than I feel, he thought. A flayed rabbit is as well covered as a bear in comparison. But why should they bring planes? They could get us out of here with a trench mortar easily. They are proud of their planes, though, and they will probably bring them. Just as they were so proud of their automatic weapons that they made that stupidness. But undoubtedly they must have sent for a mortar too. One of the men fired. Then jerked the bolt and fired again, quickly. "Save thy cartridges," Sordo said. "One of the sons of the great whore tried to reach that boulder," the man pointed. "Did you hit him?" Sordo asked, turning his head with difficulty. "Nay," the man said. "The fornicator ducked back." "Who is a whore of whores is Pilar," the man with his chin in the dirt said. "That whore knows we are dying here." "She could do no good," Sordo said. The man had spoken on the side of his good ear and he had heard him without turning his head. "What could she do?" "Take these sluts from the rear." "_Qu?va_," Sordo said. "They are spread around a hillside. How would she come on them? There are a hundred and fifty of them. Maybe more now." "But if we hold out until dark," Joaqu璯 said. "And if Christmas comes on Easter," the man with his chin on the ground said. "And if thy aunt had _cojones_ she would be thy uncle," another said to him. "Send for thy Pasionaria. She alone can help us." "I do not believe that about the son," Joaqu璯 said. "Or if he is there he is training to be an aviator or something of that sort." "He is hidden there for safety," the man told him. "He is studying dialectics. Thy Pasionaria has been there. So have Lister and Modesto and others. The one with the rare name told me." "That they should go to study and return to aid us," Joaqu璯 said. "That they should aid us now," another man said. "That all the cruts of Russian sucking swindlers should aid us now." He fired and said, "_Me cago en tal_; I missed him again." "Save thy cartridges and do not talk so much or thou wilt be very thirsty," Sordo said. "There is no water on this hill." "Take this," the man said and rolling on his side he pulled a wineskin that he wore slung from his shoulder over his head and handed it to Sordo. "Wash thy mouth out, old one. Thou must have much thirst with thy wounds." "Let all take it," Sordo said. "Then I will have some first," the owner said and squirted a long stream into his mouth before he handed the leather bottle around. "Sordo, when thinkest thou the planes will come?" the man with his chin in the dirt asked. "Any time," said Sordo. "They should have come before." "Do you think these sons of the great whore will attack again?" "Only if the planes do not come." He did not think there was any need to speak about the mortar. They would know it soon enough when the mortar came. "God knows they've enough planes with what we saw yesterday." "Too many," Sordo said. His head hurt very much and his arm was stiffening so that the pain of moving it was almost unbearable. He looked up at the bright, high, blue early summer sky as he raised the leather wine bottle with his good arm. He was fifty-two years old and he was sure this was the last time he would see that sky. He was not at all afraid of dying but he was angry at being trapped on this hill which was only utilizable as a place to die. If we could have gotten clear, he thought. If we could have made them come up the long valley or if we could have broken loose across the road it would have been all right. But this chancre of a hill. We must use it as well as we can and we have used it very well so far. If he had known how many men in history have had to use a hill to die on it would not have cheered him any for, in the moment he was passing through, men are not impressed by what has happened to other men in similar circumstances any more than a widow of one day is helped by the knowledge that other loved husbands have died. Whether one has fear of it or not, one's death is difficult to accept. Sordo had accepted it but there was no sweetness in its acceptance even at fifty-two, with three wounds and him surrounded on a hill. He joked about it to himself but he looked at the sky and at the far mountains and he swallowed the wine and he did not want it. If one must die, he thought, and clearly one must, I can die. But I hate it. Dying was nothing and he had no picture of it nor fear of it in his mind. But living was a field of grain blowing in the wind on the side of a hill. Living was a hawk in the sky. Living was an earthen jar of water in the dust of the threshing with the grain flailed out and the chaff blowing. Living was a horse between your legs and a carbine under one leg and a hill and a valley and a stream with trees along it and the far side of the valley and the hills beyond.
注定孤独终X
Ah, but also a sunny Monday. I went into the classroom carrying a bag at the thought of their turn on duty as a squad leader, I get very excited, and worry that can give me trouble mischievous ghost. I do not think without worries : Maybe some of them will be good.But what is difficult duty, it's difficult ......Noon arrived, my work began. Preparatory bell just played, classroom writing only came a rustle. I think this has been a great success on duty in half. Where can I also know that even greater disaster behind it. first of all, speak several king surreptitiously began whispering, discuss it. gradually, they openly and began to speak loudly. there is a little bit of trouble, they were talking about, along with the harsh sounds strange, the first rash helpless, I have to resist the army's offensive noise, had picked up the pointer, wildly pounding the podium, learn soprano teacher said aloud: "you people only when the teacher is not act violently mad; a teacher to you will quickly sit you really, really, really full of duplicity I eventually paper tiger, then a high decibel army could not withstand the invasion I continue shouted:!. "you also speak, what you really want to rebel ! what? Some people make a face, continue to speak. Slowly, some senior funny king also enthusiastically involved in their faces make faces, sing sing, read comics comic, clown's clown. I saw some paper King afraid to speak, on the use of paper to be passed around. I really can not stand up to a higher decibel roar shouting Xiao. Several generals can not stand, and quickly withdraw withdraw. I shattered the glass in the infrasound enough, several generals had surrendered, were dropped. I thought Yiba storm subsided, but I know where one after another. In a few brave boys call, hornet's nest again bypassed. Then the scene became out of control. Impartial I could bear, he resorted to the killer ----- remember the name. But no matter how I like, they are always noisy. There are funny king, fight master, under the freak king cheer, voices getting louder and louder, the evil of your mind remember ah ah, anyway, I defy you to hum posture. I helplessly lost ace to several class cadre threw your hands up, shrugged and said: "Then what to do?" Then the teacher came in. He entered the classroom, the classroom became silent, and then look at those who Amy King, and all of a pen sitting straight. Just saw the teacher in the classroom 乱成一锅粥 like, baleful criticized me. I 哑巴吃黄连 ----- suffering not to say ah! I thought: I be served our class these barons today.Today, sour, depressed, feeling aggrieved intertwined. I walked in the playground, only gray playground accompany lost me. Suddenly, a tear dripped onto my lips. I feel this is not what that smell is, I do not know what it's like my heart is. I long called on the breath, burst after burst of anguish welled up in my mind.All in all, today's work ended with my defeat, can only use four words to describe ----- miserable!
赵西法119
《谁动了我的奶酪》英文读后感Impression of a book of " persons who keep watch in the wheat field "Went to the bookstore that day, I chose a very thin book from a lot of world masterpieces, name let " wheat persons who keep watch of field ", when I pick up this book, I have not expected that such a thin book will have a so great impact on me, making my thoughts and feelings very deep, I think that the form and content of this book are all very outstanding.The fifties in U.S.A. were a quite confused period, the dark cloud of World War II has not left yet, the smoke of gunpowder of cold war arises again. On one hand the development in science and technology is fast, and on the other hand, people lack the ideal, demoralized, under the great social background unable to change in oneself, live and mix shocking and shocking life. Then, " a generation of collapsing " appears , Halton is a member among them , he smokes and gets drunk, not to strive to make progress, but, he is still unlikely to reduce to taking drug, gregarious stage, because in his bottom of heart , still have a beautiful and remote ideal all the time ---Do a " person who keeps watch in the wheat field ".A country here of our life, this era is during the enormous change, everything is in the development with rapid change. In a sense, this is and really a bit alike in U.S.A. of the fifties. The society is progressing constantly, people's concept is changing too, a lot of people begin to be vast and hazy, downhearted, they get to forget one's own ideal, do not have the first enthusiasm, begin to yearn for being mediocre.We are a group of children living in new era, it is puzzled and worried to be already been used to naturally , but we should concentrate spirit and are certain about the front of we , our way , we should whether one have lofty ideals ambitious people. If Halton does not have his pure ideal, then he will degenerate through to the end , it is his ideal that lets him live. The ideal is the people' s beacon light, it is leading people to move towards future, move towards the light. Our life has just begun, even if life makes us some of this generation perplexed with knowing which way to go, but everything is just temporary, does not know the past , we needed most now, it is our ideal.Yes, it is hopeful to have lofty ideals , will just tomorrow hope, will be more beautiful tomorrow!行吗？
