有着蓝色的格子，好似在等待汉塞尔和格雷蒂勒的到来。小树林中没有一丝风，白杨树的叶子也软塌塌地垂着，整个林子显得非常安静。停在半空中的蓝蜻蜓和绿蜻蜒一动不动，这更增加了这里的神秘气息。远处，一只小黄鸟的呜叫声和一只蝉催人打瞌睡的嗡嗡声传入耳中，不然真是寂静无声了。txt电子书分享平台
最后一座山（2）
我走上了一座用石竹花装饰的房子的前廊，透过一个独立的窗户向里面望去。整个房间就放着两把椅子、一张长桌子、一把躺椅以及一盏煤油灯，除此之外，就是一架通间阁楼卧室的梯子，这些都是很普通的家什。这真是迷一样的树林。那里为什么会有那些小房子？为什么空无一人的房间还有人来打理？房子的主人是谁呢？这片空地被这些袖珍小屋挤得满满当当的，恐惧笼罩了我，真希望突然跑出一个看门人，喝问我在这里做什么。
我始终没能破解这个迷，也许那是夏令营的活动之所，每年的夏天会使用几周。太阳射出的光线已经向西倾斜，把地上的影子拉得越来越长，那座小山还在我的前方。我再次钻进灌木从，好不容易走上了一条崎岖的小路，刚拐过第一个路口，山脚就在我的面前了。我渴慕的小山向我张开了怀抱，霞光披在它的身上。当年牧场四周砌的石墙已经垮塌了，贫瘠的牧场草地变成了一片棕褐色，卵石的缝隙中钻出了毛蕊花叶，它看起来是那样的柔软。我开始攀登了，翻越了一块花岗岩，在穿过草地时还踩倒了许多绒毛绣线菊和珍珠花，迈着急切的步伐冲向了山顶。
最终，我上气不接下气地站在了小山坚实的土地上，头顶就是蓝天，是的，小山就在我的脚下。曾经多少次，我站在远方遥望小山，现在，我终于来到了这里。然而，在我刚刚实现了目标后，它又从我身旁无声无息地溜走了。在绵延几英里的森林地带的正前方，我发现了一座更高更长的山，山顶上绿意盎然，山坡是被开垦过的，几头牛正在那里静静地吃草。然而，我肯定无法再到达那座山了，那真是一座神秘的山，令人憧憬。那才是我曾经渴望并真正想去的地方。然而，在我向那里注目观望时，我的意识告诉我，那后面肯定还有另一座山。巴蒂山以外，缅因州以外，甚至几英里以外的地方，都还会有山。即使不停歇地走遍全世界，我总会找到另一座山。就在那时，我恍然大悟，人是永远也不可能找到最后一座山的。
正所谓“山外青山楼外楼”，这正说明了人生的旅途是无止境的。不管学习也好，工作也罢，每过一段时间，或者每走一段路，回过头来看一看，或者干脆停下来，问问自己：我要去哪里？我在干什么？这样一来，你就能把握好现在，不至于迷失自我，生活也可以更精彩。
The Last Hill
Francis Russell
On this waning autumn afternoon the northern Maine landscape is tart； pelling； shadowed here and there by puffs of fair…weather cumulus； remnants of summer。 Here； a dozen miles west of Waldoboro； I once spent my summers from the age of 12 to 14 at one of those Indian…named boys’ camps—more years ago than I like to think about。
I stand on the rise near what was once the baseball diamond。 To my right is the black oak； several hundred years old； beside which we used to hold our Saturday night campfires。 How many times on heat…heavy August days have I stood on this rise looking out over the wooded landscape toward the Camden hills？ For me it was always a magical prospect； the austere countryside stretching away with the sharp definition of an 18th…century aquatint across hill and woodland to Mt。 Battie outlined against the horizon。 At our campfire evenings； when we gathered around the great oak just after sunset； Mount Battie without losing its definition would take on a blue luminosity。
最后一座山（3）
Over the years a ragged second…growth of aspen and birch and speckled alder； at the far edge of the baseball diamond； has blotted out that view。 Now there is nothing to see beneath the crystalline sky but the uneven tops of second…growth trees。 Already the sky has begun to taken on the steelier tints of winter。 Even Mt。 Battie has disappeared。
On sultry afternoons； when the air quivered in the cool and fading light of early evening； I used to stand here by the old oak and look out across an interluden of scrub and swamp from which several miles away； a hill emerged。 As a hill it was insignificant enough。 Below its bare summit an abandoned pasture lay dotted with ground juniper and outcroppings of granite。 Yet something about that hill drew me； beckoned to me； across the miles。 I could not bear to take my eyes from it； I knew only that before summer ended I must go to it； （make my way over the pasture； up and up past shrub and granite until I stood on the very summit。） It was something I had to do。 I could not explain why。 I did not even ask myself。
Not that it was easy to get away from camp。 Morning and afternoon； our activitics were recorded in a counselor’s notebook。 We had to be swimming or rowing or playing tennis or baseball or practicing a track event or going off on nature walks or making some gadget in the carpentry shop—just so long as we did something。 But to do nothing； to climb a hill for no reason； that was outside the rules； against the “camp spirit。”
Saturday afternoons； with their influx of parents and visitors； brought a certain relaxation； less accountability。 On one such blue and vivid afternoon I slipped away to get to my hill。 From the great oak； I could see its summit ahead of me； unknown； inviting。 Inconspicuously； I edged along the baseball field； then slipped into the underbrush。
It was hard going； hard to keep a sense of direction in such a tangle of vine and thicket。 I stumbled over rotten logs； stepped into anthills。 Marsh hillocks gave way under my feet； dead branches snagged me； prickly seeds worked into my wet sneakers。 The air was stagnant。 With mosquitoes droning and hover…flies circling and darting； I plodded on； losing myself and losing track of time。
I must have been struggling on for at least an hour。 Suddenly I came to a clearing； an open grove of ash and maple； and as the sunlight filtered through the leaves。 I saw in front of me a eluster of ornate diminutivc houses。 Brightly painted in a variety of colors； trimmed with scrollwork and cusps and scalloped shingles； with narrow； high…pitched roofs； each was no more than an arm’s length from the next； and all were empty。 There was no sign of any living being。
To me； emerging from the wood； the sunlit grove was like something out of Grimm； as if this odd little village had been put under a spell and had been asleep for 100 years。 A yellow house in front of me with a blue…latticed front porch could have been waiting for Hansel and Gretel。 So quiet the grove was； so still the air； that even the aspen leaves hung limp。 Blue and green dragonflies； poised in the air； added to the enchantment。 Far off； I could hear the wich…wich…wich of a yellow warbler and a locust’s somnolent buzz。 Otherwise silence。
最后一座山（4）
I went up on the porch of a pinktrimmed house and peered through the single window。 What I saw was prosaics enough—a room with a couple of chairs； a table； a couch； a kerosene lamp。 A ladder led upstairs to a sleeping loft。 The grove was a mystery。 Why were those little houses there？ Why were they empty and yet at the same time cared for？ Who owned them？ It was eerie to see these miniatures huddled together against all that space。 I half expected some guardian to e rushing out and ask me what I was doing there。
I suppose my enchanted village was some sort of camp meeting ground； used a few weeks each summer。 I never did find out。 On that afternoon I did not linger。 The sun’s rays were already slanting； the shadows longer； and my hill still lay ahead of me。 Again I plunged into the underbrush。 （breaking through at last to a rutted road scored with puddles。） But at the first turning I reached the foot of the hill； my hill； open and placed in the lengthened sunshine。 Its thin meadow grass had turned brown； a stone wall that once enclosed the pasture had fallen apart； and velvety mullein leaves were thrusting up between the boulders。 Up I went； over a granite ledge and across the meadow； trampling down hardhack and meadowsweet in my hurry to get to the top。
At last； under the sky’s bowl； I stood at the crest breathless； the hill solid； tangible under my feet。 So often I had seen it elusive in the distance。 Now I was there。 Yet even as I reached my goal； it began to slip away from me。 Straight ahead； beyond more miles of woodland； I could see another hill； somewhat higher； somewhat longer； cows grazing placidly on its cleared slope a summit hinged with green。 Mysterious； full of promise； it was a hill I should never reach。 Yet； in my old longing； that was where I wished I might be； on that farther hill。 But even as I looked at it。 I sensed that beyond there would be another hill； and beyond that yet another； beyond Mt。 Battie； beyond Maine； beyond the miles。 Even if I kept going round the world there would always be another hill。 And I knew then； suddenly and overwhelmirlgly； that one could never reach the last hill。
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为师之道
佚名
就成年人而言，他们总是习惯把艰辛、无趣、漫长的求学生涯忘记。为了记住所有的基本知识，他们必须没完没了地付出令人难以置信的努力。对人的大脑而言，学习阅读或许是最艰难、最具革命性的一件事情了。如果不相信，你可以看看成年文盲在学习阅读时所付出的努力。上学不是一件轻松的事情，对于大多数人来说，是一件无趣的事情。然而，如果幸运的话，你或许能够找到一位真正的老师。我一生中最大的幸运，就是遇到了三位真正的老师：第一位是高中老师，教授自然科学和数学；第二位是斯坦福大学的教授，教授创新写作；第三位是我的朋友兼合伙人——埃德·雷克茨。
我逐渐相信，杰出的老师就是杰出的艺术家，并且就像杰出的艺术家一样稀少。甚至可以说，教书是一门最伟大的艺术，因为这门艺术是以人的思想和精神作为媒介的。
我的三位老师都有下述的共同特点：他们都热爱教学，且并非一味地灌输知识，而是想办法激发你的求知欲望。在这样的老师的影响下，你的恐惧感消失了，未知变成了可知，从而拓宽了你的视野。曾经令人畏惧的真理变得美丽而珍贵，这才是最重要的。
我的第一位老师除了拥有上述的共同优点外，她总能有新的发现。在这里，我想详细地谈谈这位老师。
她总是鼓励我们在课堂上挥着课本高声讨论，我们班成了全校最吵闹的班级，然而她似乎没有意识到。我们思索世界的万事万物，从不局限于课本的内容。她给我们播种下好奇，我们收获的则是真相和真理，就像攥在手掌中的萤火虫发出的光。
她在教授基础知识上失败了，然而这些知识是必须学习的，因此，她被学校解聘了，这或许又是合乎常理的。然而，她给我们留下了对纯粹知识的热情，并激发了我们永远也不会消失的好奇心。我曾经连简单的数学题都不会做，然而，她使我认识到，抽象的数学就像音乐一般美好。她的离开令我们伤心，但是她在我们心中留下的光明从来也不曾逝去。
What Makes a Teacher
Anonymous
It is customary for adults to forget how hard and dull and long school is。 The learning by memory of all the basic t