背带格子裙怎么搭配:北国传奇:啄木鸟的故事  A Legend of the Northland

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在北地,遥远,遥远,
     那里的日子白昼苦短,
冬夜有那么长的时间
     他们不能够一直睡眠;

当冬天下雪的时候,
     他们用迅捷的驯鹿拖雪橇;
孩子们像是小熊宝宝,
     裹着多毛的皮裘看着可笑;

大人们说给孩子奇异的故事—
     我不相信那是真实;
但你可以学到功课,
     且等我把这传奇告诉你。

从前,良善的圣徒彼得
     还曾住在人间,
他走遍四方传道,
     他所作的你也听见。

当他在地上周游旅行,
     来到一个村舍的门口,
那里有个小妇人在作饼,
     又放在炉火上烘烤;

那天他在禁食肚子饥饿,
    一天已快过将近日落,
彼得向着她堆在那里的饼,
    他并不多要只要一个。

她作了一个很小的饼,
     放在炉中的炭火上,
她越看好像越大,
     要给别人那是休想。

因此她又再搓弄抟面,
     作成了更小的一个;
当她端详着,再翻转,
     跟从前作的同样太多。

她就再捏下很小一点面,
     弄得菲薄压了又捻;
烤成像一片微化饼干 —
     想到要给人犹不甘愿。

她想:“我这饼似太小
     如果我自己吃并不能饱,
但要给别人就太大了。”"
     所以把那饼在架上放好。

良善的圣彼得怒从心起,
     他已经很饥饿以至发昏;
实在这样的一个妇人
     足以惹得圣徒气愤。

他说:“你太过于自私
     不配穿人形住在人间,
给你有食物又有房屋,
     并且有火给你保持温暖。

现在,你必须作筑巢的鸟,
     你所得的食物定要微少,
要烦劳的啄,啄,啄,
     每天啄那干硬的树壳。”

她立即穿过烟囱上升,
     再也不能作人言人声,
从屋顶飞出一只啄木鸟,
     她已经变化成为鸟形。

只有她头上戴的那顶红帽,
     仍然像从前一般,
其馀的衣裳都被熏黑
     像是炭和乌烟。

所有的学童来自乡间
     都能够看见她在林中,
她住在树上直到今天,
     啄着,啄食蛀虫。

这功课她教导我们学习:
     人活着总不要单为自己,
免得你不可怜别人的缺欠,
     有一天你自己要成为可怜。

所赐给你的要多多给予,
     要听怜恤的呼召;
不要在你给予时看小为大,
     你所接受的却以为是小。

我的孩子们,现在要记牢,
     切莫忘行慈爱和良善,
当你看见啄木鸟的红帽,
     和她穿的熏黑衣衫。

你可能不会给变成一只鸟,
     即使你生活得自私不仁;
但你能够变得更微小—
     一个低鄙自私的小人。            

 

此诗由美国诗人非比.凯瑞 (Phoebe Cary, 1824-1871)所作.

我在阅读此诗时,深有感触.

很多时候,令人感到寒彻心扉,感到悲哀的是人性的丑恶、自私.

(罗12:13)"圣徒缺乏要帮补,客要一味的款待."

 

Away, away in the Northland,
    Where the hours of the day are few,
And the night are so long in winter
    That they cannot sleep them through;

Where they harness the swift reindeer
    To the sledges, when it snows;
And the children look like bears' cubs
    In their funny, furry clothes;

They tell them a curious story —
    I don't believe 'tis true;
And yet you may learn a lesson
    If I tell the tale to you.

Once, when the good Saint Peter
    Lived in the world below,
And walked about it, preaching,
    Just as he did, you know,

He came to the door of a cottage,
    In traveling round the earth,
Where a little woman was making cakes,
    And baking them on the hearth;

And being faint with fasting,
    For the day was almost done,
He asked her, from her store of cakes,
    To give him a single one.

So she made a very little cake,
    But as it baking lay,
She looked at it, and thought it seemed
    Too large to give away.

Therefore she kneaded another,
    And still a smaller one;
But it looked, when she turned it over,
    As large as the first had done.

Then she took a tiny scrap of dough,
    And rolled and rolled it flat;
And baked it thin as a wafer —
    But she couldn't part with that.

For she said, "My cakes that seem too small
    When I eat them of myself,
And yet too large to give away."
    So she put them on the shelf.

Then good Saint Peter grew angry,
    For he was hungry and faint;
And surely such a woman
    Was enough to provoke a saint.

And he said, "You are far too selfish
    To dwell in a human form,
To have both food and shelter,
    And fire to keep you warm.

"Now, you shall build as the birds do,
    And shall get your scanty food
By boring, and boring, and boring,
    All day in the hard, dry wood."

Then up she went through the chimney,
    Never speaking a word,
And out of the top flew a woodpecker,
    For she was changed to a bird.

She had a scarlet cap on her head,
    And that was left the same,
But all the rest of her clothes were burned
    Black as a coal in the flame.

And every country schoolboy
    Has seen her in the wood,
Where she lives in the trees till this very day,
    Boring and boring for food.

And this is the lesson she teaches:
    Live not for yourself alone,
Lest the needs you will not pity
    Shall one day be your own.

Give plenty of what is given to you,
    Listen to pity's call;
Don't think the little you give is great,
    And the much you get is small.

Now, my little boy, remember that,
    And try to be kind and good,
When you see the woodpecker's sooty dress,
    And see her scarlet hood.

You mayn't be changed to a bird though you live
    As selfish as you can;
But you will be changd to a smaller thing—
    A mean and selfish man. 
    
                     Phoebe Cary (1824-1871)
                                    American poet