BY THE ALMSHOUSE WINDOW故事

英语自学网

BY THE ALMSHOUSE WINDOW故事
　　    NEAR the grass-covered rampart which encircles Copenhagen
　　    lies a great red house. Balsams and other flowers greet us
　　    from the long rows of windows in the house, whose interior is
　　    sufficiently poverty-stricken; and poor and old are the people
　　    who inhabit it. The building is the Warton Almshouse.
　　    Look! at the window there leans an old maid. She plucks
　　    the withered leaf from the balsam, and looks at the
　　    grass-covered rampart, on which many children are playing.
　　    What is the old maid thinking of? A whole life drama is
　　    unfolding itself before her inward gaze.
　　    "The poor little children, how happy they are- how merrily
　　    they play and romp together! What red cheeks and what angels'
　　    eyes! but they have no shoes nor stockings. They dance on the
　　    green rampart, just on the place where, according to the old
　　    story, the ground always sank in, and where a sportive,
　　    frolicsome child had been lured by means of flowers, toys and
　　    sweetmeats into an open grave ready dug for it, and which was
　　    afterwards closed over the child; and from that moment, the
　　    old story says, the ground gave way no longer, the mound
　　    remained firm and fast, and was quickly covered with the green
　　    turf. The little people who now play on that spot know nothing
　　    of the old tale, else would they fancy they heard a child
　　    crying deep below the earth, and the dewdrops on each blade of
　　    grass would be to them tears of woe. Nor do they know anything
　　    of the Danish King who here, in the face of the coming foe,
　　    took an oath before all his trembling courtiers that he would
　　    hold out with the citizens of his capital, and die here in his
　　    nest; they know nothing of the men who have fought here, or of
　　    the women who from here have drenched with boiling water the
　　    enemy, clad in white, and 'biding in the snow to surprise the
　　    city.
　　    "No! the poor little ones are playing with light, childish
　　    spirits. Play on, play on, thou little maiden! Soon the years
　　    will come- yes, those glorious years. The priestly hands have
            
            

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　　    been laid on the candidates for confirmation; hand in hand
　　    they walk on the green rampart. Thou hast a white frock on; it
　　    has cost thy mother much labor, and yet it is only cut down
　　    for thee out of an old larger dress! You will also wear a red
　　    shawl; and what if it hang too far down? People will only see
　　    how large, how very large it is. You are thinking of your
　　    dress, and of the Giver of all good- so glorious is it to
　　    wander on the green rampart!
　　    "And the years roll by; they have no lack of dark days,
　　    but you have your cheerful young spirit, and you have gained a
　　    friend- you know not how. You met, oh, how often! You walk
　　    together on the rampart in the fresh spring, on the high days
　　    and holidays, when all the world come out to walk upon the
　　    ramparts, and all the bells of the church steeples seem to be
　　    singing a song of praise for the coming spring.
　　    "Scarcely have the violets come forth, but there on the
　　    rampart, just opposite the beautiful Castle of Rosenberg,
　　    there is a tree bright with the first green buds. Every year
　　    this tree sends forth fresh green shoots. Alas! It is not so
　　    with the human heart! Dark mists, more in number than those
　　    that cover the northern skies, cloud the human heart. Poor
　　    child! thy friend's bridal chamber is a black coffin, and thou
　　    becomest an old maid. From the almshouse window, behind the
　　    balsams, thou shalt look on the merry children at play, and
　　    shalt see thine own history renewed."
　　    And that is the life drama that passes before the old maid
　　    while she looks out upon the rampart, the green, sunny
　　    rampart, where the children, with their red cheeks and bare
　　    shoeless feet, are rejoicing mer
　　rily, like the other free
　　    little birds.
　　    THE END