我有一个哲学家老朋友，他历过很多人情世故，按照他的阅历，行为谨慎的话，就要尽量避免和这种人打交道。和其他的哲学家一样，他也有一个显示气温的温度计和一个预报天气好坏的气压计，但世上没有人可以发明一种仪器，来预测人的这种坏习惯，因此，他就利用自己的两条腿来测验。他的一条腿长得很好看，另一条腿因为意外事故而成了畸形。如果陌生人初见他时，对他的丑腿比美腿更专注，那么他就会有所疑虑。如果那人只谈论那条丑腿，而不注意他的好腿，那我的朋友就会很快决定不再与他深交。不是每个人都有这样一双腿作为测量仪器，但只要稍加留意，每个人都能看出点那种挑三拣四的人的劣迹，从而避免和这种人交往。所以，我奉劝那些爱挑剔、爱发牢骚、整天愁眉苦脸的人，如果想受人尊敬并且想给自己找乐子，就不要总是盯着别人的丑腿看。
八月
August
查尔斯·狄更斯 / Charles Dickens
查尔斯·狄更斯（1812—1870），英国著名散文家、小说家。早年以“Boz”的笔名在报章杂志上发表作品，文章深刻探讨社会病态、道德沦落等现象。狄更斯一生创作了大量的作品，除了小说以外，他在散文、游记、诗歌等各种体裁上均有涉猎，但成就最高的还是长篇小说。其代表作有《双城记》、《匹克威克外传》、《大卫·科波菲尔》、《荒凉山庄》、《艰难时世》。
There is no month in the whole year, in which nature wears a more beautiful appearance than in the month of August. Spring has many beauties, and May is a fresh and blooming month, but the charms of this time of year are enhanced by their contrast with the winter season. August has no such advantage. It comes when we remember nothing but clear skies, green fields, and sweet-smelling flowers—when the recollection of snow, and ice, and bleak winds, has faded from our minds as completely as they have disappeared from the earth—and yet what a pleasant time it is! Orchards and cornfields ring with the hum of labour; trees bend beneath the thick clusters of rich fruit which bow their branches to the ground; and the corn, piled in graceful sheaves, or waving in every light breath that sweeps above it, as if it wooed the sickle, tinges the landscape with a golden hue. A mellow softness appears to hang over the whole earth; the influence of the season seems to extend itself to the very wagon, whose slow motion across the well-reaped field, is perceptible only to the eye, but strikes with no harsh sound upon the ear.
As the coach rolls swiftly past the fields and orchards which skirt the road, groups of women and children, piling the fruit in sieves, or gathering the scattered ears of corn, pause for an instant from their labour, and shading the sunburnt face with a still browner hand, gaze upon the passengers with curious eyes, while some stout urchin, too small to work but too mischievous to be left at home, scrambles over the side of the basket in which he has been deposited for security, and kicks and screams with delight. The reaper stops in his work, and stands with folded arms, looking at the vehicle as it whirls past; and the rough cart-horses bestow a sleepy glance upon the smart coach team, which says, as plainly as a horse' s glance can, "It' s all very fine to look at, but slow going, over a heavy field, is better than warm work like that, upon a dusty road, after all." You cast a look behind you, as you turn a corner of the road. The women and children have resumed their labour: the reaper once more stoops to his work: the cart-horses has moved on: and all are again in motion.
一年之中，没有任何一个月的自然风光比得过八月的风采。春天美不胜收，而五月也是—个清新、花开的月份，由于有冬季的对比，所以每年的此刻更显得魅力四射。八月就没有这样的优势。它来的时候，我们只记得明朗的天空，绿绿的田野，还有芳香四溢的花朵——记忆中的冰雪、寒风都已完全消失，仿佛它们在地球上了无踪迹——然而八月是多么愉快的季节啊！果园和麦田到处都充溢着工作的声响，串串硕果压得果树都弯下了腰，枝条低垂到地面，还有玉米，有的一捆捆优雅地堆在一起，有的则ó着微风招展，仿佛等待收割，把景致染上μμ的金黄色。整个大地似乎笼罩着醇美的柔和。季节的影响，似乎蔓延至那辆马车，它缓慢地越过收割好的田地，这一切只有用肉眼才觉察得到，耳朵听不到任何刺耳的声音。
马车摇晃着，轻快地过路边的田野与果园，一群群的妇女和孩子们，有的正将水果往筛子上堆，有的则在捡散落的玉米穗子，他们稍停了会儿手中的活，用深褐色的手遮在晒黑的脸上，以好奇的眼神望着乘客。一些结实的小顽童，太小还不能上学，但又不能把他们留在家中胡闹，便出于安全的考虑被安置在篮子里，这时也爬过了篮边，高兴得又踢又叫。收割的人停下了手里的活，双臂交叉地站着看马车通过，而拖货车的毛茸茸的马也睡眼惺忪地向那灵巧的马车队看了一眼，它的眼神很明白地表露出：“看看倒是不错，但在崎岖的田地上慢慢走，总比那么辛苦地工作要好，尤其是在尘土飞扬的路上。”当你拐过转角时，回头瞧瞧你的身后吧。妇女和孩子们又开始干活了：收割的人又弯下了腰，拖货车的马已继续前进。所有的一切又恢复了工作。
玫 瑰
The Rose
洛根·皮尔索尔·史密斯 / Logan Pearsall Smith
洛根·皮尔索尔·史密斯（1865—1946），生于美国费城，但大半生在英国度过，主要致力于英国语言的研究。主要作品有《亨利·沃顿爵士传记》、《读莎士比亚》、《弥尔顿和他的现代评论家》、《难忘的年代》等。本文是一篇围绕玫瑰展开的一个触动人心的爱情故事。
The old lady had always been proud of the great rose-tree in her garden, and was fond of telling how it had grown from a cutting she had brought years before from Italy, when she was first married. She and her husband had been travelling back in their carriage from Rome (it was before the time of railways), and on a bad piece of road south of Siena they had broken down, and had been forced to pass the night in a little house by the roadside. The accommodation was wretched of course; she had spent a sleepless night, and rising early had stood, wrapped up, at her window, with the cool air blowing on her face, to watch the dawn. She could still, after all these years, remember the blue mountains with the bright moon above them, and how a far-off town on one of the peaks had gradually grown whiter and whiter, till the moon faded, the mountains were touched with the pink of the rising sun, and suddenly the town was lit as by an illumination, one window after another catching and reflecting the sun' s beams, till at last the whole little city twinkled and sparkled up in the sky like a nest of stars.
That morning, finding they would have to wait while their carriage was being repaired, they had driven in a local conveyance up to the city on the mountain, where they had been told they would find better quarters; and there they had stayed two or three days. It was one of the miniature Italian cities with a high church, a pretentious piazza, a few narrow streets and little palaces, perched, all compact and complete, on the top of a mountain, within an enclosure of walls hardly larger than an English kitchen garden. But it was full of life and noise, echoing all day and all night with the sounds of feet and voices.
