The first snow came.

 How beautiful it was, falling so silently all day long, all night long, on the mountains, on the meadows, on the roofs of the living, on the graves of the dead!

All white save the river, that marked its course by a winding black line across the landscape; and the leafless trees, that against the leaden sky now revealed more fully the wonderful beauty and intricacies of their branches.

 

 

What silence, too, came with the snow, and what seclusion! Every sound was muffled, every noise changed to something soft and musical. uUlsda E

 

No more tramping hoofs, no more rattling wheels!

 

 

Only the chiming of sleigh-bells, beating as swift and merrily as the hearts of children.

Happiness equates with fun?

I live in Hollywood. You may think people in such a glamorous, fun-filled place are happier than others. If so, you have some mistaken ideas about the nature of happiness. u<`da E intelligent people still equate happiness with fun. The truth is that fun and happiness have little or nothing in common. Fun is what we experience during an act. Happiness is what we experience after an act. It is a deeper, more abiding emotion.

Going to an amusement park or ball game, watching a movie or television, are fun activities that help us relax, temporarily forget our problems and maybe even laugh. But they do not bring happiness, because their positive effects end when the fun ends.

 

I have often thought that if Hollywood stars have a role to play, it is to teach us that happiness has nothing to do with fun. These rich, beautiful individuals have constant access to glamorous parties, fancy cars, expensive homes, everything that spells "happiness". u<`E

But in memoir after memoir, celebrities reveal the unhappiness hidden beneath all their fun: depression, alcoholism, drug addiction, broken marriages, troubled children, profound loneliness.

The way people cling to the belief that a fun-filled, pain-free life equates happiness actually diminishes their chances of ever attaining real happiness. If fun and pleasure are equated with happiness, then pain must be equated with unhappiness. But, in fact, the opposite is true: More times than not, things that lead to happiness involve some pain. @UUlsC|3.

As a result, many people avoid the very endeavors that are the source of true happiness. They fear the pain inevitably brought by such things as marriage, raising children, professional achievement, religious commitment, civic or charitable work, and self-improvement.

 

 

sometimes

pictures stand for a way of life...

dou you know my life is really a way to live

just live...

no love ,no relatives.

i love that man so much ,just like bee love flowers!

i can live very well,but if no you

how can i live?>

can you follow me ,my love ?

  IN GILT letters on the ground glass of the door of room No. 962 were the words： “Robbins & Hartley， Brokers.” The clerks had gone. It was past five， and with the solid tramp of a drove of prize Percherons， scrub- women were invading the cloud-capped twenty-story office building. A puff of red-hot air flavoured with lemon peelings， soft-coal smoke and train oil came in through the half-open windows.

　　Robbins， fifty， something of an overweight beau， and addicted to first nights and hotel palm-rooms， pretended to be envious of his partner's commuter's joys.

　　“Going to be something doing in the humidity line to-night，” he said. “You out-of-town chaps will be the people， with your katydids and moonlight and long drinks and things out on the front porch.”

　　Hartley， twenty-nine， serious， thin， good-looking， ner- vous， sighed and frowned a little.

　　“Yes，” said he， “we always have cool nights in Floral- hurst， especially in the winter.”

　　A man with an air of mystery came in the door and went up to Hartley.

　　“I've found where she lives，” he announced in the portentous half-whisper that makes the detective at work a marked being to his fellow men.

　　Hartley scowled him into a state of dramatic silence and quietude. But by that time Robbins had got his cane and set his tie pin to his liking， and with a debonair nod went out to his metropolitan amusements.

　　“Here is the address，” said the detective in a natural tone， being deprived of an audience to foil.

　　Hartley took the leaf torn out of the sleuth's dingy memorandum book. On it were pencilled the words “Vivienne Arlington， No. 341 East ——th Street， care of Mrs. McComus.”

　　“Moved there a week ago，” said the detective. “Now， if you want any shadowing done， Mr. Hartley， I can do you as fine a job in that line as anybody in the city. It will be only $7 a day and expenses. Can send in a daily typewritten report， covering —— ”

　　“You needn't go on，” interrupted the broker. “It isn't a case of that kind. I merely wanted the address. How much shall I pay you？”

　　“One day's work，” said the sleuth. “A tenner will cover it.”

　　Hartley paid the man and dismissed him. Then he left the office and boarded a Broadway car. At the first large crosstown artery of travel he took an eastbound car that deposited him in a decaying avenue， whose ancient structures once sheltered the pride and glory of the town.

　　Walking a few squares， he came to the building that he sought. It was a new flathouse， bearing carved upon its cheap stone portal its sonorous name， “The Vallambrosa.” Fire-escapes zigzagged down its front —— these laden with household goods， drying clothes， and squalling children evicted by the midsummer heat. Here and there a pale rubber plant peeped from the miscellaneous mass， as if wondering to what kingdom it belonged —— vegetable， animal or artificial.

　　Hartley pressed the “McComus” button. The door latch clicked spasmodically —— now hospitably， now doubt- fully， as though in anxiety whether it might be admitting friends or duns. Hartley entered and began to climb the stairs after the manner of those who seek their friends in city flat-houses —— which is the manner of a boy who climbs an apple-tree， stopping when he comes upon what he wants.

　　On the fourth floor he saw Vivienne standing in an open door. She invited him inside， with a nod and a bright， genuine smile. She placed a chair for him near a window， and poised herself gracefully upon the edge of one of those Jekyll-and-Hyde pieces of furniture that are masked and mysteriously hooded， unguessable bulks by day and inquisitorial racks of torture by night.

　　Hartley cast a quick， critical， appreciative glance at her before speaking， and told himself that his taste in choosing had been flawless.

　　Vivienne was about twenty-one. She was of the purest Saxon type. Her hair was a ruddy golden， each filament of the neatly gathered mass shining with its own lustre and delicate graduation of colour. In perfect harmony were her ivory-clear complexion and deep sea-blue eyes that looked upon the world with the ingenuous calmness of a mermaid or the pixie of an undiscovered mountain stream. Her frame was strong and yet possessed the grace of absolute naturalness. And yet with all her North- ern clearness and frankness of line and colouring， there seemed to be something of the tropics in her —— something of languor in the droop of her pose， of love of ease in her ingenious complacency of satisfaction and comfort in the mere act of breathing —— something that seemed to claim for her a right as a perfect work of nature to exist and be admired equally with a rare flower or some beauti- ful， milk-white dove among its sober-hued companions.

　　She was dressed in a white waist and dark skirt - that discreet masquerade of goose-girl and duchess.

　　“Vivienne，” said Hartley， looking at her pleadingly， “you did not answer my last letter. It was only by nearly a week's search that I found where you had moved to. Why have you kept me in suspense when you knew how anxiously I was waiting to see you and hear from you？”

　　The girl looked out the window dreamily.

　　“Mr. Hartley，” she said hesitatingly， “I hardly know what to say to you. I realize all the advantages of your offer， and sometimes I feel sure that I could be contented with you. But， again， I am doubtful. I was born a city girl， and I am afraid to bind myself to a quiet sub- urban life.”

　　“My dear girl，” said Hartley， ardently， “have I not told you that you shall have everything that your heart can desire that is in my power to give you？ You shall come to the city for the theatres， for shopping and to visit your friends as often as you care to. You can trust me， can you not？”

　　“To the fullest，” she said， turning her frank eyes upon him with a smile. “I know you are the kindest of men， and that the girl you get will be a lucky one. I learned all about you when I was at the Montgomerys'.”

　　“Ah！” exclaimed Hartley， with a tender， reminiscent light in his eye； “I remember well the evening I first saw you at the Montgomerys'. Mrs. Montgomery was sound- ing your praises to me all the evening. And she hardly did you justice. I shall never forget that supper. Come， Vivienne， promise me. I want you. You'll never regret coming with me. No one else will ever give you as pleasant a home.”

　　The girl sighed and looked down at her folded hands.

　　A sudden jealous suspicion seized Hartley.

　　“Tell me， Vivienne，” he asked， regarding her keenly， “is there another —— is there some one else ？”

　　A rosy flush crept slowly over her fair cheeks and neck.

　　“You shouldn't ask that， Mr. Hartley，” she said， in some confusion. “But I will tell you. There is one other —— but he has no right —— I have promised him nothing.”

　　“His name？” demanded Hartley， sternly.

　　“Townsend.”

　　“Rafford Townsend！” exclaimed Hartley， with a grim tightening of his jaw. “How did that man come to know you？ After all I've done for him —— ”

　　“His auto has just stopped below，” said Vivienne， bending over the window-sill. “He's coming for his answer. Oh I don't know what to do！”

　　The bell in the flat kitchen whirred. Vivienne hurried to press the latch button.

　　“Stay here，” said Hartley. “I will meet him in the hall.”

　　Townsend， looking like a Spanish grandee in his light tweeds， Panama hat and curling black mustache， came up the stairs three at a time. He stopped at sight of Hartley and looked foolish.

　　“Go back，” said Hartley， firmly， pointing downstairs with his forefinger.

　　“Hullo！” said Townsend， feigning surprise. “What's up？ What are you doing here， old man？”

　　“Go back，” repeated Hartley， inflexibly. “The Law of the Jungle. Do you want the Pack to tear you in pieces？ The kill is mine.”

　　“I came here to see a plumber about the bathroom connections，” said Townsend， bravely.

　　“All right，” said Hartley. “You shall have that lying plaster to stick upon your traitorous soul. But， go back.” Townsend went downstairs， leaving a bitter word to be wafted up the draught of the staircase. Hartley went back to his wooing.

　　“Vivienne，” said he， masterfully. “I have got to have you. I will take no more refusals or dilly-dallying.”

　　“When do you want me？” she asked.

　　“Now. As soon as you can get ready.”

　　She stood calmly before him and looked him in the eye.

　　“Do you think for one moment，” she said， “that I would enter your home while Héloise is there？”

　　Hartley cringed as if from an unexpected blow. He folded his arms and paced the carpet once or twice.

　　“She shall go，” he declared grimly. Drops stood upon his brow. “Why should I let that woman make my life miserable？ Never have I seen one day of freedom from trouble since I have known her. You are right， Vivienne. Héloise must be sent away before I can take you home. But she shall go. I have decided. I will turn her from my doors.”

　　“When will you do this？” asked the girl.

　　Hartley clinched his teeth and bent his brows together.

　　“To-night，” he said， resolutely. “I will send her away to-night.”

　　“Then，” said Vivienne， “my answer is 'yes.' Come for me when you will.”

　　She looked into his eyes with a sweet， sincere light in her own. Hartley could scarcely believe that her sur- render was true， it was so swift and complete.

　　“Promise me，” he said feelingly， “on your word and honour.”

　　“On my word and honour，” repeated Vivienne， softly.

　　At the door he turned and gazed at her happily， but yet as one who scarcely trusts the foundations of his joy.

　　“To-morrow，” he said， with a forefinger of reminder uplifted.

　　“To-morrow，” she repeated with a smile of truth and candour.

　　In an hour and forty minutes Hartley stepped off the train at Floralhurst. A brisk walk of ten minutes brought him to the gate of a handsome two-story cottage set upon a wide and well-tended lawn. Halfway to the house he was met by a woman with jet-black braided hair and flowing white summer gown， who half strangled him without apparent cause.

　　When they stepped into the hall she said：

　　“Mamma's here. The auto is coming for her in half an hour. She came to dinner， but there's no dinner.”

　　“I've something to tell you，” said Hartley. “I thought to break it to you gently， but since your mother is here we may as well out with it.”

　　He stooped and whispered something at her ear.

　　His wife screamed. Her mother came running into the hall. The dark-haired woman screamed again- the joyful scream of a well-beloved and petted woman.

　　“Oh， mamma！” she cried ecstatically， “what do you think？ Vivienne is coming to cook for us！ She is the one that stayed with the Montgomerys a whole year. And now， Billy， dear，” she concluded， “you must go right down into the kitchen and discharge Héloise. She has been drunk again the whole day long.”

 

  今天来看看我的博客了，好久没有好好的管理它了，有点对不起它，呵呵，我上学真的是很忙啊，没有很多的时间来弄博客，不过还好啦，我也没有忘记给它及时的补充养分......

  前几天想注册一个新的帐号的，发现比以前难多了。博客也真的是越来越受到大家的欢迎了，只是我还没有自己的电脑，所以上网也就没有那么的方便，记什么东西就只有写在笔记本上面啦！

  我刚刚考完了四级英语，心里一下子就空的慌，还有六级呢。觉的学校里面没有教会我什么东西，反而自己摸索到了很多的道理。其实，没有自己想象的那么轻松！

  我不怎么想用英语来装饰我的博客，因为那样大家会花更多的时间来看我的博客，我喜欢汉语，她是我的母语，就是觉得亲切！

 

乱世佳人（一）Scarlet's Jealousy

Mr. O'HARA: Here, here what are you after?

Scarlett! What are you about? Have you been making a spectacle of yourself running about after a man who's not in love with you? When you might have any of the bucks in the county?

SCARLETT: I haven't been running after him, it's...it's just a surprise that's all.

Mr. O'HARA: Now, don't be jerking your chin at me. If Ashley wanted to marry you, it would be with misgivings, I'd say yes. I want my girl to be happy. You'd not be happy with him.

SCARLETT: I would, I would.

Mr. O'HARA: What difference does it make whom you marry? So long as he's a Southerner and thinks like you. And when I'm gone, I leave Tara to you.

SCARLETT: I don't want Tara, plantations don't mean anything when...

Mr. O'Hara: Do you mean to toll me Katie Scarlett O'Hara that Tara, that land doesn't mean anything to you? Why, land is the only thing in the world worth working for. Worth fighting for, worth dying for. Because it's the only thing that lasts. SCARLETT: Oh, Paw, you talk like an Irishman.

Mr. O'HARA: It's proud I am that I'm Irish. And don't you be forgetting, Missy, that you're half-Irish too. And to anyone with a drop of Irish blood in them, why the land they live on is like their mother. Oh, but there, there, now, you're just a child. It'll come to you, this love of the land. There's no getting away from it if you're Irish.

Letters: Abraham Lincoln

---

This is the last letter that Lincoln wrote to Mary S. Owens. Mary, apparently, never replied to Lincoln's letter.

---

Springfield Aug. 16th 1837

Friend Mary.

Do not understand by this, that I wish to cut your acquaintance. I mean no such thing. What I do wish is, that our further acquaintance shall depend upon yourself.

You will, no doubt, think it rather strange, that I should write you a letter on the same day on which we parted; and I can only account for it by supposing, that seeing you lately makes me think of you more than usual, while at our late meeting we had but few expressions of thoughts. You must know that I can not see you, or think of you, with entire indifference; and yet it may be, that you, are mistaken in regard to what my real feelings towards you are. If I knew you were not, I should not trouble you with this letter. Perhaps any other man would know enough without further information; but I consider it my peculiar right to plead ignorance, and your bounden duty to allow the plea. I want in all cases to do right and most particularly so, in all cases with women. I want, at this particular time, more than any thing else, to do right with you, and if I knew it would be doing right, as I rather suspect it would, to let you alone, I would do it. And for the purpose of making the matter as plain as possible, I now say, that you can now drop the subject, dismiss your thoughts (if you ever had any) from me forever, and leave this letter unanswered, without calling forth one accusing murmer from me. And I will even go further, and say, that if it will add any thing to your comfort, or peace of mind, to do so, it is my sincere wish that you should. Do not understand by this, that I wish to cut your acquaintance. I mean no such thing. What I do wish is, that our further acquaintance shall depend upon yourself. If such further acquaintance would contribute nothing to your happiness, I am sure it would not to mine. If you feel yourself in any degree bound to me, I am now willing to release you, provided you wish it; while, on the other hand, I am willing, and even anxious to bind you faster, if I can be convinced that it will, in any considerable degree, add to your happiness. This, indeed, is the whole question with me. Nothing would make me more miserable than to believe you miserable-nothing more happy, than to know you were so.

In what I have now said, I think I can not be misunderstood; and to make myself understood, is the only object of this letter.

If it suits you best to not answer this-farewell-a long life and a merry one attend you. But if you conclude to write back, speak as plainly as I do. There can be neither harm nor danger, in saying, to me, any thing you think, just in the manner you think it.

My respects to your sister. Your friend

Lincoln

I've opened the curtain of my east window here above the computer, and I sit now in a holy theater before a sky-blue stage. A little cloud above the neighbor's trees resembles Jimmy Durante's nose for a while, then becomes amorphous as it slips on north. Other clouds follow, big and little and tiny on their march toward whereness. Wisps of them lead or droop because there must always be leading and drooping.

The trees seem to laugh at the clouds while yet reaching for them with swaying branches. Trees must think that they are real, rooted, somebody, and that perhaps the clouds are only tickled water which sometimes blocks their sun. But trees are clouds, too, of green leaves-clouds that only move a little. Trees grow and change and dissipate like their airborne cousins. 英语站

And what am I but a cloud of thoughts and feelings and aspirations? Don't I put out tentative mists here and there? Don't I occasionally appear to other people as a ridiculous shape of thoughts without my intending to? Don't I drift toward the north when I feel the breezes of love and the warmth of compassion?

If clouds are beings, and beings are clouds, are we not all well advised to drift, to feel the wind tucking us in here and plucking us out there? Are we such rock-hard bodily lumps as we imagine?

 

Drift, let me. Sing to the sky, will I. One in many, are we. Let us breathe the breeze and find therein our roots in the spirit.

I close the curtain now, feeling broader, fresher. The act is over. Applause is sweeping through the trees.

Hold me close and hold me fast
The magic spell you cast
This is la vie en rose

When you kiss me heaven sighs
And tho I close my eyes
I see la vie en rose

When you press me to your heart
I’m in a world apart
A world where roses bloom

And when you speak...angels sing from above
Everyday words seem...to turn into love songs

Give your heart and soul to me
And life will always be
La vie en rose

spring goeth all in white robert bridges		春之女神着素装 罗伯特·布里季
spring goeth all in white, crowned with milk-white may; in fleecy flocks of light, o'er heaven the white clouds stray; white butterflies in the air; white daisies prank the ground; the cherry and hoary pear, scatter their snow around.		春之女神着素装， 山楂花冠乳白光； 天上分明一群羊， 白云朵朵自来往； 粉蝶空中时蹁跹； 廷命菊花饰郊原； 樱桃梨树共争艳， 四处非花如雪片。