妙语短篇b1翻译

妙语短篇b1翻译Introduction 前言1. Counting Chicke2. A Housing Problem3. Dirty Hands4. The Guitar Player5. Schooldays6. Importance7. Nothing Unusual8. Free Tickets9. A Fishy Story10. Lasting a Lifetime11. Kid's Talk12. The Mo ter13. Directio14. Not Such a Simple Question.15. Right Way-Wrong WayA wer Key 答案1. 计算小鸡那天是玛丽的生日。

她接到了一封来自是农场主的他叔叔的来信。

“亲爱的玛丽”那封信说道。

“生日快乐。

我要送给你一些鸡。

他们明天就到达。

我希望你喜欢他们。

万事如意。

你的叔叔---涛比”玛丽特别高兴。

她喜欢吃蛋也喜欢吃鸡肉。

“我会饲养这些就直到下蛋或吃掉他们。

”她想到。

当第二天那些鸡到达的时候，他们在一个箱子里。

玛丽特别兴奋。

她把箱子从卡车后面拿下来并开始把箱子搬到她的花园去。

然而，那箱子的鸡太重了，她把箱子掉了。

箱子掉到地上而且摔坏了。

鸡全都跑出去了。

他们到处跑---跑进邻居的花园的，跑到公路的，跑进商店的，甚至跑到下一条街道的。

玛丽花了好几个小时试图找到他们而且把他们带回到她的花园中。

几天以后她的叔叔来串门看她。

“那些鸡都安全到达了吗？”他问玛丽。

“对，涛比叔叔。

”玛丽说道。

“但是我因为他们呢而有了很多的麻烦。

我把箱子掉了，箱子坏了鸡跑的到处都是。

我花了整个上午去找他们。

”“那你把他们全都找到了吗？”她叔叔问道。

“我希望是这样的，”玛丽回答道。

“我抓到了他们中的11只。

”“那可太有意思了，”他叔叔微笑着说道，“因为我只送你6只。

”2.住屋问题苏和爱伦一直约会许多年。

每个周末，他们在星期六夜晚一起去看一场电影了。

在星期日，他们在夏天和对冬天的国家去海滩了。

苏知道爱伦想要与她结婚，而且她想要也与爱伦结婚。

她耐心地等候了他要求她与him.However 结婚，虽然他时常告诉她他爱她，但是他不曾说关于婚姻的任何事。

这使苏不快乐了。

她将近三十。

她相信如果爱伦没有很快与她结婚，她不可能结婚。

她没有想要是一个未婚女人。

她想要让一个丈夫和一个她的家庭自己。

一个晚上,当他们正在一场电影之后走回家之时，她说,"爱伦, 你不认为该是你问我某事的时候了吗?"爱伦想一会儿。

他知道她在想的。

最后，他说，"我是难过的苏，但是我不认为我有任何事在这次问你 .""然后我将会必须问你，爱伦, " 苏说。

"我能够不再等候 . 我变得旧 ."她停止步行而且看他。

" 爱伦",她说,"我们已经认识彼此有十年之久。

我爱你而且你爱我。

你能与我结婚吗?"爱伦握住了苏的手。

" 苏",他说,"我想要与你结婚，但是我们仍然不能够结婚。

我们有无处住。

我没有很多的钱，而且你也没有。

我们不能够买一个我们自己的地方。

""那不重要, " 苏说。

" 我们能和你的父母居住。

"3世界上最好的推销员哈利在橱窗上看到一则广告，上面写着：“ 招人世界上最好的推销员高薪” “我就是个不错的推销员”哈利心里想着“我能卖掉任何东西，我要进去请求这份工作” 他走进商店并对经理说“我是世界上最好的推销员”，他说“给我这份工作吧” “你必须证明你是最好的”经理说。

“我会通过你给我的所有测试”哈利对他说。

“好的” 经理从他的桌子里拿出一盒糖。

“上礼拜我买了一千盒糖，如果你能在这礼拜之内把它们都卖掉，我就给你这份工作” “很简单”哈利说。

他拿着这盒糖离开了办公室。

哈利每天并且一整天都忙着从一家店跑到另一家，试着卖糖，可是一盒都没卖掉。

糖是那么的低劣，他甚至不能把它送人。

到了周末，他回到经理那，“很抱歉，先生”他说“我看错自己了。

我不是世界上最好的推销员，但是我知道谁是” “哦”经理说“是谁啊” “那个把一千盒糖卖给你的人”哈利说。

10。

你比我更需要在很多大城市都有人没有工作。

有时是他们不想工作，但有时他们是根本没有工作可做。

这些人中有的讨钱，有的卖火柴或者廉价的钢笔，而有的则卖花。

Andrew Chen从来不给乞丐钱。

他认为，人应该工作赚钱。

他还错误地认为，每个人都是会有工作的。

有一天，他正在等公车，一个乞丐走上前来，向他讨钱。

这个乞丐是一个老妇人，穿着一件又旧又脏的衣服，没穿鞋。

她卖的花气味芳香。

“给我十美元吧，先生。

”她向Andrew Chen恳求道，“我已经三天没吃饭了。

” “我不会给你十美元的。

”Andrew Chen 说。

“那么，给五美元呢，先生？”穷苦的老妇人继续恳求，“那够我买两块面包的了。

” “不给。

”Andrew Chen拒绝道。

“那么，一美元？”老妇人继续，“一美元我可以买一个橘子啦。

” “我没有一美元，请你走开。

”Andrew Chen说。

老妇人悲哀地注视着他，然后把她的花都给了Andrew Chen。

“给你，先生。

”老妇人说道：“拿着这些花，你比我更需要它们。

”14"对不起, 先生, " 她说, "我不想你粗鲁无礼，我要问你一个问题。

当我们经过我们的旅程一半的时候，你将你的报纸撕碎然后打开窗户把碎片扔出去。

请告诉我, 先生，你为什么这样做?” 穿着良好的男人微笑。

"我有一个非常简单的理由, " ，他说。

"我喜欢睡觉来打发旅程的后一半，但是如果火车充满大象，我不能够睡觉。

因此我对大象丢出去报纸。

它阻止他们进入火车。

” ”但是这里没有大象啊”！”她说！”我知道”，他说，”可见我扔报纸很管用啊！”4．吉他演奏员当他乘汽车，撞一天托尼• Wang穿过路。

他跌倒了并且伤了他的胳膊。

很快救护车来了把托尼送入医院。

然后他胳膊上了石膏。

托尼根本不能移动它“您这个石膏必须保留您的胳膊里六个星期”，医生说。

“将给断骨头一个机会愈合”。

在六个星期的结尾托尼去回到医院。

医生使用一把大锯切开塑像。

然后他采取了托尼的胳膊在塑像外面。

“您能移动您的胳膊，托尼？”他要求。

托尼设法移动他的胳膊。

起初它很困难，但他可能容易地很快移动它。

“是，它是好的”，他说。

“谢谢”。

在几天它将是象新一样”，医生说。

“要经常锻炼它一点”。

“我能弹吉他？”托尼被问。

医生微笑。

“当然您可以”，他说。

“您不会有问题”。

“是好消息”，托尼说。

“由于我不能像以前一样弹了”5．艾丽斯.安德鲁斯非常担心她的儿子---约翰，他经常显得很忧郁。

一天早晨，她走进儿子的房间，打开灯，说：“该起床了，约翰，你不能整天呆在床上。

”约翰翻了个身，把灯关了，他不想起床。

“不要再睡了，”艾丽斯说,"再不起床你去学校会迟到的。

”她又把灯点亮。

15分钟后，约翰踱进厨房，坐在餐桌前。

“快点吃你的早餐。

”艾丽斯说，“都快八点半了！”“不要着急”，约翰说，“我今天不去学校。

”“为什么？”他妈妈说，“今天放假么？”约翰摇摇头，“不，今天不是假期。

”艾丽斯坐在她儿子的旁边握住他的手。

“约翰”，她问道，"告诉我，出了什么问题？为什么你这么恨学校？”约翰沉默了一会，然后说：“老师们都欺负我，学生们都不喜欢我。

”“约翰”他妈妈说道，“对此我很遗憾，但是你不能呆在家里。

”“为什么！？” 他问道.“因为，亲爱的”，他的妈妈说道“有两个很好的原因让你必须去学校。

第一，你已经35岁了，第二，你是校长！”6．几年前，一位电台记者正访谈美国的三位重要人物。

一个是富有的银行家，另一个人拥有世界上最大之一的电脑公司，第三个在纽约市中心拥有着许多的房产！记者问他们关于重要人物的问题。

“怎样才能知道一个人真的很重要呢？”记者问银行家。

银行家想了几分钟然后说道“我认为如果某个人被邀请到白宫见美国的总理是真的重要的人物。

”记者转向拥有大公司的人问道：“你同意他的观点吗？”拥有大公司的人摇摇头说：“不”她说：“我不同意，我认为总理邀请过很多人参观白宫，如果，总理连来自美国重要权利部门的电话都无暇顾及却来接见你，那你才是重要的人物！”记者转向拥有许多房产的人问道：“你同意吗？”他说：不，我不同意。

”那样回使总理变的重要！”“那么，是什么能让来访的人成为重要的人呢？”记者问到。

“哦，来访白宫的人在电话中话总理交谈，总理拿起电话，听后说：…就在等你‟这才证明这个人很重要”10。

你比我更需要在很多大城市都有人没有工作。

有时是他们不想工作，但有时他们是根本没有工作可做。

这些人中有的讨钱，有的卖火柴或者廉价的钢笔，而有的则卖花。

A从来不给乞丐钱。

他认为，人应该工作赚钱。

他还错误地认为，每个人都是会有工作的。

有一天，他正在等公车，一个乞丐走上前来，向他讨钱。

这个乞丐是一个老妇人，穿着一件又旧又脏的衣服，没穿鞋。

她卖的花气味芳香。

“给我十美元吧，先生。

”她向A恳求道，“我已经三天没吃饭了。

”“我不会给你十美元的。

”A说。

“那么，给五美元呢，先生？”穷苦的老妇人继续恳求，“那够我买两块面包的了。

”“不给。

”A 拒绝道。

“那么，一美元？”老妇人继续，“一美元我可以买一个橘子啦。

”“我没有一美元，请你走开。

”A说。

老妇人悲哀地注视着他，然后把她的花都给了A。

“给你，先生。

”老妇人说道：“拿着这些花，你比我更需要它们。

”11重要的人经常去展示他们有多么重要。

他们经常有最宽敞的车。

他们住在最大的房子里。

他们穿着最昂贵的衣服。

他们在最好的餐厅吃饭。

马斯先生，Acme有限公司的总经理，是一个重要的人物。

Acme有限公司是一家重要的公司，城市里最大的公司之一。

一千多名男士和女士为它而工作。

Acme有限公司的办公室都在Acme大楼里。

这是一个城市里最高的楼之一。

它有五十楼。

马斯先生，总经理，他的办公室在最高楼上。

一天，一个男人过来看他。

他走近马斯先生的秘书。

她是，当然，公司里最美丽的秘书。

“我的名字叫约翰瓦特凯斯，”他告诉她。

“我需要去看马斯先生，我的约会在十点”最美丽的秘书看了看在楼里墙上的表。

这是公司里最大的表。

“现在是十点钟，”她说。

“你在你约会的时间。

然而，我恐怕你不能见到马斯先生。

”约翰瓦特凯斯非常惊讶。

“噢？为什么？”他问。

“马斯先生正在打高尔夫。

”“噢，”约翰瓦特凯斯说。

“那么他今天不能来他的办公室了。

”最美丽的秘书在公司里对他微笑着。

“马斯先生已经在那儿了，”她说。

“他有世界上最大的办公室。

”12The MonsterHe was an undersized little man, with a head too big for his body — a sickly little man. His nerves were bad. He had skin trouble. It was agony for him to wear anything next to his skin coarser than silk. And he had delusions of grandeur.He was a monster of conceit. Never for one minute did he look at the world or at people, except in relation to himself. He was not only the most important person in the world, to himself; in his own eyes he was the only person who existed. He believed himself to be one of the greatest dramatists in the world, one of the greatest thinkers, and one of the greatest composers. To hear him talk, he was Shakespeare, and Beethoven, and Plato, rolled into one. And you would have had no difficulty in hearing him talk. He was one of the most exhausting conversationalists that ever lived. An evening with him was an evening spent in listening to a monologue. Sometimes he was brilliant; sometimes he was maddeningly tiresome. But whether he was being brilliant or dull, he had one sole topic of conversation: himself. What he thought and what he did.He had a mania for being in the right. The slightest hint of disagreement, from anyone, on the most trivial point, was enough to set him off on a harangue that might last for hours, in which he proved himself right in so many ways, and with such exhausting volubility, that in the end his hearer, stunned and deafened, would agree with him, for the sake of peace.It never occurred to him that he and his doing were not of the most intense and fascinating interest to anyone with whom he came in contact. He had theories about almost any subject under the sun, including vegetarianism, the drama, politics,and music; and in support of these theories he wrote pamphlets, letters, books ... thousands upon thousands of words, hundreds and hundreds of pages. He not only wrote these things, and published them — usually at somebody else's expense —but he would sit and read them aloud, for hours, to his friends and his family.He wrote operas, and no sooner did he have the synopsis of a story, but he would invite —or rather summon —a crowd of his friends to his house and read it aloud to them. Not for criticism. For applause. When the complete poem was written,the friends had to come again, and hear that read aloud. Then he would publish the poem, sometimes years before the music that went with it was written. He played the piano like a composer, in the worst sense of what that implies, and he would sit down at the piano before parties that included some of the finest pianists of his time, and play for them, by the hour, his own music, needless to say. He had a composer's voice. And he would invite eminent vocalists to his house, and sing them his operas, taking all the parts.He had the emotional stability of a six-year-old child. When he felt out of sorts, he would rave and stamp, or sink into suicidal gloom and talk darkly of going to the East to end his days as a Buddhist monk. Ten minutes later, when something pleased him, he would rush out of doors and runaround the garden, or jump up and down on the sofa, or stand on his head. He could be grief-stricken over the death of a pet dog, and he could be callous and heartless to a degree that would have made a Roman emperor shudder.He was almost innocent of any sense of responsibility. Not only did he seem incapable of supporting himself, but it never occurred to him that he was under any obligation to do so. He was convinced that the world owed him a living. In supportof this belief, he borrowed money from everybody who was good for a loan — men,women, friends, or strangers. He wrote begging letters by the score, sometimes groveling without shame, at others loftily offering his intended benefactor the privilege of contributing to his support, and being mortally offended if the recipient declined the honor. I have found no record of his ever paying or repaying money to anyone who did not have a legal claim upon it.What money he could lay his hands on he spent like an Indian rajah. The mere prospect of a performance of one of his operas was enough to set him to running up bills amounting to ten times the amount of his prospective royalties. No one will ever know ?nbsp;certainly he never knew ?nbsp;how much money he owed. We do know that his greatest benefactor gave him $6,000 to pay the most pressing of his debts in one city, and a year later, had to give him $16,000 to enable him to live in anothercity without being thrown into jail for debt.He was equally unscrupulous in other ways. An endless procession of women marched through his life. His first wife spent twenty years enduring and forgiving his infidelities. His second wife had been the wife of his most devoted friend and admirer, from whom he stole her. And even while he was trying to persuade her to leave her first husband he was writing to a friend to inquire whether he could suggest some wealthy woman ?nbsp;any wealthy woman ?nbsp;whom he could marry for her money.He was completely selfish in his other personal relationships. His liking for his friends was measured solely by the completeness of their devotion to him, or by their usefulness to him, whether financial or artistic. The minute they failed him ?nbsp;even by so much as refusing a dinner invitation ?nbsp;or began to lessen in usefulness, he cast them off without a second thought. At the end of his life he had exactly one friend left whom he had known even in middle age.The name of this monster was Richard Wagner.2 Everything that I have said about him you can find on record ?nbsp;in newspapers, in police reports, in the testimony of people who knew him, in his own letters, between thelines of his autobiography. And the curious thing about this record is that it doesn't matter in the least.Because this undersized, sickly, disagreeable, fascinating little man was right all the time. The joke was on us. He was one of the world's greatest dramatists; he was a great thinker; he was one of the most stupendous musical geniuses that, up to now, the world has ever seen. The world did owe him a living.When you consider what he wrote ?nbsp;thirteen operas and music dramas, eleven of them still holding the stage, eight of them unquestionably worth ranking among the world's great musico-dramatic masterpieces ?nbsp;when you listen to what he wrote, the debts and heartaches that people had to endure from him don't seem much of a price. Think of the luxury with which for a time, at least, fate rewarded Napoleon,the man who ruined France and looted Europe; and then perhaps you will agree that a few thousand dollars' worth of debts were not too heavy a price to pay for the Ring trilogy.What if he was faithless to his friends and to his wives? He had one mistress towhom he was faithful to the day of his death: Music. Not for a single moment did he ever compromise with what he believed, with what he dreamed. There is not a line of his music that could have been conceived by a little mind. Even when he is dull, or downright bad, he is dull in the grand manner. There is greatness about his worst mistakes. Listening to his music, one does not forgive him for what he may or may not have been. It is not a matter of forgiveness. It is a matter of being dumb with wonder that his poor brain and body didn't burst under the torment of the demon of creative energy that lived inside him, struggling, clawing, scratching to be released; tearing, shrieking at him to write the music that was in him. The miracle is that what he did in the little space of seventy years could have been done at all, even by a great genius. Is it any wonder that he had no time to be a man?补充回答：他身材矮小，头却很大，与他的身材很不相称——是个满脸病容的矮子。