英语短篇小说欣赏-坏小孩的故事(马克吐温)
The Story of the Bad Little BoyMark Twain
Once there was a bad little boy whose name was Jim — though, if you will
notice, you will find that bad little boys are nearly always called James in
your Sunday-school books. It was strange, but still it was true, that this one
was called Jim.
He didn't have any sick mother, either — a sick mother who was pious and
had the consumption, and would be glad to lie down in the grave and be at rest
but for the strong love she bore her boy, and the anxiety she felt that the
world might be harsh and cold toward him when she was gone. Most bad boys in the
Sunday books are named James, and have sick mothers, who teach them to say,
"Now, I lay me down," etc., and sing them to sleep with sweet, plaintive voices,
and then kiss them good night, and kneel down by the bedside and weep. But it
was different with this fellow. He was named Jim, and there wasn't anything the
matter with his mother — no consumption, nor anything of that kind. She was
rather stout than otherwise, and she was not pious; moreover, she was not
anxious on Jim's account. She said if he were to break his neck it wouldn't be
much loss. She always spanked Jim to sleep, and she never kissed him good night;
on the contrary, she boxed his ears when she was ready to leave him.
Once this little bad boy stole the key of the pantry, and slipped in there
and helped himself to some jam, and filled up the vessel with tar, so that his
mother would never know the difference; but all at once a terrible feeling
didn't come over him, and something didn't seem to whisper to him, "Is it right
to disobey my mother? Isn't it sinful to do this? Where do bad little boys go
who gobble up their good kind mother's jam?" and then he didn't kneel down all
alone and promise never to be wicked any more, and rise up with a light, happy
heart, and go and tell his mother all about it, and beg her forgiveness, and be
blessed by her with tears of pride and thankfulness in her eyes. No; that is the
way with all other bad boys in the books; but it happened otherwise with this
Jim, strangely enough. He ate that jam, and said it was bully, in his
sinful,vulgar way; and he put in the tar, and said that was bully also, and
laughed, and observed "that the old woman would get up and snort" when she found
it out; and when she did find it out, he denied knowing anything about it, and
she whipped him severely, and he did the crying himself. Everything about this
boy was curious — everything turned out differently with him from the way it
does to the bad Jameses in the books.
Once he climbed up in Farmer Acorn's apple tree to steal apples, and the
limb didn't break, and he didn't fall and break his arm, and get torn by the
farmer's great dog, and then languish on a sickbed for weeks, and repent and
become good. Oh, no; he stole as many apples as he wanted and came down all
right; and he was all ready for the dog, too, and knocked him endways with a
brick when he came to tear him. It was very strange — nothing like it ever
happened in those mild little books with marbled backs, and with pictures in
them of men with swallow-tailed coats and bell-crowned hats, and pantaloons that
are short in the legs, and women with the waists of their dresses under their
arms, and no hoops on .Nothing like it in any of the Sunday-school books.
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