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　　篇一：The faculty of delight

　　among the mind's powers is one that comes of itself to many children and artists. it need not be lost, to the end of his days, by any one who has ever had it. this is the power of taking delight in a thing, or rather in anything, everything, not as a means to some other end, but just because it is what it is, as the lover dotes on whatever may be the traits of the beloved object. a child in the full health of his mind wifi put his hand flat on the summer turf, feel it, and give a little shiver of private glee at the elastic firmness of the globe. he is not thinking how well it will do for some game or to feed sheep upon. that would be the way of the wooer whose mind runs on his mistress's money. the child's is sheer affection, the true ecstatic sense of the thing's inherent characteristics. no matter what the things may be, no matter what they are good or no good for, there they are, each with a thrilling unique look and feel of its own, like a face; the iron astringently coop under its paint, the painted wood familiarly warmer, the clod crumbling enchantingly down in the hands, with its little dry smell of the sun and of hot nettles ; each common thing a personality marked by delicious differences.

　　the joy of an adam new to the garden and just looking round is brought by the normal child to the things that he does as well as those that he sees. to be suffered to do some plain work with the real spade used by mankind can give him a mystical exaltation : to come home with his legs, as the french say, reentering his body from the fatigue of helping the gardener to weed beds sends him to sleep in the glow of a beatitude that is an end in itself…

　　篇二：The Shoe Tacks

　　The hardworking blacksmith Jones used to work all day in his shop and so hard working was he that at times he would make the sparks fly from his hammer.

　　The son of Mr. Smith, a rich neighbor, used to come to see the blacksmith everyday and for hours and hours he would enjoy himself watching how the tradesman worked.

　　"Young man, why don't you try your hand to learn to make shoe tacks, even if it is only to pass the time?" said the blacksmith. "Who knows, one day, it may be of use to you."

　　The lazy boy began to see what he could do. But after a little practice he found that he was becoming very skilled and soon he was making some of the finest tacks.

　　Old Mr. Smith died and the son on account of the war lost all his goods. He had to leave home and was forced to take up residence in another country. It so happened that in this village there were numerous shoemakers who were spending a lot of money to buy tacks for their shoes and even at times when they paid high prices they were not always able to get what they wanted, because in that part of the country there was a high demand for soldiers' shoes.

　　Our young Mr. Smith, who was finding it difficult to earn his daily bread, remembered that once upon a time he had

　　learned the art of making tacks and had the sudden idea of making a bargain with the shoemakers. He told them that he would make the tacks if they would help to get him settled in his workshop. The shoemakers were only too glad of the offer. And after a while, Mr. Smith found that he was soon making the finest tacks in the village.

　　"How funny it seems," he used to say, "even making tacks can bring a fortune. My trade is more useful to me than were all my former riches."

　　篇三：The Most Beautiful Flower

　　The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read Beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree. Disillusioned by life with good reason to frown, For the world was intent on dragging me down.

　　And if that weren't enough to ruin my day, A young boy out of breath approached me, all tired from play. He stood right before me with his head tilted down And said with great excitement, "Look what I found!"

　　In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight, With its petals all worn - not enough rain, or too little light. Wanting him to take his dead flower and go off to play, I faked a small smile and then shifted away.

　　But instead of retreating he sat next to my side and placed the flower to his nose and declared with surprise, "It sure smells pretty and it's beautiful, too. That's why I picked it; here, it's for you."

　　The weed before me was dying or dead. Not vibrant of colors, orange, yellow or red. But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave. So I reached for the flower, and replied, "Just what I need."

　　But instead of him placing the flower in my hand, He held it mid-air without reason or plan. It was then that I noticed for the very first time, that weed-toting boy could not see: he was blind.

　　I heard my voice quiver, tears shone like the sun. As I thanked him for picking the very best one. "You're welcome," he smiled, and then ran off to play, Unaware of the impact he'd had on my day.

　　I sat there and wondered how he managed to see a self-pitying woman beneath an old willow tree. How did he know of my self-indulged plight? Perhaps from his heart, he'd been blessed with true sight.

　　Through the eyes of a blind child, at last I could see, the problem was not with the world; the problem was me. And for all of those times I myself had been blind, I vowed to see beauty,Then I held that wilted flower up to my nose and breathed in the fragrance of a beautiful rose And smiled as that young boy, another weed in his hand About to change the life of an unsuspecting old man.

　　篇四：Nail in the Fence

　　There once was a little boy who had a bad temper. His Father gave him a bag of nails and told him that every time he lost his temper, he must hammer a nail into the back of the fence. The first day the boy had driven 37 nails into the fence. Over the next few weeks, as he learned to control his anger,the number of nails hammered daily gradually dwindled down. He discovered it was easier to hold his temper than to drive those nails into the fence.

　　Finally the day came when the boy didn't lose his temper at all. He told his father about it and the father suggested that the boy now pull out one nail for each day that he was able to hold his temper. The days passed and the young boy was finally able to tell his father that all the nails were gone. The father took his son by the hand and led him to the fence. He said, "You have done well, my son, but look at the holes in the fence. The fence will never be the same. When you say things in anger, they leave a scar just like this one. You can put a knife in a man and draw it out. It won't matter how many times you say I'm sorry, the wound is still there."