自考英語(yǔ)綜合二下冊(cè)課文 lesson 11

　　Lesson Eleven

　　Text

　　Selling the Post (I)

　　Russell Baker I began working in journalism when I was eight years old.

　　It was my mother's idea. She wanted me to"make something" of myself and,

　　after a levelheaded appraisal of my strengths,

　　decided I had better start young

　　if I was to have any chance of keeping up with the competition.

　　The flaw in my character which she had already spotted was lack of "gumption.

　　My idea of a perfect afternoon was lying in front of theradio rereading

　　my favorite Big Little Book,Dick Tracy Meets Stooge Viller.

　　Seeing me having a good time in repose,she was powerless to hide her disgust.

　　"You've got no more gumption than a bump on a log," she said.

　　"Get out in the kitchen and help Doris do those dirty dishes.

　　"My sister Doris,though two years younger than I,

　　had enough gumption for a dozen people.

　　She positively enjoyed washing dishes, making beds, and cleaning the house.

　　When she was only seven

　　she could carry a piece of shortweighted cheese back to the A&P,

　　threaten the manager with Legal action,

　　and come back triumphantly with the full quarter pound we'd paid for

　　and a few ounces extra thrown tn for forgiveness.

　　Doriscould have made something of herself if she hadn't been a girl.

　　Because of this defect however,

　　the best she could hope for was a career as a nurseor schoolteacher,

　　the only work that capable females were considered up to in those days

　　This must have saddened my mother,

　　this twist of fate that had allocated all the gumption to the daughter

　　and left her with a son who was content with Dick Tracy and Stooge Viller.

　　If disappointed,though she wasted no energy on self pity.

　　She would make me make something of myself whether I wanted to or not.

　　"The Lord helps those who help themselves,"she said.

　　That was the way her mind worked.

　　She was realistic about the difficulty.

　　Having sized up the material the Lord had given her to mold,

　　she didn't overestimate what she could do with it.

　　She didn't insist that I grow up to be President of the United States.

　　Fifty years ago parents still asked boys if they wanted to grow up to be president

　　and asked it not jokingly but seriously.

　　Many parents who were hardly more than paupers still believed their sons could do it

　　Abraham Lincoln had done it.

　　We were only sixty-five years from Lincoln.

　　Many a grandfather who walked among us could remember Lincoln's time.

　　Men of grandfatherly age

　　were the worst for asking if you wanted to grow up to be president.

　　A surprising number of little boys said yes and meant it.

　　I was asked many times myself.

　　No,I would say,I didn't want to grow up to be president.

　　My mother was present during one of these interrogations.

　　An elderly uncle,

　　having posed the usual question and exposed my lack of interest in the presidency

　　asked,"Well,what do you want to be when you grow up?"

　　I loved to pick through trash piles and collect empty bottles,

　　tin cans with pretty labels, and discarded magazines.

　　The most desirable job on earth sprang instantly to mind.

　　"I want to be a garbage man," I said.

　　My uncle smiled,

　　but my mother had seen the first distressing evidence of a bump budding on a log

　　"Have a little gumption, Russell,"she said.

　　Her calling me Russell was a signal of unhappiness.

　　When she approved of me I was always"Buddy. "

　　When I turned eight years old

　　she decided that the job of starting meon the road toward making something of myself

　　could no longer be safely delayed.

　　"Buddy," she said one day,"

　　I want you to come home right after school this afternoon.

　　Somebody's coming and I want you to meet him.

　　"When I burst in that afternoon she was in conference in the parlor

　　with an executive of the Curtis Publishing Company.She introduced me.

　　He bent low from the waist and shook my hand

　　Was it true as my mother had told him,he asked,

　　that I longed for the opportunity to conquer the world of business?

　　My mother replied that I was blessed with a rare determination

　　to make something of myself."That's right," I whispered.

　　"But have you got the grit, the character,

　　the never-say-quit spirit it takes to succeed in business?"

　　My mother said I certainly did.

　　"That's right,"I said.

　　He eyed me silently for a long pause,

　　as though weighing whether I could be trusted to keep his confidence,

　　then spoke man-to-man.

　　Before taking a crucial step, he said,he wanted to tell me

　　that working for the Curtis Publishing Company

　　placed enormous responsibility on a young man.

　　It was one of the great companies of America.

　　Perhaps the greatest publishing house in the world.

　　I had heard, no doubt,of the Saturday Evening Post?

　　Heard of it?

　　My mother said that everyone in our house had heard of the Saturday Evening Post

　　and that I,in fact,read it with religious devotion.

　　Then doubtless, he said,

　　we were also familiar with those two monthly pillars of the magazine world,

　　the Ladies Home Journal and the Country Gentleman.

　　Indeed we were familiar with them,said my mother.

　　Representing the Saturday Evening Post was one of the weightiest honors

　　that could be bestowed in the world of business, he said.

　　He was personally proud of being a part of that great corporation.

　　My mother said he had every right to be.

　　Again he studied me as though debating whether I was worthy of a knighthood.

　　Finally: "Are you trustworthy?"

　　My mother said I was the soul of honesty."That's right,"I said.

　　The caller smiled for the first time.

　　He told me I was a lucky young man. He admired my spunk.

　　Too many young men thought life was all play.

　　Those young men would not go far in this world.

　　Only a young man willing to work

　　and save and keep his face washed and his hair neatly combed

　　could hope to come out on top in a world such as ours.

　　Did I truly and sincerely believe that I was such a young man?

　　"He certainly does,"said my mother."That's right,"I said.

　　He said he had been so impressed by what he has seen of me

　　that he was going to make me a representative of the Curtis Publishing Company.

　　On the following Tuesday, he said,

　　thirty freshly printed copies of the Saturday Evening Post

　　would be delivered at our door.

　　I would place these magazines,still damp with the ink of presses,

　　in a handsome canvas bag,sling it over my shoulder,

　　and set forth through the streets to bring the best

　　in journalism fiction,and cartoons to the American public.

　　He had brought the canvas bag with him.

　　He presented it with reverence fit for a religious object.

　　He showed me how to drape the sling over my left shoulder

　　and across the chest so that the pouch lay easily accessible to my right hand,

　　allowing the best in journalism, fiction,and security

　　to be swiftly extracted and sold to a citizenry

　　whose happiness and security depended upon us soldiers of the free press.

　　The following Tuesday I raced home from school,

　　put the bag over my shoulder, dumped the magazines in,

　　and,tilting to the left to balance their weight on my right hip,

　　embarked on the highway of journalism.

 

　　Lesson Eleven

　　Text

　　Selling the Post (I)

　　Russell Baker I began working in journalism when I was eight years old.

　　It was my mother's idea. She wanted me to"make something" of myself and,

　　after a levelheaded appraisal of my strengths,

　　decided I had better start young

　　if I was to have any chance of keeping up with the competition.

　　The flaw in my character which she had already spotted was lack of "gumption.

　　My idea of a perfect afternoon was lying in front of theradio rereading

　　my favorite Big Little Book,Dick Tracy Meets Stooge Viller.

　　Seeing me having a good time in repose,she was powerless to hide her disgust.

　　"You've got no more gumption than a bump on a log," she said.

　　"Get out in the kitchen and help Doris do those dirty dishes.

　　"My sister Doris,though two years younger than I,

　　had enough gumption for a dozen people.

　　She positively enjoyed washing dishes, making beds, and cleaning the house.

　　When she was only seven

　　she could carry a piece of shortweighted cheese back to the A&P,

　　threaten the manager with Legal action,

　　and come back triumphantly with the full quarter pound we'd paid for

　　and a few ounces extra thrown tn for forgiveness.

　　Doriscould have made something of herself if she hadn't been a girl.

　　Because of this defect however,

　　the best she could hope for was a career as a nurseor schoolteacher,

　　the only work that capable females were considered up to in those days

　　This must have saddened my mother,

　　this twist of fate that had allocated all the gumption to the daughter

　　and left her with a son who was content with Dick Tracy and Stooge Viller.

　　If disappointed,though she wasted no energy on self pity.

　　She would make me make something of myself whether I wanted to or not.

　　"The Lord helps those who help themselves,"she said.

　　That was the way her mind worked.

　　She was realistic about the difficulty.

　　Having sized up the material the Lord had given her to mold,

　　she didn't overestimate what she could do with it.

　　She didn't insist that I grow up to be President of the United States.

　　Fifty years ago parents still asked boys if they wanted to grow up to be president

　　and asked it not jokingly but seriously.

　　Many parents who were hardly more than paupers still believed their sons could do it

　　Abraham Lincoln had done it.

　　We were only sixty-five years from Lincoln.

　　Many a grandfather who walked among us could remember Lincoln's time.

　　Men of grandfatherly age

　　were the worst for asking if you wanted to grow up to be president.

　　A surprising number of little boys said yes and meant it.

　　I was asked many times myself.

　　No,I would say,I didn't want to grow up to be president.

　　My mother was present during one of these interrogations.

　　An elderly uncle,

　　having posed the usual question and exposed my lack of interest in the presidency

　　asked,"Well,what do you want to be when you grow up?"

　　I loved to pick through trash piles and collect empty bottles,

　　tin cans with pretty labels, and discarded magazines.

　　The most desirable job on earth sprang instantly to mind.

　　"I want to be a garbage man," I said.

　　My uncle smiled,

　　but my mother had seen the first distressing evidence of a bump budding on a log

　　"Have a little gumption, Russell,"she said.

　　Her calling me Russell was a signal of unhappiness.

　　When she approved of me I was always"Buddy. "

　　When I turned eight years old

　　she decided that the job of starting meon the road toward making something of myself

　　could no longer be safely delayed.

　　"Buddy," she said one day,"

　　I want you to come home right after school this afternoon.

　　Somebody's coming and I want you to meet him.

　　"When I burst in that afternoon she was in conference in the parlor

　　with an executive of the Curtis Publishing Company.She introduced me.

　　He bent low from the waist and shook my hand

　　Was it true as my mother had told him,he asked,

　　that I longed for the opportunity to conquer the world of business?

　　My mother replied that I was blessed with a rare determination

　　to make something of myself."That's right," I whispered.

　　"But have you got the grit, the character,

　　the never-say-quit spirit it takes to succeed in business?"

　　My mother said I certainly did.

　　"That's right,"I said.

　　He eyed me silently for a long pause,

　　as though weighing whether I could be trusted to keep his confidence,

　　then spoke man-to-man.

　　Before taking a crucial step, he said,he wanted to tell me

　　that working for the Curtis Publishing Company

　　placed enormous responsibility on a young man.

　　It was one of the great companies of America.

　　Perhaps the greatest publishing house in the world.

　　I had heard, no doubt,of the Saturday Evening Post?

　　Heard of it?

　　My mother said that everyone in our house had heard of the Saturday Evening Post

　　and that I,in fact,read it with religious devotion.

　　Then doubtless, he said,

　　we were also familiar with those two monthly pillars of the magazine world,

　　the Ladies Home Journal and the Country Gentleman.

　　Indeed we were familiar with them,said my mother.

　　Representing the Saturday Evening Post was one of the weightiest honors

　　that could be bestowed in the world of business, he said.

　　He was personally proud of being a part of that great corporation.

　　My mother said he had every right to be.

　　Again he studied me as though debating whether I was worthy of a knighthood.

　　Finally: "Are you trustworthy?"

　　My mother said I was the soul of honesty."That's right,"I said.

　　The caller smiled for the first time.

　　He told me I was a lucky young man. He admired my spunk.

　　Too many young men thought life was all play.

　　Those young men would not go far in this world.

　　Only a young man willing to work

　　and save and keep his face washed and his hair neatly combed

　　could hope to come out on top in a world such as ours.

　　Did I truly and sincerely believe that I was such a young man?

　　"He certainly does,"said my mother."That's right,"I said.

　　He said he had been so impressed by what he has seen of me

　　that he was going to make me a representative of the Curtis Publishing Company.

　　On the following Tuesday, he said,

　　thirty freshly printed copies of the Saturday Evening Post

　　would be delivered at our door.

　　I would place these magazines,still damp with the ink of presses,

　　in a handsome canvas bag,sling it over my shoulder,

　　and set forth through the streets to bring the best

　　in journalism fiction,and cartoons to the American public.

　　He had brought the canvas bag with him.

　　He presented it with reverence fit for a religious object.

　　He showed me how to drape the sling over my left shoulder

　　and across the chest so that the pouch lay easily accessible to my right hand,

　　allowing the best in journalism, fiction,and security

　　to be swiftly extracted and sold to a citizenry

　　whose happiness and security depended upon us soldiers of the free press.

　　The following Tuesday I raced home from school,

　　put the bag over my shoulder, dumped the magazines in,

　　and,tilting to the left to balance their weight on my right hip,

　　embarked on the highway of journalism.