富尔顿·奥斯勒 / Fulton Oursler
Pete Richard was the loneliest man in town. On the day Jean Grace opened the door of his shop. It’s a small shop which had come down to him from his grandfather. The little front window was strewn with a disarray of old-fashioned things： bracelets and lockets worn in days before the Civil War， gold rings and silver boxes， images of jade and ivory， porcelain figurines. On this winter’s afternoon a child was standing there， her forehead against the glass， earnest and enormous eyes studying each treasure as if she were looking for something quite special. Finally she straightened up with a satisfied air and entered the store.
The shadowy interior of Pete Richard’s establishment was even more cluttered than his show window. Shelves were stacked with jewel caskets， dueling pistols， clocks and lamps， and the floor was heaped with irons， mandolins and things hard to find a name for. Behind the counter stood Pete himself， a man not more than thirty but with hair already turning gray. There was a bleak air about him as he looked at the small customer who flattened her ungloved hands on the counter.
“Mister，” she began， “would you please let me look at the string of blue beads in the window？” Pete parted the draperies and lifted out a necklace. The turquoise stones gleamed brightly against the pallor of his palm as he spread the ornament before her. “They’re just perfect，” said the child， entirely to herself. “Will you wrap them up pretty for me， please？”
Pete studied her with a stony air. “Are you buying these for someone？” “They’re for my big sister. She takes care of me. You see， this will be the first Christmas since Mother died. I’ve been looking for the most wonderful Christmas present for my sister.”
“How much money do you have？” asked Pete warily. She had been busily untying the knots in a handkerchief and now she poured out a handful of pennies on the counter. “I emptied my bank.” she explained simply.
Pete looked at her thoughtfully. Then he carefully drew back the necklace. The price tag was visible to him but not to her. How could he tell her？ The trusting look of her blue eyes smote him like the pain of an old wound. “Just a minute，” he said， and turned toward the back of the store. Over his shoulder he called， “What’s your name？” He was very busy about something. “Jean Grace.”
When Pete returned to where Jean Grace waited， a package lay in his hand， wrapped in scarlet paper and tied with a bow of green. “There you are，” he said shortly， “Don’t lose it on the way home.”
She smiled happily over her shoulder as she ran out the door. Through the window he watched her go， while desolation flooded his thoughts. Something about Jean Grace and her string of beads had stirred him to the depths of a grief that would not stay buried. The child’s hair was wheat yellow， her eyes sea blue， and once upon a time， not long before， Pete had been in love with a girl with hair of that same yellow and with eyes just as blue. And the turquoise necklace was to have been hers.
But there had come a rainy night-a truck skidding on a slippery road—and the life was crushed out of his dream. Since then， Pete had lived too much with his grief in solitude. He was politely attentive to customers， but after hours his world seemed irrevocably empty. He was trying to forget in a self-pitying haze that deepened day by day. The blue eyes of Jean Grace jolted him into acute remembrance of what he had lost. The pain of it made him recoil from the exuberance of holiday shoppers. During the next ten days trade was brisk； chattering women swarmed in， fingering trinkets， trying to bargain. When the last customer had gone， late on Christmas Eve， he sighed with relief. It was over for another year. But for Pete the night was not quite over.
The door opened and a young woman hurried in. With an inexplicable start， he realized that she looked familiar， yet he could not remember when or where he had seen her before. Her hair was golden yellow and her large eyes were blue. Without speaking， she drew from her purse a package loosely unwrapped in its red paper， a bow of green ribbon with it. Presently the string of blue beads lay gleaming again before him.
“Did this come from your shop？” she asked.
Pete raised his eyes to hers and answered softly， “Yes， it did.”
“Are the stones real？”
“Yes. Not the finest quality—but real.”
“Can you remember who it was you sold them to？”
“She was a small girl. Her name was Jean. She bought them for her older sister’s Christmas present.”
“How much are they worth？”
“The price，” he told her solemnly， “is always a confidential matter between the seller and the customer.”
“But Jean has never had more than a few pennies of spending money. How could she pay for them？”
“She paid the biggest price anyone can ever pay，” he said. “She gave all she had.”
There was a silence then that filled the little curio shop. He saw the faraway steeple， a bell began ringing. The sound of the distant chiming， the little package lying on the counter， the question in the eyes of the girl， and the strange feeling of renewal struggling unreasonably in the heart of Pete， all had come to be because of the love of a child.
“But why did you do it？”
He held out the gift in his hand.
“It’s already Christmas morning，” he said. “And it’s my misfortune that I have no one to give anything to. Will you let me see you home and wish you a Merry Christmas at your door？”
And so， to the sound of many bells and in the midst of happy people， Pete Richard and a girl whose name he had yet to hear， walked out into the beginning of the great day that brings hope into the world for us all.
皮特·理查德是镇上最孤独的人，就在那天，珍·格雷斯打开了他小店的门。这间小店是祖父传给他的，各种古玩杂乱地堆放在前面小小的橱窗里：有内战前人们带的手镯和纪念品盒，金戒指、银盒子、翡翠和象牙制品、精美的小雕像等。在这个冬日的下午，一个小孩站在那儿，她的前额顶在橱窗上，瞪大眼睛似乎在虔诚地寻找什么特殊宝贝。最后，她站直了身子，满意地笑了，走进店里。
店里很阴暗，里面的摆设比橱窗里还混乱，首饰盒，决斗手枪、钟和灯等塞在架子上；熨斗、曼陀林和一些不知名的东西则堆在地上。柜台后面站着皮特，一个不到30岁的男人，却满头白发。他看着这个没有戴手套的小顾客把手放在柜台上不禁有些不悦。
“先生，”她开口说，“请问，您能把橱窗里那串蓝宝石项链拿给我看看吗？”皮特拉开帘子，拿出项链，摊在掌心给她看，蓝绿色的宝石在他苍白的手中闪烁着明亮的光芒。“美极了，”孩子说，其实是在自言自语，“您能帮我把它们包装得漂亮些吗？”
皮特装做面无表情地问，“你想买这个送给谁？”“送给我的大姐姐，她一直照顾我，你看，妈妈去世后，这是第一个圣诞节。我一直在找一件最棒的圣诞礼物，要送给姐姐。”
“你有多少钱？”皮特谨慎地问道。她急忙解开一块裹着的手帕，现在，所有的便士都被倒在柜台上了。“我把所有的钱都拿出来了，”她简单地解释道。
皮特认真地看着她，然后，很快抽回了项链。价格标签在他这边，小女孩看不到。怎么跟她说呢？信任的目光从她蓝色的眼睛里透出来，触动了他隐隐作痛的旧伤。“你等等，”说着，他转身走到储藏室后面。“你叫什么名字？”他边忙边回头问道。“珍·格雷斯。”
皮特回到珍等待的地方，手里拿着一个用鲜红的纸包好的小盒子，还系着一条绿丝带打着蝴蝶结。“给你，”他简短地说道，“路上别弄丢了。”
她高兴地跑出去，出门时回头对他微笑。他透过窗户看着她离开，一片悲凉袭上心头。他心底深处无法掩饰的悲伤，被珍·格雷斯的某些东西和她的那串项链再次唤醒。这个孩子麦黄色的头发，大海般深蓝的眼睛。不久前，皮特曾爱上一个女孩，她拥有同样麦黄的头发和深蓝的眼睛，那串蓝宝石项链本该是她的。
然而，突然一个雨夜——一辆卡车在光滑的路面打滑——她的生命就这样梦一般地被毁灭了。从那以后，皮特生活在孤苦和悲痛中，无法自拔。他对顾客彬彬有礼，但天黑后，他的世界几乎一片空白，他试着让自己在自哀自怜中，随时间的消逝慢慢忘却那些苦痛。珍·格雷斯的蓝眼睛又勾起了自己对失去的至爱的回忆。这些痛苦，让他在节日里兴高采烈地顾客面前有些畏缩。接下来的10天里，生意很好，女士们喋喋不休地涌入，抚弄各种饰品，讨价还价。最后一个顾客终于走了，圣诞节前夕的深夜，皮特轻松地舒了一口气。一年又过去了，但对于皮特来说，这一夜还是很漫长。
门开了，一位年轻的女子匆匆而入，毫无由来地，皮特觉得她很面熟，金黄的头发，深蓝的双眸，只是记不起曾经在什么时候，什么地方见过她。她默默地从手提包里拿出一个小盒子，松散地用红纸包着，还有一条绿丝带系着蝴蝶结，在他眼前闪闪发光的是那串蓝宝石项链。
“这是你店里卖出去的吗？”她问道。
皮特抬起头，看着她，轻声说道，“是，是我卖的。”
“宝石是真的吗？”
“是的，虽然质地不是最好的——但是真的。”
“你记得自己卖给谁了吗？”
“她是一个小姑娘，叫珍。她买给她姐姐的圣诞礼物。”
“它值多么钱？”
“至于价格，”他严肃地告诉她，“这通常是商家和顾客之间的秘密。”
“但珍是绝对买不起的，她只有几便士的零花钱，怎么买得起这宝石呢？”
“她给的是别人能出的最高价，”他说，“她用光了她所有的钱。”
一片寂静笼罩着这个小古董店。他看见远处的教堂尖塔，钟声开始响起。远处鸣响的钟声，放在柜台上的小盒子，姑娘眼中的疑问，皮特心中无以名状的生命复苏感——这一切都是因为一个孩子的爱。
“可为什么你要这么做？”
皮特把手中的礼物递给她。
“已经是圣诞节早上了，”他说：“不幸的是，我没有人可送点什么东西。你能让我送你回家，在你家门口说一声圣诞快乐吗？”
于是，在钟声齐鸣时，在幸福人群中，皮特·里查德和这位还不知姓名的姑娘迈入了又一天的开端——那给世间每个人带来希望的伟大一天。
记忆填空
1. On this winter’s afternoon a was standing there， her forehead against the ， earnest and enormous studying each treasure as if she were for something quite special.
2. Behind the counter Pete himself， a man not more than thirty but with already turning gray. There was a bleak about him as he looked at the small customer who flattened her ungloved on the counter.
3. Without speaking， she from her purse a package loosely unwrapped its red paper， a bow of ribbon with it.
佳句翻译
1. 他透过窗户看着她离开，一片悲凉袭上心头。
2. 他试着让自己在自哀自怜中，随时间的消逝慢慢忘却那些苦痛。
3. “她给的是别人能出的最高价，”他说，“她用光了她所有的钱。”
短语应用
1. It’s a small shop which had come down to him from his grandfather.
come down to：流传下来；可以归结为；实质上是
2. And so， to the sound of many bells and in the midst of happy people...
in the midst of：在……之中
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