英語(yǔ)故事:加利福尼亞的傳說(shuō)

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When I was young, I went looking for gold in Californiato me. I went inside and could not believe my eyes. I had been living for weeks in roughmining camps with other gold minerson the shining wooden floor. Pictures hung all around the room. And on little tables there were seashellsfull of flowers. A woman had made this house into a home.   The pleasure I felt in my heart must have shown on my face. The man read my thoughts. "Yes," he smiled, "it is all her work. Everything in this room has felt the touch of her hand."　　   One of the pictures on the wall was not hanging straight. He noticed it and went to fix it. He stepped back several times to make sure the picture was really straight. Then he gave it a gentle touch with his hand.   "She always does that," he explained to me. "It is like the finishing pata mother gives her child's hair after she has brushed it. I have seen her fix all these things so often that I can do it just the way she does. I don't know why I do it. I just do it."　   As he talked, I realized there was something in this room that he wanted me to discover. I looked around. When my eyes reached a corner of the room near the fireplaceto stay. 　   The man told me his name was Henry.　   That night, Henry and I talked about many different things, but mainly about her. The next day passed quietly. 　   Thursday evening we had a visitor. He was a big, grey-haired minernamed Tom. "I just came for a few minutes to ask when she is coming home," he explained. "Is there any news?"　   "Oh yes," the man replied. "I got a letter. Would you like to hear it? He took a yellowed letter out of his shirt pocket and read it to us. It was full of loving messages to him and to other people – their close friends and neighbors. When the man finished reading it, he looked at his friend. "Oh no, you are doing it again, Tom! You always cry when I read a letter from her. I'm going to tell her this time!"　   "No, you must not do that, Henry," the grey-haired miner said. "I am getting old. And any little sorrowmakes me cry. I really was hoping she would be here tonight."　   The next day, Friday, another old miner came to visit. He asked to hear the letter. The message in it made him cry, too. "We all miss her so much," he said. Saturday finally came. I found I was looking at my watch very often. Henry noticed this. "You don't think something has happened to her, do you?" he asked me. 　   I smiled and said that I was sure she was just fine. But he did not seem satisfiedher. No one ever saw her again. Henry lost his mind. He thinks she is still alive. When June comes, he thinks she has gone on her trip to see her parents. Then he begins to wait for her to come back. He gets out that old letter. And we come around to visit so he can read it to us. 　   "On the Saturday night she is supposed to come home, we come here to be with him. We put a sleeping drug in his drink so he will sleep through the night. Then he is all right for another year."　   Joe picked up his hat and his guitar. "We have done this every June for nineteen years," he said. "The first year there were twenty-seven of us. Now just the two of us are left." He opened the door of the pretty little house. And the two old men disappeared into the darkness of the Stanislau.

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