文摘

This is one of the stories of Alfred. There are many of them still floating around the West, for Alfred was in his time very well known.

When the wind sweeps across a field of grass it makes little ripples in it like a lake; in a field of corn it makes great waves like the sea itself: this is the wind's frolic.

In relating the circumstances which have led to my confinement within this refuge for the demented, I am aware that my present position will create a natural doubt of the authenticity of my narrative.

In the last decades interest in hunger artists has declined considerably.

I lived at Marysville in '53. Everybody knew me there, and everybody had the right to know me. I kept the Polka saloon until I came to live with Jim. That's six years ago. Perhaps I've changed some.

The Velveteen Rabbit starts out on Christmas morning. A young boy finds a stuffed rabbit nestled in his stocking. He loves the rabbit but forgets about him when more glamorous and expensive Christmas presents arrive. But chance will intervene twice in this magical story about childhood toys and the transformative power of love.

A laugh is a revealing thing, he thought as he fell asleep to dream of a lob-sided olive rolling consciously towards him, and of a girl's eyes that watched its awkward movements, then looked up into his own and laughed.

It was getting on toward six o'clock so I thought I'd buy myself a beer and go out and sit in a deck chair by the swimming pool and have a little evening sun.

"What I want you to do," said Mr. George Wright, as he leaned towards the old sailor, "is to be an uncle to me."

THE grey warm evening of August had descended upon the city and a mild warm air, a memory of summer, circulated in the streets.

We had our swim before sundown, and while we were cooking our supper the oblique rays of light made a dazzling glare on the white sand about us.