沙子和石頭英語作文

沙子和石頭英語作文1

　　The story goes that two friends were walking through the desert. During some point of the journey they had an argument, and one friend slapped the other one in the face.

　　兩個(gè)朋友結(jié)伴穿越沙漠，旅途中二人突然吵了起來，其中一個(gè)摑了對(duì)方一記耳光。

　　The one who got slapped felt hurt, but without saying anything, wrote in the sand: "Today my best friend slapped me in the face."

　　被打的人感到自己受了傷害，但什么也沒有說，只是在沙地上寫下了這樣一句話：“今天我最好的朋友摑了我耳光�！�

　　They kept on walking until they found an oasis, where they decided to take a bath. The one who had been slapped got stuck in the mire and started drowning, but the friend saved him.

　　他們繼續(xù)前行，看見到處綠洲，他們正打算在那里洗澡時(shí)，剛才被打的人不小心陷入了泥潭，開始深陷，他的.朋友救了他。

　　After he recovered from the near drowning, he wrote on a stone: "Today my best friend saved my life."

　　等他從幾近淹死的邊緣蘇醒過來后，他在石頭上刻下：“今天我最好的朋友救了我的命�！�

　　The friend who had slapped and saved his best friend asked him, "After I hurt you, you wrote in the sand and now you write on a stone. Why?"

　　他的朋友問：“為什么我傷你之后，你在沙子上寫字，現(xiàn)在卻把字刻在石頭上？”

　　The other friend replied: "When someone hurts us we should write it down in sand where winds of forgiveness can erase it away. But when someone does something good for us, we must engrave it in stone where no wind can ever erase it."

　　他回答道：“當(dāng)有人傷害了我們，我們應(yīng)該把它寫進(jìn)沙里，寬恕的風(fēng)會(huì)把仇恨抹去。而當(dāng)有人為我們做了好事，我們應(yīng)當(dāng)把它刻在石頭上，沒有風(fēng)可以將它抹去�！�

沙子和石頭英語作文2

　　Observe a child; any one will do. You will see that not a day passes in which he does not find something or other to make him happy, though he may be in tears the next moment. Then look at a man; any one of us will do. You will notice that weeks and months can pass in which day is greeted with nothing more than resignation, and endure with every polite indifference. Indeed, most men are as miserable as sinners, though they are too bored to sin-perhaps their sin is their indifference. But it is true that they so seldom smile that when they do we do not recognize their face, so distorted is it from the fixed mask we take for granted. And even then a man can not smile like a child, for a child smiles with his eyes, whereas a man smiles with his lips alone. It is not a smile; but a grin; something to do with humor, but little to do with happiness. And then, as anyone can see, there is a point (but who can define that point?) when a man becomes an old man, and then he will smile again.

　　It would seem that happiness is something to do with simplicity, and that it is the ability to extract pleasure form the simplest things-such as a peach stone, for instance.

　　It is obvious that it is nothing to do with success. For Sir Henry Stewart was certainly successful. It is twenty years ago since he came down to our village from London , and bought a couple of old cottages, which he had knocked into one. He used his house a s weekend refuge. He was a barrister. And the village followed his brilliant career with something almost amounting to paternal pride.

　　I remember some ten years ago when he was made a King's Counsel, Amos and I, seeing him get off the London train, went to congratulate him. We grinned with pleasure; he merely looked as miserable as though he'd received a penal sentence. It was the same when he was knighted; he never smiled a bit, he didn't even bother to celebrate with a round of drinks at the "Blue Fox". He took his success as a child does his medicine. And not one of his achievements brought even a ghost of a smile to his tired eyes.

　　I asked him one day, soon after he'd retired to potter about his garden,8 what is was like to achieve all one's ambitions. He looked down at his roses and went on watering them. Then he said "The only value in achieving one's ambition is that you then realize that they are not worth achieving." Quickly he moved the conversation on to a more practical level, and within a moment we were back to a safe discussion on the weather. That was two years ago.

　　I recall this incident, for yesterday, I was passing his house, and had drawn up my cart just outside his garden wall. I had pulled in from the road for no other reason than to let a bus pass me. As I set there filling my pipe, I suddenly heard a shout of sheer joy come from the other side of the wall.

　　I peered over. There stood Sir Henry doing nothing less than a tribal war dance of sheer unashamed ecstasy. Even when he observed my bewildered face staring over the wall he did not seem put out or embarrassed, but shouted for me to climb over.

　　"Come and see, Jan. Look! I have done it at last! I have done it at last!"

　　There he was, holding a small box of earth in his had. I observed three tiny shoots out of it.

　　"And there were only three!" he said, his eyes laughing to heaven.

　　"Three what?" I asked.

　　"Peach stones", he replied. "I've always wanted to make peach stones grow, even since I was a child, when I used to take them home after a party, or as a man after a banquet. And I used to plant them, and then forgot where I planted them. But now at last I have done it, and, what's more, I had only three stones, and there you are, one, two, three shoots," he counted.

　　And Sir Henry ran off, calling for his wife to come and see his achievement-his achievement of simplicity

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