大学英语二医用教材赵贵旺Unit13Word文档格式.docx
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relatives
worshiped,
a
small
cemetery
tells
other
stories.
Pausing
to
read
gravestones
dating
back
1800s,
names
inscriptions
dulled
by
elements,
visitors
awed
this
silent
community
former
residents
who
played
varying
roles
in
shaping
town.
Sometimes
such
pilgrimages
are
bittersweet.
One
woman
New
York
describes
her
sadness
discovering
that
favorite
cherry
tree
grandparents'
yard
is
gone,
grandfather'
s
carpentry
shop
basement
has
been
turned
into
studio
apartment.
A
man
Jersey
laments
loss
his
garden,
now
paved
concrete.
Neglect
also
take
its
toll.
My
father
I
once
visited
beautifully
maintained
house
he
was
born.
But
elation
over
pristine
condition
at
next
stop,
dairy
farm
belonged
grandparents.
The
barns
looked
derelict,
badly
need
paint
repairs.
Never
again,
vowed,
would
go
back.
Some
beloved
memories
best
left
unchanged.
Tracing
family
roots
on
paper,
through
documents,
letters,
diaries,
brings
many
rewards.
actually
walking
footsteps
earlier
generations
adds
powerful
new
dimension
–
sense
place.
foreign
country:
They
do
things
differently
there,"
observed
British
novelist
L.P.
Hartley.
Those
differences
make
case
for
visiting
past.
Several
years
ago
Christine
Louise
Hohlbaum,
an
American
living
Paunzhausen,
Germany,
went
with
Long
Island,
N.Y.,
see
owned
great-aunt.
As
they
walked
grounds,
she
says,
felt
overwhelming"
history.
It
if
were
convening
essence
family.
This
real
live
place
important
events
happened."
vacationers
own
long-ago
places"
summer,
some
might
agree
Thomas
Wolfe
you
can'
t
home
least
not
permanently.
hour,
or
even
15
minutes.
And
chances
good
you'
ll
richer
it.Unit2
Ithadbeenalonglongyear--thelastyearofmysonAdrian’sbrieflife.ThejourneyupbytraintoLondon’sWaterlooStationhadbecomealmostroutine.Thenthe25-minutewalkacrossWaterlooBridgeandontoTheHospitalforSickChildren,GreatOrmondStreet.Thewalktothehospitalwasnotwithoutenjoyment,foriwaseagertoseemysonagainandbuoyedupbythesomehowindestructiblehopethattoday,bysomemiracle,hewouldberecovering.
Butthereturntotherailwaystationintheeveningwasdevastating.Onceagain,nomiracle.Someeveningsitbecame,astheFrenchsay,insupportable.
Afterputtingmylittlesontobedintheward,hearinghisprayersandholdinghiminmyarmswhilehefellasleep,iusuallyhadplentyoftimetomakemywaytothestation.IfrequentlypausedonthebridgespanningtheRiverThamestowatchthebroadriverflowingalongonitsnever-endingjourneytothesea.
Oneeveningigazed,hypnotizedalmost,intotheblack,oilywaterandwasnotimmediatelyawarethatawomanhadjoinedme.Ilookedupandsawher;
shewasstandingquiteclose.Ihadseenherbeforeintheshadowsontheoppositesideofthestreetandhadrecognized,withoutgivingthemattermuchthought,thatshewas,almostcertainly,ofthesisterhoodeuphemisticallyreferredtoas“ladiesoftheevening.”
“Evenin’,Guv’or,”shesaid.
“Goodevening,”ireplied,alittlediscomfitedbyherpresenceandunsureforherintentions.
ShelookedawayfrommeandgazedintotheThames.“YoubeentotheChildren’s,”shesaid.Itwasastatementratherthanaquestion.
“Yes,ihave,”itoldher,abitbewilderedbyherinterest.“Mylittlesonisapatienthere.”
“Bad,ain’the?
”shesaid.
“Yes,i’mafraidheis,”ireplied.Andagain,asmuchtomyselfastoher,”i‘mverymuchafraidheis.”
Shereachedoutandtouchedmyarm.Icouldseetearsinhereyes.“I‘msorry,Guv,”shesaidsoftly.Thenshewithdrewherhandquickly,turnedandwalkedaway.Ithoughtabouttheencounterallthewayhomeandfeltstrangelyheartenedbyit.
Foethenextfewmonths,iregularlymademywaytoandfromthehospital,myemotionsalternatingwildlybetweenunreasoninghopeandcompletedespair.Oftenshewouldjoinmeonthebridge.
“’Owis’e,then?
”shewouldenquire.“Anythingdifferent?
’E’sinMr.Punchward,ain’t‘e?
”
“Heis,”iagreed,wonderinghowsheknew.“There’snochange.”
SheneveraskedmynamebutinvitedmetocallherRosie.“That’swhatmyfriendscallme.”
“Myson’snameisAdrian,Rosie,”itoldher.“He’squiteblondwithgreyeyes,andhe’salmostfouryearsold.”
Shenoddedandsaidnothing.
IcametorelyontheseencounterstoaremarkabledegreeandoneeveninggaveherasmallpictureofAdrian,aduplicateofoneicarriedinmywallet.Iwroteonthebackofit:
“Thankyou,Rosie.”Shelookedatitforalongmomentbeforewrappingitinherhandkerchiefandputtingitcarefullyinherhandbag.
Then,finally,thetelephonecallcamefromthehospital:
“Ithinkyouhadbettercomeatonce.”
Helookedsosmalllyingthere,hiegreyeyesfixedearnestlyonmine.Ileanedoverandwipedtheperspirationfromhisforehead.
“Daddy,whyareyoucrying?
Daddy,i’mfrightened.Oh,Daddy,isitgoingtobeallright?
“Yes,darling,Daddy’shere.It’sgoingtobeallright.”
Thetinyhandclaspedinminerelaxeditsgrip.
Whenitwasover,thetwocompassionatenurseputtheirarmsroundmyshouldersandledmeaway.IwentoutintotheLondonstreets--anditwasnight.
Thefollowingevening,aftertakingcareofnecessarybusinessatthehospital,istoppedonthebridgeandleanedovertherailings,gazing,unseeing,intothewater,tryingtogetagriponmyself.Wheniturned,Rosiewasstandingbesideme.Shetouchedmegentlyonthearm,justasshehadthefirsttimewemet.
“Ere,”shesaid,profferingmesomethingwrappedintissuepaper.“They’reforhim.You’llputthemonhisgraveforme,won’tyou?
”Thrustingatinybouquetoflilyofthevalleyintomyhand,shemadeasortofchokingsound,turnedandran.
Amassofwreathscoveredthegrave.Inthecentreoftheprofusionoffloraltributesthetinybunchoflilyofthevalleycontrastedsharplywiththevividroses,daffodils,tulipsandanemonesthatsurroundedit.
ItimedmyreturnfrommyfinalvisitstothehospitalvicinitysothatiwouldpassbyWaterlooBridgeratherlateintheevening.IwantedtotellRosiethatihavedeliveredherflowers.Butisawnothingofher.Icouldnotimaginewhathadhappenedtoher.
Summoningupmycourage,imademywaytothenearestpolicestation,notmanyblocksdistant.WiththeunfailingcourtesyandgenuinehelpfulnessoftheBritishpoliceman,anofficerlistenedtomystoryoflookingforafriend.Heeyedmeabitquizzically.
“Yes,sir,iamalmostsureiknowtowhomyourefer,”heassuredme.“ShewasregularlyinthevicinityofWaterlooBridge.Herregular‘beat,’youmightsay.HernamewasRosie,wasn’tit?
“Yes,yes,”isaid.“That’sthepersoni’mlookingfor.”
“I’msorry,sir,”hetoldmequietly.“Thepersoninquestionisdead.Wefoundherinthestreetseveralnightsago.Apparentlyaheartattack.”
“Didshehaveanyrelatives,anyfamily?
”iasked.
“No,sir,i’msorry,”thepolicemansaid.“Wewentthroughherhandbag,buttherewasnoidentificationofanykind.Cosmetics,matches,cigarettes,handkerchief,acoupleofpictures.Thatwasall.”
“Doyoustillhaveherhandbag?
”Iasked.“Woulditbepossibleformetoseeit--tolookintoit?
Theofficerhesitated.“Well,sir,that’sratheranunusualrequest.”
“Lookconstable,”icontinued,takingoutmywalletandwithdrawingthepictureofmysonfromit.“Thisismyson.Ifthepersonyoufoundisreallytheoneiamlookingfor,therewillbeanidenticalpictureinherhandbag.”
“Justamoment,sir,”theofficersaidandretreatedtoaninneroffice.Withinminuteshereturned,carryingabrownhandbagwithalargecardattached,evidentlyalistingofthecontents.Helookedalittlealittleexcited.
“Yes,sir,”heassuredme,runninghisfingerdownthelistonthecard.“Therearetwosnapshotshere.”
Heopenedthehandbagandpassedmetwophotographs.Onewasareplicaofthepictureiheldinmyhand.Iturneditoverandreadinmyownhandwriting:
“Thankyou,Rosie.”theotherpicturewasofasmall,dark-hairedgirl.
Ihadonemoreplacetogo.ThefollowingdayitookatraintoLondonandmademywaytothechildren’shospital.IrecalledRosiementioningthatshehadafriend“Ben,”whowasaporteratthehospital.Ienquiredattheporters’lodge.Amiddle-agedmanwithakindlyfacecameforward.
“Yes,indeed,”heassuredme.“IknewRosie.Sheusedtocallbyregularly,youknow,andenquireaboutyourboy.Iusedtogetareportforherfromthewardabouthim.”
“Shewasn’talwaysinthelineofbusinessshewasinwhenyoumether,youknow,”Bencontinued.“Sheusedtobeawaitress.Itwasaftershelosthergirlshewentonthestreet.Thelittlediedinhere,youknow,sixyearsold.Itwasaboutayearago.That’swhenifirstmetRosie--sheusedtocomehereandvisitBerda.Thatwasthechild’sname.Afterthelittleonedied,Rosieneverwentbacktothewaitressjob.”
“Ben,canyoutellmewhereRosieisburied?
“No,Guv,ican’t.Buticantellyouwherethechildlies.RosieusedtogothereeverySundayafternoonandcutthegrassandtakeflowers.Iwentwithheratimeortwo.”
Ikneltbesidethetinymound.Lackingshears,itriedtopullthelongestgrass,growinglankandweedynow,withmyhands.Ifilledthebluevase