求一篇英语故事文章,5000单词以上的,不要名著,急...........

Question

求一篇英语故事文章,5000单词以上的,不要名著,急...........,用于毕业论文翻译,谢谢,可以给高分,我的邮箱:[email protected]

Answer 1

http://www.fordham.edu/halsall/basis/abelard-histcal.html

Answer 2

1872

FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

A CHEERFUL TEMPER

by Hans Christian Andersen

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

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

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

he was both in appearance and character a complete contradiction to

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

what innocent verses! Persons seeking interviews and engagements,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

introduced into a scene representing the Zoological Gardens of Berlin,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and worried himself till at last the unhappy man fretted himself

into the grave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

that must be a troubled grave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

to rest in the grave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

upon it as my epitaph-

"The man with a cheerful temper."

And this is my story.

THE END

.

Answer 3

A Story by Hans Christian Andersen

IN the garden all the apple-trees were in blossom. They had hastened to bring forth flowers before they got green leaves, and in the yard all the ducklings walked up and down, and the cat too: it basked in the sun and licked the sunshine from its own paws. And when one looked at the fields, how beautifully the corn stood and how green it shone, without comparison! and there was a twittering and a fluttering of all the little birds, as if the day were a great festival; and so it was, for it was Sunday. All the bells were ringing, and all the people went to church, looking cheerful, and dressed in their best clothes. There was a look of cheerfulness on everything. The day was so warm and beautiful that one might well have said: “God’s kindness to us men is beyond all limits.” But inside the church the pastor stood in the pulpit, and spoke very loudly and angrily. He said that all men were wicked, and God would punish them for their sins, and that the wicked, when they died, would be cast into hell, to burn for ever and ever. He spoke very excitedly, saying that their evil propensities would not be destroyed, nor would the fire be extinguished, and they should never find rest. That was terrible to hear, and he said it in such a tone of conviction; he described hell to them as a miserable hole where all the refuse of the world gathers. There was no air beside the hot burning sulphur flame, and there was no ground under their feet; they, the wicked ones, sank deeper and deeper, while eternal silence surrounded them! It was dreadful to hear all that, for the preacher spoke from his heart, and all the people in the church were terrified. Meanwhile, the birds sang merrily outside, and the sun was shining so beautifully warm, it seemed as though every little flower said: “God, Thy kindness towards us all is without limits.” Indeed, outside it was not at all like the pastor’s sermon.

The same evening, upon going to bed, the pastor noticed his wife sitting there quiet and pensive.

“What is the matter with you?” he asked her.

“Well, the matter with me is,” she said, “that I cannot collect my thoughts, and am unable to grasp the meaning of what you said to-day in church—that there are so many wicked people, and that they should burn eternally. Alas! eternally—how long! I am only a woman and a sinner before God, but I should not have the heart to let even the worst sinner burn for ever, and how could our Lord to do so, who is so infinitely good, and who knows how the wickedness comes from without and within? No, I am unable to imagine that, although you say so.”

It was autumn; the trees dropped their leaves, the earnest and severe pastor sat at the bedside of a dying person. A pious, faithful soul closed her eyes for ever; she was the pastor’s wife.

...“If any one shall find rest in the grave and mercy before our Lord you shall certainly do so,” said the pastor. He folded her hands and read a psalm over the dead woman.

She was buried; two large tears rolled over the cheeks of the earnest man, and in the parsonage it was empty and still, for its sun had set for ever. She had gone home.

It was night. A cold wind swept over the pastor’s head; he opened his eyes, and it seemed to him as if the moon was shining into his room. It was not so, however; there was a being standing before his bed, and looking like the ghost of his deceased wife. She fixed her eyes upon him with such a kind and sad expression, just as if she wished to say something to him. The pastor raised himself in bed and stretched his arms towards her, saying, “Not even you can find eternal rest! You suffer, you best and most pious woman?”

The dead woman nodded her head as if to say “Yes,” and put her hand on her breast.

“And can I not obtain rest in the grave for you?”

“Yes,” was the answer.

“And how?”

“Give me one hair—only one single hair—from the head of the sinner for whom the fire shall never be extinguished, of the sinner whom God will condemn to eternal punishment in hell.”

“Yes, one ought to be able to redeem you so easily, you pure, pious woman,” he said.

“Follow me,” said the dead woman. “It is thus granted to us. By my side you will be able to fly wherever your thoughts wish to go. Invisible to men, we shall penetrate into their most secret chambers; but with sure hand you must find out him who is destined to eternal torture, and before the cock crows he must be found!” As quickly as if carried by the winged thoughts they were in the great city, and from the walls the names of the deadly sins shone in flaming letters: pride, avarice, drunkenness, wantonness—in short, the whole seven-coloured bow of sin.

“Yes, therein, as I believed, as I knew it,” said the pastor, “are living those who are abandoned to the eternal fire.” And they were standing before the magnificently illuminated gate; the broad steps were adorned with carpets and flowers, and dance music was sounding through the festive halls. A footman dressed in silk and velvet stood with a large silver-mounted rod near the entrance.

“Our ball can compare favourably with the king’s,” he said, and turned with contempt towards the gazing crowd in the street. What he thought was sufficiently expressed in his features and movements: “Miserable beggars, who are looking in, you are nothing in comparison to me.”

“Pride,” said the dead woman; “do you see him?”

“The footman?” asked the pastor. “He is but a poor fool, and not doomed to be tortured eternally by fire!”

“Only a fool!” It sounded through the whole house of pride: they were all fools there.

Then they flew within the four naked walls of the miser. Lean as a skeleton, trembling with cold, and hunger, the old man was clinging with all his thoughts to his money. They saw him jump up feverishly from his miserable couch and take a loose stone out of the wall; there lay gold coins in an old stocking. They saw him anxiously feeling over an old ragged coat in which pieces of gold were sewn, and his clammy fingers trembled.

“He is ill! That is madness—a joyless madness—besieged by fear and dreadful dreams!”

They quickly went away and came before the beds of the criminals; these unfortunate people slept side by side, in long rows. Like a ferocious animal, one of them rose out of his sleep and uttered a horrible cry, and gave his comrade a violent dig in the ribs with his pointed elbow, and this one turned round in his sleep:

“Be quiet, monster—sleep! This happens every night!”

“Every night!” repeated the other. “Yes, every night he comes and tortures me! In my violence I have done this and that. I was born with an evil mind, which has brought me hither for the second time; but if I have done wrong I suffer punishment for it. One thing, however, I have not yet confessed. When I came out a little while ago, and passed by the yard of my former master, evil thoughts rose within me when I remembered this and that. I struck a match a little bit on the wall; probably it came a little too close to the thatched roof. All burnt down—a great heat rose, such as sometimes overcomes me. I myself helped to rescue cattle and things, nothing alive burnt, except a flight of pigeons, which flew into the fire, and the yard dog, of which I had not thought; one could hear him howl out of the fire, and this howling I still hear when I wish to sleep; and when I have fallen asleep, the great rough dog comes and places himself upon me, and howls, presses, and tortures me. Now listen to what I tell you! You can snore; you are snoring the whole night, and I hardly a quarter of an hour!” And the blood rose to the head of the excited criminal; he threw himself upon his comrade, and beat him with his clenced fist in the face.

“Wicked Matz has become mad again!” they said amongst themselves. The other criminals seized him, wrestled with him, and bent him double, so that his head rested between his knees, and they tied him, so that the blood almost came out of his eyes and out of all his pores.

“You are killing the unfortunate man,” said the pastor, and as he stretched out his hand to protect him who already suffered too much, the scene changed. They flew through rich halls and wretched hovels; wantonness and envy, all the deadly sins, passed before them. An angel of justice read their crimes and their defence; the latter was not a brilliant one, but it was read before God, Who reads the heart, Who knows everything, the wickedness that comes from within and from without, Who is mercy and love personified. The pastor’s hand trembled; he dared not stretch it out, he did not venture to pull a hair out of the sinner’s head. And tears gushed from his eyes like a stream of mercy and love, the cooling waters of which extinguished the eternal fire of hell.

Just then the cock crowed.

“Father of all mercy, grant Thou to her the peace that I was unable to procure for her!”

“I have it now!” said the dead woman. “It was your hard words, your despair of mankind, your gloomy belief in God and His creation, which drove me to you. Learn to know mankind! Even in the wicked one lives a part of God—and this extinguishes and conquers the flame of hell!”

The pastor felt a kiss on his lips; a gleam of light surrounded him—God’s bright sun shone into the room, and his wife, alive, sweet and full of love, awoke him from a dream which God had sent him!

参考资料：http://hca.gilead.org.il/a_story.html

Answer 4

5000字的东西你就给这一二百分。。。你也太能。。。。了吧？