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تاپیک: fiction and short story

  1. #51
    مدیر تالارهای مهندسی شیمی و نفت آواتار سرمد حیدری
    رشته
    مهندسی شیمی
    مقطع
    دانشجوی دکترا
    تاريخ عضويت
    2007/12
    محل سكونت
    بوشهر
    امتیاز
    17950
    پست ها
    13,278

    پيش فرض A Passion in the Desert BY HONORÉ DE BALZAC

    Solitude revealed to him all her secrets, and enveloped him in her delights. He discovered in the rising and setting of the sun sights unknown to the world. He knew what it was to tremble when he heard over his head the hiss of a bird's wing, so rarely did they pass, or when he saw the clouds, changing and many-colored travelers, melt one into another. He studied in the night time the effect of the moon upon the ocean of sand, where the simoom made waves swift of movement and rapid in their change. He lived the life of the Eastern day, marveling at its wonderful pomp; then, after having reveled in the sight of a hurricane over the plain where the whirling sands made red, dry mists and death-bearing clouds, he would welcome the night with joy, for then fell the healthful freshness of the stars, and he listened to imaginary music in the skies. Then solitude taught him to unroll the treasures of dreams. He passed whole hours in remembering mere nothings, and comparing his present life with his past.

    At last he grew passionately fond of the panther; for some sort of affection was a necessity.

    Whether it was that his will powerfully projected had modified the character of his companion, or whether, because she found abundant food in her predatory excursions in the desert, she respected the man's life, he began to fear for it no longer, seeing her so well tamed.

    He devoted the greater part of his time to sleep, but he was obliged to watch like a spider inits web that the moment of his deliverance might not escape him, if anyone should pass the line marked by the horizon. He had sacrificed his shirt to make a flag with, which he hung at the top of a palm tree, whose foliage he had torn off. Taught by necessity, he found the means of keeping it spread out, by fastening it with little sticks; for the wind might not be blowing at the moment when the passing traveler was looking through the desert.

    It was during the long hours, when he had abandoned hope, that he amused himself with the panther. He had come to learn the different inflections of her voice, the expressions of her eyes; he had studied the capricious patterns of all the rosettes which marked the gold of her robe. Mignonne was not even angry when he took hold of the tuft at the end of her tail to count her rings, those graceful ornaments which glittered in the sun like jewelry. It gave him pleasure to contemplate the supple, fine outlines of her form, the whiteness of her belly, the graceful pose of her head. But it was especially when she was playing that he felt most pleasure in looking at her; the agility and youthful lightness of her movements were a continual surprise to him; he wondered at the supple way in which she jumped and climbed, washed herself and arranged her fur, crouched down and prepared to spring. However rapid her spring might be, however slippery the stone she was on, she would always stop short at the word "Mignonne."

    One day, in a bright midday sun, an enormous bird coursed through the air. The man left his panther to look at this new guest; but after waiting a moment the deserted sultana growled deeply.

    "My goodness! I do believe she's jealous," he cried, seeing her eyes become hard again; "the soul of Virginie has passed into her body; that's certain."

    The eagle disappeared into the air, while the soldier admired the curved contour of the panther.

    But there was such youth and grace in her form! she was beautiful as a woman! the blond fur of her robe mingled well with the delicate tints of faint white which marked her flanks.

    The profuse light cast down by the sun made this living gold, these russet markings, to burn in a way to give them an indefinable attraction.

    The man and the panther looked at one another with a look full of meaning; the coquette quivered when she felt her friend stroke her head; her eyes flashed like lightning-- then she shut them tightly.

    "She has a soul," he said, looking at the stillness of this queen of the sands, golden like them, white like them, solitary and burning like them.


    "Well," she said, "I have read your plea in favor of beasts; but how did two so well adapted to understand each other end?"

    "Ah, well! you see, they ended as all great passions do end--by a misunderstanding. For some reason one suspects the other of treason; they don't come to an explanation through pride, and quarrel and part from sheer obstinacy."

    "Yet sometimes at the best moments a single word or a look is enough--but anyhow go on with your story."

    "It's horribly difficult, but you will understand, after what the old villain told me over his champagne.

    "He said--`I don't know if I hurt her, but she turned round, as if enraged, and with her sharp teeth caught hold of my leg--gently, I daresay; but I, thinking she would devour me, plunged my dagger into her throat. She rolled over, giving a cry that froze my heart; and I saw her dying, still looking at me without anger. I would have given all the world--my cross even, which I lied not then--to have brought her to life again. It was as though I had murdered a real person; and the soldiers who had seen my flag, and were come to my assistance, found me in tears.'

    "`Well sir,' he said, after a moment of silence, `since then I have been in war in Germany, in Spain, in Russia, in France; I've certainly carried my carcass about a good deal, but never have I seen anything like the desert. Ah! yes, it is very beautiful!'

    " 'What did you feel there?' I asked him.

    "'Oh! that can't be described, young man. Besides, I am not always regretting my palm trees and my panther. I should have to be very melancholy for that. In the desert, you see, there is everything and nothing.'

    Yes, but explain----'

    "'Well,' he said, with an impatient gesture, 'it is God without mankind

    قسم به بزرگی ات
    و لحظه هایی که از آن من کرده ای
    دنیا و دار و ندارش
    به چشم بر هم زدنی هم نمی ارزد





  2. تشكرها از اين پست


  3. #52
    عضو فعال آواتار *JAVID
    رشته
    مهندسی معماری
    تاريخ عضويت
    2008/4
    محل سكونت
    بوشهر
    امتیاز
    775
    پست ها
    180

    پيش فرض MOON-FACE by jack london

    John Claverhouse was a moon-faced man. You know the kind, cheek-bones wide apart, chin and forehead melting into the cheeks to complete the perfect round, and the nose, broad and pudgy, equidistant from the circumference, flattened against the very centre of the face like a dough-ball upon the ceiling. Perhaps that is why I hated him, for truly he had become an offense to my eyes, and I believed the earth to be cumbered with his presence. Perhaps my mother may have been superstitious of the moon and looked upon it over the wrong shoulder at the wrong time.

    Be that as it may, I hated John Claverhouse. Not that he had done me what society would consider a wrong or an ill turn. Far from it. The evil was of a deeper, subtler sort; so elusive, so intangible, as to defy clear, definite analysis in words. We all experience such things at some period in our lives. For the first time we see a certain individual, one who the very instant before we did not dream existed; and yet, at the first moment of meeting, we say: "I do not like that man." Why do we not like him? Ah, we do not know why; we know only that we do not. We have taken a dislike, that is all. And so I with John Claverhouse.

    What right had such a man to be happy? Yet he was an optimist. He was always gleeful and laughing. All things were always all right, curse him! Ah how it grated on my soul that he should be so happy! Other men could laugh, and it did not bother me. I even used to laugh myself—before I met John Claverhouse.

    But his laugh! It irritated me, maddened me, as nothing else under the sun could irritate or madden me. It haunted me, gripped hold of me, and would not let me go. It was a huge, Gargantuan laugh. Waking or sleeping it was always with me, whirring and jarring across my heart-strings like an enormous rasp. At break of day it came whooping across the fields to spoil my pleasant morning revery. Under the aching noonday glare, when the green things drooped and the birds withdrew to the depths of the forest, and all nature drowsed, his great "Ha! ha!" and "Ho! ho!" rose up to the sky and challenged the sun. And at black midnight, from the lonely cross-roads where he turned from town into his own place, came his plaguey cachinnations to rouse me from my sleep and make me writhe and clench my nails into my palms.

    I went forth privily in the night-time, and turned his cattle into his fields, and in the morning heard his whooping laugh as he drove them out again. "It is nothing," he said; "the poor, dumb beasties are not to be blamed for straying into fatter pastures."

    He had a dog he called "Mars," a big, splendid brute, part deer-hound and part blood-hound, and resembling both. Mars was a great delight to him, and they were always together. But I bided my time, and one day, when opportunity was ripe, lured the animal away and settled for him with strychnine and beefsteak. It made positively no impression on John Claverhouse. His laugh was as hearty and frequent as ever, and his face as much like the full moon as it always had been.

    Then I set fire to his haystacks and his barn. But the next morning, being Sunday, he went forth blithe and cheerful.

    "Where are you going?" I asked him, as he went by the cross-roads.

    "Trout," he said, and his face beamed like a full moon. "I just dote on trout."

    Was there ever such an impossible man! His whole harvest had gone up in his haystacks and barn. It was uninsured, I knew. And yet, in the face of famine and the rigorous winter, he went out gayly in quest of a mess of trout, forsooth, because he "doted" on them! Had gloom but rested, no matter how lightly, on his brow, or had his bovine countenance grown long and serious and less like the moon, or had he removed that smile but once from off his face, I am sure I could have forgiven him for existing. But no. he grew only more cheerful under misfortune.

    I insulted him. He looked at me in slow and smiling surprise.

    "I fight you? Why?" he asked slowly. And then he laughed. "You are so funny! Ho! ho! You'll be the death of me! He! he! he! Oh! Ho! ho! ho!

    What would you? It was past endurance. By the blood of Judas, how I hated him! Then there was that name—Claverhouse! What a name! Wasn't it absurd? Claverhouse! Merciful heaven, WHY Claverhouse? Again and again I asked myself that question. I should not have minded Smith, or Brown, or Jones—but CLAVERHOUSE! I leave it to you. Repeat it to yourself—Claverhouse. Just listen to the ridiculous sound of it—Claverhouse! Should a man live with such a name? I ask of you. "No," you say. And "No" said I.

    But I bethought me of his mortgage. What of his crops and barn destroyed, I knew he would be unable to meet it. So I got a shrewd, close-mouthed, tight-fisted money-lender to get the mortgage transferred to him. I did not appear but through this agent I forced the foreclosure, and but few days (no more, believe me, than the law allowed) were given John Claverhouse to remove his goods and chattels from the premises. Then I strolled down to see how he took it, for he had lived there upward of twenty years. But he met me with his saucer-eyes twinkling, and the light glowing and spreading in his face till it was as a full-risen moon.

    "Ha! ha! ha!" he laughed. "The funniest tike, that youngster of mine! Did you ever hear the like? Let me tell you. He was down playing by the edge of the river when a piece of the bank caved in and splashed him. 'O papa!' he cried; 'a great big puddle flewed up and hit me.'"

    He stopped and waited for me to join him in his infernal glee.

    "I don't see any laugh in it," I said shortly, and I know my face went sour.

    He regarded me with wonderment, and then came the damnable light, glowing and spreading, as I have described it, till his face shone soft and warm, like the summer moon, and then the laugh—"Ha! ha! That's funny! You don't see it, eh? He! he! Ho! ho! ho! He doesn't see it! Why, look here. You know a puddle—"

    But I turned on my heel and left him. That was the last. I could stand it no longer. The thing must end right there, I thought, curse him! The earth should be quit of him. And as I went over the hill, I could hear his monstrous laugh reverberating against the sky.

    Now, I pride myself on doing things neatly, and when I resolved to kill John Claverhouse I had it in mind to do so in such fashion that I should not look back upon it and feel ashamed. I hate bungling, and I hate brutality. To me there is something repugnant in merely striking a man with one's ***** fist—faugh! it is sickening! So, to shoot, or stab, or club John Claverhouse (oh, that name!) did not appeal to me. And not only was I impelled to do it neatly and artistically, but also in such manner that not the slightest possible suspicion could be directed against me.

    To this end I bent my intellect, and, after a week of profound incubation, I hatched the scheme. Then I set to work. I bought a water spaniel bitch, five months old, and devoted my whole attention to her training. Had any one spied upon me, they would have remarked that this training consisted entirely of one thing—RETRIEVING. I taught the dog, which I called "Bellona," to fetch sticks I threw into the water, and not only to fetch, but to fetch at once, without mouthing or playing with them. The point was that she was to stop for nothing, but to deliver the stick in all haste. I made a practice of running away and leaving her to chase me, with the stick in her mouth, till she caught me. She was a bright animal, and took to the game with such eagerness that I was soon content.

    After that, at the first casual opportunity, I presented Bellona to John Claverhouse. I knew what I was about, for I was aware of a little weakness of his, and of a little private sinning of which he was regularly and inveterately guilty.

    "No," he said, when I placed the end of the rope in his hand. "No, you don't mean it." And his mouth opened wide and he grinned all over his damnable moon-face.

    "I—I kind of thought, somehow, you didn't like me," he explained. "Wasn't it funny for me to make such a mistake?" And at the thought he held his sides with laughter.

    "What is her name?" he managed to ask between paroxysms.

    "Bellona," I said.

    "He! he!" he tittered. "What a funny name."

    I gritted my teeth, for his mirth put them on edge, and snapped out between them, "She was the wife of Mars, you know."

    Then the light of the full moon began to suffuse his face, until he exploded with: "That was my other dog. Well, I guess she's a widow now. Oh! Ho! ho! E! he! he! Ho!" he whooped after me, and I turned and fled swiftly over the hill.

    The week passed by, and on Saturday evening I said to him, "You go away Monday, don't you?"

    He nodded his head and grinned.

    "Then you won't have another chance to get a mess of those trout you just 'dote' on."

    But he did not notice the sneer. "Oh, I don't know," he chuckled. "I'm going up to-morrow to try pretty hard."

    Thus was assurance made doubly sure, and I went back to my house hugging myself with rapture.

    Early next morning I saw him go by with a dip-net and gunnysack, and Bellona trotting at his heels. I knew where he was bound, and cut out by the back pasture and climbed through the underbrush to the top of the mountain. Keeping carefully out of sight, I followed the crest along for a couple of miles to a natural amphitheatre in the hills, where the little river raced down out of a gorge and stopped for breath in a large and placid rock-bound pool. That was the spot! I sat down on the croup of the mountain, where I could see all that occurred, and lighted my pipe.

    Ere many minutes had passed, John Claverhouse came plodding up the bed of the stream. Bellona was ambling about him, and they were in high feather, her short, snappy barks mingling with his deeper chest-notes. Arrived at the pool, he threw down the dip-net and sack, and drew from his hip-pocket what looked like a large, fat candle. But I knew it to be a stick of "giant"; for such was his method of catching trout. He dynamited them. He attached the fuse by wrapping the "giant" tightly in a piece of cotton. Then he ignited the fuse and tossed the explosive into the pool.

    Like a flash, Bellona was into the pool after it. I could have shrieked aloud for joy. Claverhouse yelled at her, but without avail. He pelted her with clods and rocks, but she swam steadily on till she got the stick of "giant" in her mouth, when she whirled about and headed for shore. Then, for the first time, he realized his danger, and started to run. As foreseen and planned by me, she made the bank and took out after him. Oh, I tell you, it was great! As I have said, the pool lay in a sort of amphitheatre. Above and below, the stream could be crossed on stepping-stones. And around and around, up and down and across the stones, raced Claverhouse and Bellona. I could never have believed that such an ungainly man could run so fast. But run he did, Bellona hot-footed after him, and gaining. And then, just as she caught up, he in full stride, and she leaping with nose at his knee, there was a sudden flash, a burst of smoke, a terrific detonation, and where man and dog had been the instant before there was naught to be seen but a big hole in the ground.

    "Death from accident while engaged in illegal fishing." That was the verdict of the coroner's jury; and that is why I pride myself on the neat and artistic way in which I finished off John Claverhouse. There was no bungling, no brutality; nothing of which to be ashamed in the whole transaction, as I am sure you will agree. No more does his infernal laugh go echoing among the hills, and no more does his fat moon-face rise up to vex me. My days are peaceful now, and my night's sleep deep.
    [مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ]


    Trust I seek and I find in you
    Every day for us something new
    Open mind for a different view

    And nothing else matters

  4. تشكر از اين پست


  5. #53
    مدیر بازنشسته آواتار *زهره*
    رشته
    غیر مهندسی
    مقطع
    لیسانس
    تاريخ عضويت
    2009/2
    محل سكونت
    بوشهر
    امتیاز
    24517
    پست ها
    9,880

    پيش فرض The Cop and the Anthem BY O. Henry

    On his bench in Madison Square Soapy moved uneasily. When wild geese honk high of nights, and when women without sealskin coats grow kind to their husbands, and when Soapy moves uneasily on his bench in the park, you may know that winter is near at hand.
    A dead leaf fell in Soapy's lap. That was Jack Frost's card. Jack is kind to the regular denizens of Madison Square, and gives fair warning of his annual call. At the corners of four streets he hands his pasteboard to the North Wind, footman of the mansion of All Outdoors, so that the inhabitants thereof may make ready.
    Soapy's mind became cognisant of the fact that the time had come for him to resolve himself into a singular Committee of Ways and Means to provide against the coming rigour. And therefore he moved uneasily on his bench.
    The hibernatorial ambitions of Soapy were not of the highest. In them there were no considerations of Mediterranean cruises, of soporific Southern skies drifting in the Vesuvian Bay. Three months on the Island was what his soul craved. Three months of assured board and bed and congenial company, safe from Boreas and bluecoats, seemed to Soapy the essence of things desirable.
    For years the hospitable Blackwell's had been his winter quarters. Just as his more fortunate fellow New Yorkers had bought their tickets to Palm Beach and the Riviera each winter, so Soapy had made his humble arrangements for his annual hegira to the Island. And now the time was come. On the previous night three Sabbath newspapers, distributed beneath his coat, about his ankles and over his lap, had failed to repulse the cold as he slept on his bench near the spurting fountain in the ancient square. So the Island loomed big and timely in Soapy's mind. He scorned the provisions made in the name of charity for the city's dependents. In Soapy's opinion the Law was more benign than Philanthropy. There was an endless round of institutions, municipal and eleemosynary, on which he might set out and receive lodging and food accordant with the simple life. But to one of Soapy's proud spirit the gifts of charity are encumbered. If not in coin you must pay in humiliation of spirit for every benefit received at the hands of philanthropy. As Caesar had his Brutus, every bed of charity must have its toll of a bath, every loaf of bread its compensation of a private and personal inquisition. Wherefore it is better to be a guest of the law, which though conducted by rules, does not meddle unduly with a gentleman's private affairs.
    Soapy, having decided to go to the Island, at once set about accomplishing his desire. There were many easy ways of doing this. The pleasantest was to dine luxuriously at some expensive restaurant; and then, after declaring insolvency, be handed over quietly and without uproar to a policeman. An accommodating magistrate would do the rest.
    Soapy left his bench and strolled out of the square and across the level sea of asphalt, where Broadway and Fifth Avenue flow together. Up Broadway he turned, and halted at a glittering cafe, where are gathered together nightly the choicest products of the grape, the silkworm and the protoplasm.
    Soapy had confidence in himself from the lowest button of his vest upward. He was shaven, and his coat was decent and his neat black, ready-tied four-in-hand had been presented to him by a lady missionary on Thanksgiving Day. If he could reach a table in the restaurant unsuspected success would be his. The portion of him that would show above the table would raise no doubt in the waiter's mind. A roasted mallard duck, thought Soapy, would be about the thing--with a bottle of Chablis, and then Camembert, a demi-tasse and a cigar. One dollar for the cigar would be enough. The total would not be so high as to call forth any supreme manifestation of revenge from the cafe management; and yet the meat would leave him filled and happy for the journey to his winter refuge.
    But as Soapy set foot inside the restaurant door the head waiter's eye fell upon his frayed trousers and decadent shoes. Strong and ready hands turned him about and conveyed him in silence and haste to the sidewalk and averted the ignoble fate of the menaced mallard.
    Soapy turned off Broadway. It seemed that his route to the coveted island was not to be an epicurean one. Some other way of entering limbo must be thought of.
    At a corner of Sixth Avenue electric lights and cunningly displayed wares behind plate-glass made a shop window conspicuous. Soapy took a cobblestone and dashed it through the glass. People came running around the corner, a policeman in the lead. Soapy stood still, with his hands in his pockets, and smiled at the sight of brass buttons.
    "Where's the man that done that?" inquired the officer excitedly.
    "Don't you figure out that I might have had something to do with it?" said Soapy, not without sarcasm, but friendly, as one greets good fortune.
    The policeman's mind refused to accept Soapy even as a clue. Men who smash windows do not remain to parley with the law's minions. They take to their heels. The policeman saw a man half way down the block running to catch a car. With drawn club he joined in the pursuit. Soapy, with disgust in his heart, loafed along, twice unsuccessful.
    On the opposite side of the street was a restaurant of no great pretensions. It catered to large appetites and modest purses. Its crockery and atmosphere were thick; its soup and napery thin. Into this place Soapy took his accusive shoes and telltale trousers without challenge. At a table he sat and consumed beefsteak, flapjacks, doughnuts and pie. And then to the waiter be betrayed the fact that the minutest coin and himself were strangers.
    "Now, get busy and call a cop," said Soapy. "And don't keep a gentleman waiting."
    "No cop for youse," said the waiter, with a voice like butter cakes and an eye like the cherry in a Manhattan cocktail. "Hey, Con!"
    Neatly upon his left ear on the callous pavement two waiters pitched Soapy. He arose, joint by joint, as a carpenter's rule opens, and beat the dust from his clothes. Arrest seemed but a rosy dream. The Island seemed very far away. A policeman who stood before a drug store two doors away laughed and walked down the street.
    Five blocks Soapy travelled before his courage permitted him to woo capture again. This time the opportunity presented what he fatuously termed to himself a "cinch." A young woman of a modest and pleasing guise was standing before a show window gazing with sprightly interest at its display of shaving mugs and inkstands, and two yards from the window a large policeman of severe demeanour leaned against a water plug.
    It was Soapy's design to assume the role of the despicable and execrated "masher." The refined and elegant appearance of his victim and the contiguity of the conscientious cop encouraged him to believe that he would soon feel the pleasant official clutch upon his arm that would insure his winter quarters on the right little, tight little isle
    .
    continued below


    I don’t wanna let a minute get away
    Cause we got no time to lose
    None of us are promised to see tomorrow
    And what we do is ours to choose



    [مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ]




    [مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ]
    [مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ]
    [مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ]
    [مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ]
    [مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ][مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ]


  6. #54
    مدیر بازنشسته آواتار *زهره*
    رشته
    غیر مهندسی
    مقطع
    لیسانس
    تاريخ عضويت
    2009/2
    محل سكونت
    بوشهر
    امتیاز
    24517
    پست ها
    9,880

    پيش فرض The Cop and the Anthem BY O. Henry

    Soapy straightened the lady missionary's readymade tie, dragged his shrinking cuffs into the open, set his hat at a killing cant and sidled toward the young woman. He made eyes at her, was taken with sudden coughs and "hems," smiled, smirked and went brazenly through the impudent and contemptible litany of the "masher." With half an eye Soapy saw that the policeman was watching him fixedly. The young woman moved away a few steps, and again bestowed her absorbed attention upon the shaving mugs. Soapy followed, boldly stepping to her side, raised his hat and said:
    "Ah there, Bedelia! Don't you want to come and play in my yard?"
    The policeman was still looking. The persecuted young woman had but to beckon a finger and Soapy would be practically en route for his insular haven. Already he imagined he could feel the cozy warmth of the station-house. The young woman faced him and, stretching out a hand, caught Soapy's coat sleeve.
    Sure, Mike," she said joyfully, "if you'll blow me to a pail of suds. I'd have spoke to you sooner, but the cop was watching."
    With the young woman playing the clinging ivy to his oak Soapy walked past the policeman overcome with gloom. He seemed doomed to liberty.
    At the next corner he shook off his companion and ran. He halted in the district where by night are found the lightest streets, hearts, vows and librettos.
    Women in furs and men in greatcoats moved gaily in the wintry air. A sudden fear seized Soapy that some dreadful enchantment had rendered him immune to arrest. The thought brought a little of panic upon it, and when he came upon another policeman lounging grandly in front of a transplendent theatre he caught at the immediate straw of "disorderly conduct."
    On the sidewalk Soapy began to yell drunken gibberish at the top of his harsh voice. He danced, howled, raved and otherwise disturbed the welkin.
    The policeman twirled his club, turned his back to Soapy and remarked to a citizen.
    "'Tis one of them Yale lads celebratin' the goose egg they give to the Hartford College. Noisy; but no harm. We've instructions to lave them be."
    Disconsolate, Soapy ceased his unavailing racket. Would never a policeman lay hands on him? In his fancy the Island seemed an unattainable Arcadia. He buttoned his thin coat against the chilling wind.
    In a cigar store he saw a well-dressed man lighting a cigar at a swinging light. His silk umbrella he had set by the door on entering. Soapy stepped inside, secured the umbrella and sauntered off with it slowly. The man at the cigar light followed hastily.
    "My umbrella," he said, sternly.
    "Oh, is it?" sneered Soapy, adding insult to petit larceny. "Well, why don't you call a policeman? I took it. Your umbrella! Why don't you call a cop? There stands one on the corner."
    The umbrella owner slowed his steps. Soapy did likewise, with a presentiment that luck would again run against him. The policeman looked at the two curiously.
    "Of course," said the umbrella man--"that is--well, you know how these mistakes occur--I--if it's your umbrella I hope you'll excuse me--I picked it up this morning in a restaurant--If you recognise it as yours, why--I hope you'll--"
    "Of course it's mine," said Soapy, viciously.
    The ex-umbrella man retreated. The policeman hurried to assist a tall blonde in an opera cloak across the street in front of a street car that was approaching two blocks away.
    Soapy walked eastward through a street damaged by improvements. He hurled the umbrella wrathfully into an excavation. He muttered against the men who wear helmets and carry clubs. Because he wanted to fall into their clutches, they seemed to regard him as a king who could do no wrong.
    At length Soapy reached one of the avenues to the east where the glitter and turmoil was but faint. He set his face down this toward Madison Square, for the homing instinct survives even when the home is a park bench.
    But on an unusually quiet corner Soapy came to a standstill. Here was an old church, quaint and rambling and gabled. Through one violet-stained window a soft light glowed, where, no doubt, the organist loitered over the keys, making sure of his mastery of the coming Sabbath anthem. For there drifted out to Soapy's ears sweet music that caught and held him transfixed against the convolutions of the iron fence.
    The moon was above, lustrous and serene; vehicles and pedestrians were few; sparrows twittered sleepily in the eaves--for a little while the scene might have been a country churchyard. And the anthem that the organist played cemented Soapy to the iron fence, for he had known it well in the days when his life contained such things as mothers and roses and ambitions and friends and immaculate thoughts and collars.
    The conjunction of Soapy's receptive state of mind and the influences about the old church wrought a sudden and wonderful change in his soul. He viewed with swift horror the pit into which he had tumbled, the degraded days, unworthy desires, dead hopes, wrecked faculties and base motives that made up his existence.
    And also in a moment his heart responded thrillingly to this novel mood. An instantaneous and strong impulse moved him to battle with his desperate fate. He would pull himself out of the mire; he would make a man of himself again; he would conquer the evil that had taken possession of him. There was time; he was comparatively young yet; he would resurrect his old eager ambitions and pursue them without faltering. Those solemn but sweet organ notes had set up a revolution in him. To-morrow he would go into the roaring downtown district and find work. A fur importer had once offered him a place as driver. He would find him to-morrow and ask for the position. He would be somebody in the world. He would--
    Soapy felt a hand laid on his arm. He looked quickly around into the broad face of a policeman.
    "What are you doin' here?" asked the officer.
    "Nothin'," said Soapy.
    "Then come along," said the policeman.
    "Three months on the Island," said the Magistrate in the Police Court the next morning
    I don’t wanna let a minute get away
    Cause we got no time to lose
    None of us are promised to see tomorrow
    And what we do is ours to choose



    [مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ]




    [مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ]
    [مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ]
    [مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ]
    [مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ]
    [مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ][مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ]


  7. #55
    اخراجی موقت
    رشته
    مهندسی مکانیک
    مقطع
    لیسانس
    تاريخ عضويت
    2009/2
    محل سكونت
    Silent Hill
    امتیاز
    14643
    پست ها
    5,834

    پيش فرض

    One of Harry's feet was bigger than the other. 'I can never find boots and shoes for my feet,' he said to his friend Dick.
    'Why don't you go to a sho~maker?' Dick said. 'A good one can make you the right shoes.'
    'I've never been to a shoemaker,' Harry said. 'Aren't they very expensive?'
    'No,' Dick said, 'some of them aren't. There's a good one in our village, and he's quite cheap. Here's his address.' He wrote something on a piece of paper and gave it to Harry.
    Harry went to the shoemaker in Dick's village a few days later, and the shoemaker made him some shoes.
    Harry went to the shop again a week later and looked at the shoes. Then he said to the shoemaker angrily, 'You're a silly man! I said, "Make one shoe bigger than the other," but you've made one smaller than the other!'

    يكي از پاهاي هري از ديگري بزرگ تر بود. او به دوستش ديك گفت 'من هرگز نمي توانم چكمه يا كفشي براي پاهايم پيدا كنم'.
    ديك گفت: 'چرا پيش كفاش نمي روي' 'يك كفاش خوب مي تواند كفش خوبي براي شما درست كند'.
    هري گفت: 'من هرگز يك كفاش نداشته ام' 'آيا آن ها گران نيستند'.
    ديك گفت: 'نه' 'بعضي از آن ها نيستند. يكي از كفاشان خوب در روستاي ما است، و كاملا ارزان است. اين آدرسش است' او چيزي روي
    يك تكه كاغذ نوشت و به هري داد.
    چند روز بعد هري به كفاشي روستاي ديك رفت، و كفاش براي او كفشي درست كرد.
    هري يك هفته بعد براي ديدن كفشش دوباره به فروشگاه رفت. در آن هنگام با عصبانيت به كفاش گفت: 'شما مرد ناداني هستيد! من
    گفتم، ‍: "يكي از كفش ها را بزرگ تر از ديگري درست كن"، اما شما يكي را كوچك تر ديگري درست كرده ا

  8. #56
    اخراجی موقت
    رشته
    مهندسی مکانیک
    مقطع
    لیسانس
    تاريخ عضويت
    2009/2
    محل سكونت
    Silent Hill
    امتیاز
    14643
    پست ها
    5,834

    پيش فرض

    Harry did not stop his car at some traffic-lights when they were red, and he hit another car. Harry jumped out and went to it. There was an old man in the car. He was very frightened and said to Harry, "what are you doing? You nearly killed me.!"

    "yes" Harry answered, "I'm very sorry." He took a bottle out of his car and said ,"Drink some of this. then you'll feel better." He gave the man some whisky, and the man drank it ,but then he shouted again, "you nearly killed me!"

    Harry gave him the bottle again, and the old man drank a lot of the whisky. Then he smiled and said to Harry ,"Thank you .I feel much better now .but why aren't you drinking?"

    "oh, well" Harry answered ,"I don’t want any whisky now. I'm going to sit here and wait for the police."




    هری وقتی که چراغ قرمز شد ماشین خود را نگه نداشت و با ماشین دیگری برخورد کرد. هری پرید بیرون و به پیش آن رفت.داخل ماشین یک پیر مرد بود. او ترسیده بود و به هری گفت: چه کار می کنی؟ نزدیک بود منو بکشی!

    هری جواب داد:بله؛ من متاسفم .او یک بطری از داخل ماشینش آورد و گفت:کمی از این را بنوش و این حال تو را بهتر میکنه. او مقداری ویسکی به آن مرد داد،و پیر مرد آن را نوشید،اما دوباره فریاد زد: نزدیک بود تو منو بکشی!

    هری یک بطری دیگرهم به او داد و پیر مرد مقدار زیادی ویسکی نوشید.سپس لبخند زد و به هری گفت: متشکرم،احساس می کنم بهتر شدم،اما چرا تو نمی نوشی؟

    هری جواب داد: صحیح، من الآن هیچ ویسکی نمی خواهم.من قصد دارم بروم آنجا بنشینم و منتظر پلیس بمانم.

  9. #57
    مدیر بازنشسته آواتار *زهره*
    رشته
    غیر مهندسی
    مقطع
    لیسانس
    تاريخ عضويت
    2009/2
    محل سكونت
    بوشهر
    امتیاز
    24517
    پست ها
    9,880

    پيش فرض The Story of An Hour by Kate Chopin

    Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death. It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of "killed." He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message. She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her. There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul. She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves. There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window. She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams. She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought. There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air. Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will--as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under her breath: "free, free, free!" The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body. She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome. There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination. And yet she had loved him--sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being! "Free! Body and soul free!" she kept whispering. Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhole, imploring for admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg, open the door--you will make yourself ill. What are you doing Louise? For heaven's sake open the door." "Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window. Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long. She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister's waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom. Some one was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards' quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife. But Richards was too late. When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease-- of joy that kills.
    I don’t wanna let a minute get away
    Cause we got no time to lose
    None of us are promised to see tomorrow
    And what we do is ours to choose



    [مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ]




    [مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ]
    [مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ]
    [مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ]
    [مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ]
    [مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ][مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ]


  10. تشكرها از اين پست


  11. #58
    عضو فعال آواتار setare.blue
    رشته
    مهندسی معماری
    مقطع
    لیسانس
    تاريخ عضويت
    2009/8
    محل سكونت
    تهران
    امتیاز
    1095
    پست ها
    283

    Flower داســــــتان زیبـــــا

    داســــــتان زیبـــــا
    My mom only had one eye. I hated her... she was such an embarrassment.
    مادر من فقط یك چشم داشت . من از اون متنفر بودم ... اون همیشه مایه خجالت من بود
    She cooked for students & teachers to support the family.
    اون برای امرار معاش خانواده برای معلم ها و بچه مدرسه ای ها غذا می پخت
    There was this one day during elementary school where my mom came to say hello to me.
    یك روز اومده بود دم در مدرسه كه به من سلام كنه و منو با خود به خونه ببره
    I was so embarrassed. How could she do this to me?
    خیلی خجالت كشیدم . آخه اون چطور تونست این كار رو بامن بكنه ؟
    I ignored her, threw her a hateful look and ran out.
    به روی خودم نیاوردم ، فقط با تنفر بهش یه نگاه كردم وفورا از اونجا دور شدم
    The next day at school one of my classmates said, "EEEE, your mom only has one eye!"
    روز بعد یكی از همكلاسی ها منو مسخره كرد و گفت هووو .. مامان تو فقط یك چشم داره
    I wanted to bury myself. I also wanted my mom to just disappear.
    فقط دلم میخواست یك جوری خودم رو گم و گور كنم . كاش زمین دهن وا میكرد و منو ..كاش مادرم یه جوری گم و گور میشد...
    So I confronted her that day and said, " If you're only gonna make me a laughing stock, why don't you just die?!!!"
    روز بعد بهش گفتم اگه واقعا میخوای منو شاد و خوشحال كنی چرا نمی میری ؟
    My mom did not respond...
    اون هیچ جوابی نداد....
    I didn't even stop to think for a second about what I had said, because I was full of anger.
    حتی یك لحظه هم راجع به حرفی كه زدم فكر نكردم ، چون خیلی عصبانی بودم .
    I was oblivious to her feelings.
    احساسات اون برای من هیچ اهمیتی نداشت
    I wanted out of that house, and have nothing to do with her.
    دلم میخواست از اون خونه برم و دیگه هیچ كاری با اون نداشته باشم
    So I studied real hard, got a chance to go to Singapore to study.
    سخت درس خوندم و موفق شدم برای ادامه تحصیل به سنگاپور برم
    Then, I got married. I bought a house of my own. I had kids of my own.
    اونجا ازدواج كردم ، واسه خودم خونه خریدم ، زن و بچه و زندگی...
    I was happy with my life, my kids and the comforts
    از زندگی ، بچه ها و آسایشی كه داشتم خوشحال بودم
    Then one day, my mother came to visit me.
    تا اینكه یه روز مادرم اومد به دیدن من
    She hadn't seen me in years and she didn't even meet her grandchildren.
    اون سالها منو ندیده بود و همینطور نوه ها شو
    When she stood by the door, my children laughed at her, and I yelled at her for coming over uninvited.
    وقتی ایستاده بود دم در بچه ها به اون خندیدند و من سرش داد كشیدم كه چرا خودش رو دعوت كرده كه بیاد اینجا ، اونم بی خبر
    I screamed at her, "How dare you come to my house and scare my children!" GET OUT OF HERE! NOW!!!"
    سرش داد زدم ": چطور جرات كردی بیای به خونه من و بجه ها رو بترسونی؟!" گم شو از اینجا! همین حالا
    And to this, my mother quietly answered, "Oh, I'm so sorry. I may have gotten the wrong address," and she disappeared out of sight.
    اون به آرامی جواب داد : " اوه خیلی معذرت میخوام مثل اینكه آدرس رو عوضی اومدم " و بعد فورا رفت واز نظر ناپدید شد .
    One day, a letter regarding a school reunion came to my house in Singapore .
    یك روز یك دعوت نامه اومد در خونه من درسنگاپور برای شركت درجشن تجدید دیدار دانش آموزان مدرسه
    So I lied to my wife that I was going on a business trip.
    ولی من به همسرم به دروغ گفتم كه به یك سفر كاری میرم .
    After the reunion, I went to the old shack just out of curiosity.
    بعد از مراسم ، رفتم به اون كلبه قدیمی خودمون ؛ البته فقط از روی كنجكاوی .
    My neighbors said that she is died.
    همسایه ها گفتن كه اون مرده
    I did not shed a single tear.
    ولی من حتی یك قطره اشك هم نریختم
    They handed me a letter that she had wanted me to have.
    اونا یك نامه به من دادند كه اون ازشون خواسته بود كه به من بدن
    "My dearest son, I think of you all the time. I'm sorry that I came to Singapore and scared your children.
    ای عزیزترین پسر من ، من همیشه به فكر تو بوده ام ، منو ببخش كه به خونت تو سنگاپور اومدم و بچه ها تو ترسوندم ،
    I was so glad when I heard you were coming for the reunion.
    خیلی خوشحال شدم وقتی شنیدم داری میآی اینجا
    But I may not be able to even get out of bed to see you.
    ولی من ممكنه كه نتونم از جام بلند شم كه بیام تورو ببینم
    I'm sorry that I was a constant embarrassment to you when you were growing up.
    وقتی داشتی بزرگ میشدی از اینكه دائم باعث خجالت تو شدم خیلی متاسفم
    You see........when you were very little, you got into an accident, and lost your eye.
    آخه میدونی ... وقتی تو خیلی كوچیك بودی تو یه تصادف یك چشمت رو از دست دادی
    As a mother, I couldn't stand watching you having to grow up with one eye.
    به عنوان یك مادر نمی تونستم تحمل كنم و ببینم كه تو داری بزرگ میشی با یك چشم
    So I gave you mine.
    بنابراین چشم خودم رو دادم به تو
    I was so proud of my son who was seeing a whole new world for me, in my place, with that eye.
    برای من اقتخار بود كه پسرم میتونست با اون چشم به جای من دنیای جدید رو بطور كامل ببینه
    With my love to you,
    با همه عشق و علاقه من به تو
    مردان بزرگ اراده می کنند و مردان کوچک آرزو
    منبع: [مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ]
    موفقيت افراد بيش از انكه به ميزان هوش انها بستگي داشته باشدبه ميزان تفكر انها وابسته است.





  12. تشكرها از اين پست


  13. #59
    مدیر بازنشسته آواتار *زهره*
    رشته
    غیر مهندسی
    مقطع
    لیسانس
    تاريخ عضويت
    2009/2
    محل سكونت
    بوشهر
    امتیاز
    24517
    پست ها
    9,880

    پيش فرض A Good Man is Hard to Find By: Flannery O'Connor 1925-1964

    THE GRANDMOTHER didn't want to go to Florida. She wanted to visit some of her connections in east Tennessee and she was seizing at every chance to change Bailey's mind. Bailey was the son she lived with, her only boy. He was sitting on the edge of his chair at the table, bent over the orange sports section of the Journal. "Now look here, Bailey," she said, "see here, read this," and she stood with one hand on her thin hip and the other rattling the newspaper at his bald head. "Here this fellow that calls himself The Misfit is aloose from the Federal Pen and headed toward Florida and you read here what it says he did to these people. Just you read it. I wouldn't take my children in any direction with a criminal like that aloose in it. I couldn't answer to my conscience if I did."
    Bailey didn't look up from his reading so she wheeled around then and faced the children's mother, a young woman in slacks, whose face was as broad and innocent as a cabbage and was tied around with a green head-kerchief that had two points on the top like rabbit's ears. She was sitting on the sofa, feeding the baby his apricots out of a jar. "The children have been to Florida before," the old lady said. "You all ought to take them somewhere else for a change so they would see different parts of the world and be broad. They never have been to east Tennessee."
    The children's mother didn't seem to hear her but the eight-year-old boy, John Wesley, a stocky child with glasses, said, "If you don't want to go to Florida, why dontcha stay at home?" He and the little girl, June Star, were reading the funny papers on the floor.
    "She wouldn't stay at home to be queen for a day," June Star said without raising her yellow head.
    "Yes and what would you do if this fellow, The Misfit, caught you?" the grandmother asked.
    "I'd smack his face," John Wesley said.
    "She wouldn't stay at home for a million bucks," June Star said. "Afraid she'd miss something. She has to go everywhere we go."
    "All right, Miss," the grandmother said. "Just remember that the next time you want me to curl your hair."
    June Star said her hair was naturally curly.
    The next morning the grandmother was the first one in the car, ready to go. She had her big black valise that looked like the head of a hippopotamus in one corner, and underneath it she was hiding a basket with Pitty Sing, the cat, in it. She didn't intend for the cat to be left alone in the house for three days because he would miss her too much and she was afraid he might brush against one of the gas burners and accidentally asphyxiate himself. Her son, Bailey, didn't like to arrive at a motel with a cat.
    She sat in the middle of the back seat with John Wesley and June Star on either side of her. Bailey and the children's mother and the baby sat in front and they left Atlanta at eight forty-five with the mileage on the car at 55890. The grandmother wrote this down because she thought it would be interesting to say how many miles they had been when they got back. It took them twenty minutes to reach the outskirts of the city.
    The old lady settled herself comfortably, removing her white cotton gloves and putting them up with her purse on the shelf in front of the back window. The children's mother still had on slacks and still had her head tied up in a green kerchief, but the grandmother had on a navy blue straw sailor hat with a bunch of white violets on the brim and a navy blue dress with a small white dot in the print. Her collars and cuffs were white organdy trimmed with lace and at her neckline she had pinned a purple spray of cloth violets containing a sachet. In case of an accident, anyone seeing her dead on the highway would know at once that she was a lady.
    She said she thought it was going to be a good day for driving, neither too hot nor too cold, and she cautioned Bailey that the speed limit was fifty-five miles an hour and that the patrolmen hid themselves behind billboards and small clumps of trees and sped out after you before you had a chance to slow down. She pointed out interesting details of the scenery: Stone Mountain; the blue granite that in some places came up to both sides of the highway; the brilliant red clay banks slightly streaked with purple; and the various crops
    that made rows of green lace-work on the ground. The trees were full of silver-white sunlight and the meanest of them sparkled. The children were reading comic magazines and their mother had gone back to sleep.
    "Let's go through Georgia fast so we won't have to look at it much," John Wesley said.
    "If I were a little boy," said the grandmother, "I wouldn't talk about my native state that way. Tennessee has the mountains and Georgia has the hills."
    "Tennessee is just a hillbilly dumping ground," John Wesley said, "and Georgia is a lousy state too."
    "You said it," June Star said.
    "In my time," said the grandmother, folding her thin veined fingers, "children were more respectful of their native states and their parents and everything else. People did right then. Oh look at the cute little pickaninny!" she said and pointed to a Negro child standing in the door of a shack. "Wouldn't that make a picture, now?" she asked and they all turned and looked at the little Negro out of the back window. He waved.
    "He didn't have any britches on," June Star said.
    "He probably didn't have any," the grandmother explained. "Little niggers in the country don't have things like we do. If I could paint, I'd paint that picture," she said.
    The children exchanged comic books.
    The grandmother offered to hold the baby and the children's mother passed him over the front seat to her. She set him on her knee and bounced him and told him about the things they were passing. She rolled her eyes and screwed up her mouth and stuck her leathery thin face into his smooth bland one. Occasionally he gave her a faraway smile. They passed a large cotton field with five or six graves fenced in the middle of it, like a small island. "Look at the graveyard!" the grandmother said, pointing it out. "That was the old family burying ground. That belonged to the plantation."
    "Where's the plantation?" John Wesley asked.
    "Gone With the Wind," said the grandmother. "Ha. Ha."
    When the children finished all the comic books they had brought, they opened the lunch and ate it. The grandmother ate a peanut butter sandwich and an olive and would not let
    the children throw the box and the paper napkins out the window. When there was nothing else to do they played a game by choosing a cloud and making the other two guess what shape it suggested. John Wesley took one the shape of a cow and June Star guessed a cow and John Wesley said, no, an automobile, and June Star said he didn't play fair, and they began to slap each other over the grandmother.
    The grandmother said she would tell them a story if they would keep quiet. When she told a story, she rolled her eyes and waved her head and was very dramatic. She said once when she was a maiden lady she had been courted by a Mr. Edgar Atkins Teagarden from Jasper, Georgia. She said he was a very good-looking man and a gentleman and that he brought her a watermelon every Saturday afternoon with his initials cut in it, E. A. T. Well, one Saturday, she said, Mr. Teagarden brought the watermelon and there was nobody at home and he left it on the front porch and returned in his buggy to Jasper, but she never got the watermelon, she said, because a nigger boy ate it when he saw the initials, E. A. T.! This story tickled John Wesley's funny bone and he giggled and giggled but June Star didn't think it was any good. She said she wouldn't marry a man that just brought her a watermelon on Saturday. The grandmother said she would have done well to marry Mr. Teagarden because he was a gentleman and had bought Coca-Cola stock when it first came out and that he had died only a few years ago, a very wealthy man.
    They stopped at The Tower for barbecued sandwiches. The Tower was a part stucco and part wood filling station and dance hall set in a clearing outside of Timothy. A fat man named Red Sammy Butts ran it and there were signs stuck here and there on the building and for miles up and down the highway saying, TRY RED SAMMY'S FAMOUS BARBECUE. NONE LIKE FAMOUS RED SAMMY'S! RED SAM! THE FAT BOY WITH THE HAPPY LAUGH. A VETERAN! RED SAMMY'S YOUR MAN!
    Red Sammy was lying on the bare ground outside The Tower with his head under a truck while a gray monkey about a foot high, chained to a small chinaberry tree, chattered nearby. The monkey sprang back into the tree and got on the highest limb as soon as he saw the children jump out of the car and run toward him.
    Inside, The Tower was a long dark room with a counter at one end and tables at the other and dancing space in the middle. They all sat down at a board table next to the nickelodeon and Red Sam's wife, a tall burnt-brown woman with hair and eyes lighter than her skin, came and took their order. The children's mother put a dime in the machine and played "The Tennessee Waltz," and the grandmother said that tune always made her want to dance. She asked Bailey if he would like to dance but he only glared at her. He didn't have a naturally sunny disposition like she did and trips made him nervous. The grandmother's brown eyes were very bright. She swayed her head from side to side and pretended she was dancing in her chair. June Star said play something she could tap to so the children's mother put in another dime and played a fast number and June Star stepped out onto the dance floor and did her tap routine.
    "Ain't she cute?" Red Sam's wife said, leaning over the counter. "Would you like to come be my little girl?"
    "No I certainly wouldn't," June Star said. "I wouldn't live in a broken-down place like this for a minion bucks!" and she ran back to the table.
    "Ain't she cute?" the woman repeated, stretching her mouth politely.
    "Arn't you ashamed?" hissed the grandmother.
    Red Sam came in and told his wife to quit lounging on the counter and hurry up with these people's order. His khaki trousers reached just to his hip bones and his stomach hung over them like a sack of meal swaying under his shirt. He came over and sat down at a table nearby and let out a combination sigh and yodel. "You can't win," he said. "You can't win," and he wiped his sweating red face off with a gray handkerchief. "These days you don't know who to trust," he said. "Ain't that the truth?"
    "People are certainly not nice like they used to be," said the grandmother.
    "Two fellers come in here last week," Red Sammy said, "driving a Chrysler. It was a old beat-up car but it was a good one and these boys looked all right to me. Said they worked
    142 A GOOD MAN IS HARD TO FIND
    at the mill and you know I let them fellers charge the gas they bought? Now why did I do that?"
    "Because you're a good man!" the grandmother said at once.
    "Yes'm, I suppose so," Red Sam said as if he were struck with this answer.
    His wife brought the orders, carrying the five plates all at once without a tray, two in each hand and one balanced on her arm. "It isn't a soul in this green world of God's that you can trust," she said. "And I don't count nobody out of that, not nobody," she repeated, looking at Red Sammy.
    "Did you read about that criminal, The Misfit, that's escaped?" asked the grandmother.
    "."
    I don’t wanna let a minute get away
    Cause we got no time to lose
    None of us are promised to see tomorrow
    And what we do is ours to choose



    [مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ]




    [مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ]
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    [مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ]
    [مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ][مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ]


  14. تشكرها از اين پست


  15. #60
    مدیر بازنشسته آواتار *زهره*
    رشته
    غیر مهندسی
    مقطع
    لیسانس
    تاريخ عضويت
    2009/2
    محل سكونت
    بوشهر
    امتیاز
    24517
    پست ها
    9,880

    پيش فرض A Good Man is Hard to Find By: Flannery O'Connor 1925-1964

    I wouldn't be a bit surprised if he didn't attact this place right here," said the woman. "If he hears about it being here,I wouldn't be none surprised to see him. If he hears it's two cent in the cash register, I wouldn't be a tall surprised if he . . ."
    "That'll do," Red Sam said. "Go bring these people their Co'-Colas," and the woman went off to get the rest of the order.
    "A good man is hard to find," Red Sammy said. "Every- thing is getting terrible. I remember the day you could go off and leave your screen door unlatched. Not no more."
    He and the grandmother discussed better times. The old lady said that in her opinion Europe was entirely to blame for the way things were now. She said the way Europe acted you would think we were made of money and Red Sam said it was no use talking about it, she was exactly right. The children ran outside into the white sunlight and looked at the monkey in the lacy chinaberry tree. He was busy catching fleas on himself and biting each one carefully between his teeth as if it were a delicacy.
    They drove off again into the hot afternoon. The grand- mother took cat naps and woke up every few minutes with her own snoring. Outside of Toombsboro she woke up and recalled an old plantation that she had visited in this neighborhood once when she was a young lady. She said the house had six white columns across the front and that there was an avenue of oaks leading up to it and two little wooden trellis
    arbors on either side in front where you sat down with your suitor after a stroll in the garden. She recalled exactly which road to turn off to get to it. She knew that Bailey would not be willing to lose any time looking at an old house, but the more she talked about it, the more she wanted to see it once again and find out if the little twin arbors were still standing. "There was a secret panel in this house," she said craftily, not telling the truth but wishing that she were, "and the story went that all the family silver was hidden in it when Sherman came through but it was never found . . ."
    "Hey!" John Wesley said. "Let's go see it! We'll find it! We'll poke all the woodwork and find it! Who lives there? Where do you turn off at? Hey Pop, can't we turn off there?"
    "We never have seen a house with a secret panel!" June Star shrieked. "Let's go to the house with the secret panel! Hey Pop, can't we go see the house with the secret panel!"
    "It's not far from here, I know," the grandmother said. "It wouldn't take over twenty minutes."
    Bailey was looking straight ahead. His jaw was as rigid as a horseshoe. "No," he said.
    The children began to yell and scream that they wanted to see the house with the secret panel. John Wesley kicked the back of the front seat and June Star hung over her mother's shoulder and whined desperately into her ear that they never had any fun even on their vacation, that they could never do what THEY wanted to do. The baby began to scream and John Wesley kicked the back of the seat so hard that his father could feel the blows in his kidney.
    "All right!" he shouted and drew the car to a stop at the side of the road. "Will you all shut up? Will you all just shut up for one second? If you don't shut up, we won't go anywhere.
    "It would be very educational for them," the grandmother murmured.
    "All right," Bailey said, "but get this: this is the only time we're going to stop for anything like this. This is the one and only time."
    "The dirt road that you have to turn down is about a mile back," the grandmother directed. "I marked it when we passed."
    "A dirt road," Bailey groaned.
    After they had turned around and were headed toward the dirt road, the grandmother recalled other points about the house, the beautiful glass over the front doorway and the candle-lamp in the hall. John Wesley said that the secret panel was probably in the fireplace.
    "You can't go inside this house," Bailey said. "You don't know who lives there."
    "While you all talk to the people in front, I'll run around behind and get in a window," John Wesley suggested.
    "We'll all stay in the car," his mother said. They turned onto the dirt road and the car raced roughly along in a swirl of pink dust. The grandmother recalled the times when there were no paved roads and thirty miles was a day's journey. The dirt road was hilly and there were sudden washes in it and sharp curves on dangerous embankments. All at once they would be on a hill, looking down over the blue tops of trees for miles around, then the next minute, they would be in a red depression with the dust-coated trees looking down on them.
    "This place had better turn up in a minute," Bailey said, "or I'm going to turn around."
    The road looked as if no one had traveled on it in months.
    "It's not much farther," the grandmother said and just as she said it, a horrible thought came to her. The thought was so embarrassing that she turned red in the face and her eyes dilated and her feet jumped up, upsetting her valise in the corner. The instant the valise moved, the newspaper top she had over the basket under it rose with a snarl and Pitty Sing,the cat, sprang onto Bailey's shoulder.
    The children were thrown to the floor and their mother, clutching the baby, was thrown out the door onto the ground; the old lady was thrown into the front seat. The car turned over once and landed right-side-up in a gulch off the side of the road. Bailey remained in the driver's seat with the cat-gray-striped with a broad white face and an orange nose-clinging to his neck like a caterpillar.
    As soon as the children saw they could move their arms and legs, they scrambled out of the car, shouting, "We've had an ACCIDENT!" The grandmother was curled up under the
    dashboard, hoping she was injured so that Bailey's wrath would not come down on her all at once. The horrible thought she had had before the accident was that the house she had remembered so vividly was not in Georgia but in Tennessee.
    Bailey removed the cat from his neck with both hands and flung it out the window against the side of a pine tree. Then he got out of the car and started looking for the children's mother. She was sitting against the side of the red gutted ditch, holding the screaming baby, but she only had a cut down her face and a broken shoulder. "We've had an ACCIDENT!" the children screamed in a frenzy of delight.
    "But nobody's killed," June Star said with disappointment as the grandmother limped out of the car, her hat still pinned to her head but the broken front brim standing up at a jaunty angle and the violet spray hanging off the side. They all sat down in the ditch, except the children, to recover from the shock. They were all shaking.
    "Maybe a car will come along," said the children's mother hoarsely.
    "I believe I have injured an organ," said the grandmother, pressing her side, but no one answered her. Bailey's teeth were clattering. He had on a yellow sport shirt with bright blue parrots designed in it and his face was as yellow as the l shirt. The grandmother decided that she would not mention that the house was in Tennessee.
    The road was about ten feet above and they could see only the tops of the trees on the other side of it. Behind the ditch they were sitting in there were more woods, tall and dark and deep. In a few minutes they saw a car some distance away on top of a hill, coming slowly as if the occupants were watching them. The grandmother stood up and waved both arms dramatically to attract their attention. The car continued to come on slowly, disappeared around a bend and appeared again, moving even slower, on top of the hill they had gone over. It was a big black battered hearse-like automobile. There were three men in it.
    It came to a stop just over them and for some minutes, the driver looked down with a steady expressionless gaze to where they were sitting, and didn't speak. Then he turned his
    head and muttered something to the other two and they got out. One was a fat boy in black trousers and a red sweat shirt with a silver stallion embossed on the front of it. He moved around on the right side of them and stood staring, his mouth partly open in a kind of loose grin. The other had on khaki pants and a blue striped coat and a gray hat pulled down very low, hiding most of his face. He came around slowly on the left side. Neither spoke.
    The driver got out of the car and stood by the side of it, looking down at them. He was an older man than the other two. His hair was just beginning to gray and he wore silver- rimmed spectacles that gave him a scholarly look. He had a long creased face and didn't have on any shirt or undershirt. He had on blue jeans that were too tight for him and was holding a black hat and a gun. The two boys also had guns.
    "We've had an ACCIDENT!" the children screamed.
    The grandmother had the peculiar feeling that the bespectacled man was someone she knew. His face was as familiar to her as if she had known him au her life but she could not recall who he was. He moved away from the car and began to come down the embankment, placing his feet carefully so that he wouldn't slip. He had on tan and white shoes and no socks, and his ankles were red and thin. "Good afternoon," he said. "I see you all had you a little spill."
    I don’t wanna let a minute get away
    Cause we got no time to lose
    None of us are promised to see tomorrow
    And what we do is ours to choose



    [مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ]




    [مشاهده ی لینک ها فقط برای اعضا امکان پذیر است. ]
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  16. تشكرها از اين پست


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