新概念背诵版(40之后)

Lessen41            Illusions of pastoral peace 宁静田园生活的遐想  
The quiet life of the country has never appealed to me. City born and city bred, I have always regarded the country as something you look at through a train window, or something you occasionally visit during the week-end. Most of my friends live in the city, yet they always go into raptures at the mere mention of the country. Though they extol the virtues of he peaceful life, only one of them has ever gone to live in the country and he was back in town within six months. Even he still lives under the illusion that country life is somehow superior to town life. He is forever talking about the friendly people, the clean atmosphere, the closeness to nature and the gentle pace of living. Nothing can be compared, he maintains, with the first cock crow, the twittering of birds at dawn, the sight of the rising sun glinting on the trees and pastures. This idyllic pastoral scene is only part of the picture. My friend fails to mention the long and friendless winter evenings which are interrupted only by an occasional visit to the local cinema-virtually the only form of entertainment. He says nothing about the poor selection of goods in the shops, or about those unfortunate people who have to travel from the country to the city every day to get to work. Why people are prepared to tolerate a four hour journey each day for the dubious privilege of living in the country is beyond my ken. They could be saved so much misery and expense if they chose to live in the city where they rightly belong.
If you can do without the few pastoral pleasures of the country, you will find the city can provide you with the best that life can offer. You never have to travel miles to see your friends. They invariably live nearby and are always available for an informal chat or an evening's entertainment. Some of my acquaintances in the country come up to town once or twice a year to visit the theatre as a special treat. For them this is a major operation which involves considerable planning. As the play draws to its close, they wonder whether they will ever catch that last train home. The city dweller never experiences anxieties of this sort. The latest exhibitions, films, or plays are only a short bus ride away. Shopping, too, is always a pleasure. There is so much variety that you never have to make do with second best. Country people run wild when they go shopping in the city and stagger home loaded with as many of the necessities of life as
they can carry. Nor is the city without its moments of beauty. There is something comforting about the warm glow shed by advertisements on cold wet winter nights. Few things could be more impressive than the peace that descends on deserted city streets at week-ends when the thousands that travel to work every
day are tucked away in their homes in the country. It has always been a mystery to me why city dwellers, who appreciate all these things, obstinately pretend that they would prefer to live in the country.





Lessen42
Cave exploration, or potholing, as it has
come to be known, is a relatively new
sport. Perhaps it is the desire for solitude
or the chance of making an unexpected
discovery that lures men down to the
depths of the earth. It is impossible to
give a satisfactory explanation for a pot-
holer's motives. For him, caves have the
same peculiar fascination which high
mountains have for the climber. They
arouse instincts which can only be dimly
understood.
Exploring really deep caves is not a
task for the Sunday afternoon rambler.
Such undertakings require the precise
planning and foresight of military opera-
tions. It can take as long as eight days to rig up rope ladders and to establish
supply bases before a descent can be made into a very deep cave. Precautions of
this sort are necessary, for it is impossible to foretell the exact nature of the
difficulties which will confront the potholer. The deepest known cave in the
world is the Gouffre Berger near Grenoble. It extends to a depth of 3723 feet.
This immense chasm has been formed by an underground stream which has
tunnelled a course through a flaw in the rocks. The entrance to the cave is on a
plateau in the Dauphine Alps. As it is only six feet across, it is barely noticeable.
The cave might never have been discovered had not the entrance been spotted
by the distinguished French potholer, Berger. Since its discovery, it has become
a sort of potholers' Everest. Though a number of descents have been made,
much of it still remains to be explored.
A team of potholers recently went down the Gouffre Berger. After entering
the narrow gap on the plateau, they climbed down the steep sides of the cave
until they came to a narrow corridor. They had to edge their way along this,
sometimes wading across shallow streams, or swimming across deep pools.
Suddenly they came to a waterfall which dropped into an underground lake at
the bottom of the cave. They plunged into the lake, and after loading their gear
on an inflatable rubber dinghy, let the current carry them to the other side. To
protect themselves from the icy water, they had to wear special rubber suits.
At the far end of the lake, they came to huge piles of rubble which had been
washed up by the water. In this part of the cave, they could hear an insistent
booming sound which they found was caused by a small water-spout shooting
down into a pool from the roof of the cave. Squeezing through a cleft in the
rocks, the potholers arrived at an enormous cavern, the size of a huge concert
hall. After switching on powerful arc lights, they saw great stalagmites--some
of them over forty feet high--rising up like tree-trunks to meet the stalactites
suspended from the roof. Round about, piles of lime-stone glistened in all the
colours of the rainbow. In the eerie silence of the cavern, the only sound that
could be heard was made by water which dripped continuously from the high
dome above them.



Lessen43
Insurance companies are normally willing
to insure anything. Insuring public or
private property is a standard practice in
most countries in the world. If, however,
you were holding an open air garden party
or a fete it would be equally possible to
insure yourself in the event of bad
weather. Needless to say, the bigger the
risk an insurance company takes, the
higher the premium you will have to pay.
It is not uncommon to hear that a ship-
ping company has made a claim for the
cost of salvaging a sunken ship. But the
claim made by a local authority to recover
the cost of salvaging a sunken pie dish
must surely be unique.
Admittedly it was an unusual pie dish, for it was eighteen feet long and six
feet wide. It had been purchased by a local authority so that an enormous pie
could be baked for an annual fair. The pie committee decided that the best way
to transport the dish would be by canal, so they insured it for the trip. Shortly
after it was launched, the pie committee went to a local inn to celebrate. At the
same time, a number of teenagers climbed on to the dish and held a little party
of their own. Modern dances proved to be more than the disk could bear, for
during the party it capsized and sank in seven feet of water.
The pie committee telephoned a local garage owner who arrived in a recovery
truck to salvage the pie dish. Shivering in their wet clothes, the teenagers
looked on while three men dived repeatedly into the water to locate the dish.
They had little difficulty in finding it, but hauling it out of the water proved to
be a serious problem. The sides of the dish were so smooth that it was almost
impossible to attach hawsers and chains to the rim without damaging it. Even-
tually chains were fixed to one end of the dish and a powerful winch was put
into operation. The dish rose to the surface and was gently drawn towards the
canal bank. For one agonizing moment, the dish was perched precariously on
the bank of the canal, but it suddenly overbalanced and slid back into the water.
The men were now obliged to try once more. This time they fixed heavy metal
clamps to both sides of the dish so that they could fasten the chains. The dish
now had to be lifted vertically because one edge was resting against the side of
the canal. The winch was again put into operation and one of the men started
up the truck. Several minutes later, the dish was successfully hauled above the
surface of the water. Water streamed in torrents over its sides with such force
that it set up a huge wave in the canal. There was danger that the wave would
rebound off the other side of the bank and send the dish plunging into the water
again. By working at tremendous speed, the men managed to get the dish on to
dry land before the wave returned.



Lessen44
People travelling long distances fre-
quently have to decide whether they
would prefer to go by land, sea, or air.
Hardly anyone can positively enjoy sitting
in a train for more than a few hours.
Train compartments soon get cramped
and stuffy. It is almost impossible to take
your mind off the journey. Reading is
only a partial solution, for the monotonous
rhythm of the wheels clicking on the
rails soon lulls you to sleep. During the
day, sleep comes in snatches. At night,
when you really wish to go to sleep, you
rarely manage to do so. If you are lucky
enough to get a couchette, you spend half
the night staring at the small blue light
in the ceiling, or fumbling to find your passport when you cross a frontier.
Inevitably you arrive at your destination almost exhausted. Long car journeys
are even less pleasant, for it is quite impossible even to read. On motor-ways you
can, at least, travel fairly safely at high speeds, but more often than not, the
greater part of the journey is spent on narrow, bumpy roads which are crowded
with traffic. By comparison, trips by sea offer a great variety of civilized com-
forts. You can stretch your legs on the spacious decks, play games, swim, meet
interesting people and enjoy good food--always assuming, of course, that the
sea is calm. If it is not, and you are likely to get sea-sick, no form of transport
could be worse. Even if you travel in ideal weather, sea journeys take a long
time. Relatively few people are prepared to sacrifice up to a third of their holidays
for the pleasure of travelling on a ship.
Aeroplanes have the reputation of being dangerous and even hardened travel-
lers are intimidated by them. They also have the grave disadvantage of being
the most expensive form of transport. But nothing can match them for speed
and comfort. Travelling at a height of 30,000 feet, far above the clouds, and at
over 500 miles an hour is an exhilarating experience. You do not have to devise
ways of taking your mind off the journey, for an aeroplane gets you to your
destination rapidly. For a few hours, you settle back in a deep armchair to enjoy
the flight. The real escapist can watch a free film show and sip champagne on
some services. But even when such refinements are not available, there is plenty
to keep you occupied. An aeroplane offers you an unusual and breathtaking
view of the world. You soar effortlessly over high mountains and deep valleys.
You really see the shape of the land. If the landscape is hidden from view, you
can enjoy the extraordinary sight of unbroken cloud plains that stretch out for
miles before you, while the sun shines brilliantly in a clear sky. The journey is
so smooth that there is nothing to prevent you from reading or sleeping. How-
ever you decide to spend your time, one thing is certain: you will arrive at your
destination fresh and uncrumpled. You will not have to spend the next few days
recovering from a long and arduous journey.

Lessen45
In democratic countries any efforts to
restrict the freedom of the press are
rightly condemned. However, this free-
dom can easily be abused. Stories about
people often attract far more public atten-
tion than political events. Though we
may enjoy reading about the lives of
others, it is extremely doubtful whether
we would equally enjoy reading about
ourselves. Acting on the contention that
facts are sacred, reporters can cause
untold suffering to individuals by pub-
lishing details about their private lives.
Newspapers exert such tremendous in-
fluence that they can not only bring about
major changes to the lives of ordinary
people but can even overthrow a government.
The story of a poor family that acquired fame and fortune overnight, dramati-
cally illustrates the power of the press. The family lived in Aberdeen, a small
town of 23,000 inhabitants in South Dakota. As the parents had five children,
life was a perpetual struggle against poverty. They were expecting their sixth
child and faced with even more pressing economic problems. If they had
only had one more child, the fact would have passed unnoticed. They would
have continued to struggle against economic odds and would have lived in
obscurity. But they suddenly became the parents of quintuplets, four girls and
a boy, an event which radically changed their lives. The day after the birth of
the five children, an aeroplane arrived in Aberdeen bringing sixty reporters and
photographers. The news was of national importance, for the poor couple had
become the parents of the only quintuplets in America.
The rise to fame was swift. Television cameras and newspapers carried the
news to everyone in the country. Newspapers and magazines offered the family
huge sums for the exclusive rights to publish stories and photographs. Gifts
poured in not only from unknown people, but from baby food and soap manu-
facturers who wished to advertise their products. The old farmhouse the family
lived in was to be replaced by a new $100,000 home. Reporters kept pressing for
interviews so lawyers had to be employed to act as spokesmen for the family at
press conferences. The event brought serious changes to the town itself. Plans
were announced to build a huge new highway, as Aberdeen was now likely to
attract thousands of tourists. Signposts erected on the outskirts of the town
directed tourists not to Aberdeen, but to 'Quint-City U.S.A.' The local auth-
orities discussed the possibility of erecting a 'quint museum' to satisfy the
curiosity of the public and to protect the family from inquisitive tourists. While
the five babies were still quietly sleeping in oxygen tents in a hospital nursery,
their parents were paying the price for fame. It would never again be possible
for them to lead normal lives. They had become the victims of commercializa-
tion, for their names had acquired a market value. The town itself received so
much attention that almost every one of the inhabitants was affected to a greater
or less degree.



Lessen46
So great is our passion for doing things
for ourselves, that we are becoming in-
creasingIy less dependent on specialized
labour. No one can plead ignorance of a
subject any longer, for there are countless
do-it-yourself publications. Armed with
the right tools and materials, newly-weds
gaily embark on the task of decorating
their own homes. Men of all ages spend
hours of their leisure time installing
their own fireplaces, laying-out their own
gardens; building garages and making
furniture. Some really keen enthusiasts go
so far as to build their own record
players and radio transmitters. Shops
cater for the do-it-yourself craze not only
by running special advisory services for novices, but by offering consumers bits
and pieces which they can assemble at home. Such things provide an excellent
outlet for pent-up creative energy, but unfortunately not all of us are born
handymen.
Wives tend to believe that their husbands are infinitely resourceful and
versatile. Even husbands who can hardly drive a nail in straight are supposed to
be born electricians, carpenters, plumbers and mechanics. When lights fuse,
furniture gets rickety, pipes get clogged, or vacuum cleaners fail to operate,
wives automatically assume that their husbands will somehow put things right.
The worst thing about the do-it-yourself game is that sometimes husbands live
under the delusion that they can do anything even when they have been repeat-
edly proved wrong. It is a question of pride as much as anything else.
Last spring my wife suggested that I call in a man to look at our lawn-mower.
It had broken down the previous summer, and though I promised to repair it,
I had never got round to it. I would not hear of the suggestion and said that I
would fix it myself. One Saturday afternoon, I hauled the machine into the
garden and had a close look at it. As far as I could see, it only needed a minor
adjustment: a turn of a screw here, a little tightening up there, a drop of oil
and it would be as good as new. Inevitably the repair job was not quite so simple.
The mower firmly refused to mow, so I decided to dismantle it. The garden was
soon littered with chunks of metal which had once made up a lawn-mower. But
I was extremely pleased with myself I had traced the cause of the trouble. One
of the links in the chain that drives the wheels had snapped. After buying a new
chain I was faced with the insurmountable task of putting the confusing jigsaw
puzzle together again. I was not surprised to find that the machine still refused
to work after I had reassembled it, for the simple reason that I was left with
several curiously shaped bits of metal which did not seem to fit anywhere. I
gave up in despair. The weeks passed and the grass grew. When my wife nagged
me to do something about it, I told her that either I would have to buy a new
mower or let the grass grow. Needless to say our house is now surrounded by a
jungle. Buried somewhere in deep grass there is a rusting lawn-mower which I
have promised to repair one day.


Lessen47
Satellites orbiting round the earth have
provided scientists with a vast amount of
information about conditions in outer
space. By comparison, relatively little is
known about the internal structure of the
earth. It has proved easier to go up than
to go down. The deepest hole ever to be
bored on land went down 25,340 feet--
considerably less than the height of
Mount Everest. Drilling a hole under the
sea has proved to be even more difficult.
The deepest hole bored under sea has
been about 20,000 feet. Until recently,
scientists have been unable to devise a
drill which would be capable of cutting
through hard rock at great depths.
This problem has now been solved. Scientists have developed a method which
sounds surprisingly simple. A new drill which is being tested at Leona Valley
Ranch in Texas is driven by a turbine engine which is propelled by liquid mud
pumped into it from the surface. As the diamond tip of the drill revolves, it is
lubricated by mud. Scientists have been amazed to find that it can cut through
the hardest rock with great ease. The drill has been designed to bore through
the earth to a depth of 35,000 feet. It will enable scientists to obtain samples of
the mysterious layer which lies immediately below the earth's crust. This layer
is known as the Mohorovicic Discontinuity, but is commonly referred to as
'the Moho'.
Before it is possible to drill this deep hole, scientists will have to overcome a
number of problems. Geological tests will be carried out to find the point at
which the earth's crust is thinnest. The three possible sites which are being
considered are all at sea: two in the Atlantic Ocean and one in the Pacific. Once
they have determinded on a site, they will have to erect a drilling vessel which will
not be swept away by ocean currents. The vessel will consist of an immense
platform which will rise to 70 feet above the water. It will be supported by six
hollow columns which will descend to a depth of 60 feet below the ocean surface
where they will be fixed to a huge float. A tall steel tower rising to a height of
nearly 200 feet will rest on the platform. The drill will be stored in the tower
and will have to be lowered through about 15,000 feet of water before operations
can begin. Within the tower, there will be a laboratory, living accommodation
and a helicopter landing station. Keeping the platform in position at sea will
give rise to further problems. To do this, scientists will have to devise methods
using radar and underwater television. If, during the operations the drill has to
be withdrawn, it must be possible to re-insert it. Great care will therefore have
to be taken to keep the platform steady and make it strong enough to withstand
hurricanes. If the project is successful, scientists will not only learn a great deal
about the earth, but possibly about the nature of the universe itself.


Lessen48
In this much-travelled world, there are
still thousands of places which are in-
accessible to tourists. We always assume
that villagers in remote places are friendly
and hospitable. But people who are cut off
not only from foreign tourists, but even
from their own countrymen can be hostile
to travellers. Visits to really remote
villages are seldom enjoyable--as my
wife and I discovered during a tour
through the Balkans.
We had spent several days in a small
town and visited a number of old churches
in the vicinity. These attracted many
visitors for they were not only of great
architectural interest, but contained a
large number of beautifully preserved frescoes as well. On the day before our
departure, several bus loads of tourists descended on the town. This was more
than we could bear,so we decided to spend our last day exploring the country-
side. Taking a path which led out of the town, we crossed a few fields until we
came to a dense wood. We expected the path to end abruptly, but we found that
it traced its way through the trees. We tramped through the wood for over two
hours until we arrived at a deep stream. We could see that the path continued on
the other side, but we had no idea how we could get across the stream. Suddenly
my wife spotted a boat moored to the bank. In it there was a boatman fast asleep.
We gently woke him up and asked him to ferry us to the other side. Though he
was reluctant to do so at first, we eventually persuaded him to take us.
The path led to a tiny village perched on the steep sides of a mountain. The
place consisted of a straggling unmade road which was lined on either side by
small houses. Even under a clear blue sky, the village looked forbidding, as all
the houses were built of grey mud bricks. The village seemed deserted, the only
sign of life being an ugly-looking black goat tied to a tree on a short length of
rope in a field nearby. Sitting down on a dilapidated wooden fence near the
field, we opened a couple of tins of sardines and had a picnic lunch. All at once,
I noticed that my wife seemed to be filled with alarm. Looking up I saw that we
were surrounded by children in rags who were looking at us silently as we ate. We
offered them food and spoke to them kindly, but they remained motionless. I
concluded that they were simply shy of strangers. When we later walked down
the main street of the village, we were followed by a silent procession of children.
The village which had seemed deserted, immediately came to life. Faces ap-
peared at windows. Men in shirt sleeves stood outside their houses and glared
at us. Old women in black shawls peered at us from door-ways. The most
frightening thing of all was that not a sound could be heard. There was no doubt
that we were unwelcome visitors. We needed no further warning. Turning back
down the main street, we quickened our pace and made our way rapidly towards
the stream where we hoped the boatman was waiting.


Lessen49
It is a good thing my aunt Harriet died
years ago. If she were alive today she
would not be able to air her views on her
favourite topic of conversation: domestic
servants. Aunt Harriet lived in that
leisurely age when servants were em-
ployed to do housework. She had a huge,
rambling country house called 'The
Gables'. She was sentimentally attached
to this house, for even though it was far
too big for her needs, she persisted in
living there long after her husband's
death. Before she grew old, aunt Harriet
used to entertain lavishly. I often visited
The Gables when I was a boy. No matter
how many guests were present, the great
house was always immaculate. The parquet floors shone like mirrors; highly
polished silver was displayed in gleaming glass cabinets; even my uncle's huge
collection of books was kept miraculously free from dust. Aunt Harriet presided
over an invisible army of servants that continuously scrubbed, cleaned, and
polished. She always referred to them as' the shifting population', for they came
and went with such frequency that I never even got a chance to learn their names,
Though my aunt pursued what was, in those days, an enlightened policy in that
she never allowed her domestic staff to work more than eight hours a day, she
was extremely difficult to please. While she always decried the fickleness of
human nature, she carried on an unrelenting search for the ideal servant to the
end of her days, even after she had been sadly disillusioned by Bessie.
Bessie worked for aunt Harriet for three years. During that time she so
gained my aunt's confidence, that she was put in charge of the domestic staff.
Aunt Hariet could not find words to praise Bessie's industry and efficiency. In
addition to all her other qualifications, Bessie was an expert cook. She acted the
role of the perfect servant for three years before aunt Harriet discovered her
'little weakness'. After being absent from The Gables for a week, my aunt
unexpectedly returned one afternoon with a party of guests and instructed
Bessie to prepare dinner. Not only was the meal well below the usual standard,
but Bereie seemed unable to walk steadily. She bumped into the furniture and
kept mumbling about the guests. When she came in with the last course--a
huge pudding-she tripped on the carpet and the pudding went flying through
the air, narrowly missed my aunt, and crashed on the dining table with con-
siderable force. Though this occasioned great mirth among the guests, aunt
Harriet was horrified. She reluctantly came to the conclusion that Bessie was
drunk. The guests had, of course, realized this from the moment Bessie opened
the door for them and, long before the final catastrophe, had had a difficult
time trying to conceal their amusement. The poor girl was dismissed instantly.
After her departure, aunt Harriet discovered that there were piles of empty
wine bottles of all shapes and sizes neatly stacked in what had once been Bessie's
wardrobe. They had mysteriously found their way there from the wine-cellar!



Lessen50
The New Year is a time for resolutions.
Mentally, at least, most of us could com-
pile formidable lists of ' do's' and' don'ts '.
The same old favourites recur year in
year out with monotonous regularity. We
resolve to get up earlier each morning,
eat less, find more time to play with the
children, do a thousand and one jobs
about the house, be nice to people we
don't like, drive carefully, and take the
dog for a walk every day. Past experience
has taught us that certain accomplish-
ments are beyond attainment. If we
remain inveterate smokers, it is only
because we have so often experienced the
frustration that results from failure. Most
of us fail in our efforts at self-improvement because our schemes are too am-
bitious and we never have time to carry them out. We also make the fundamental
error of announcing our resolutions to everybody so that we look even more
foolish when we slip back into our bad old ways. Aware of these pitfalls, this
year I attempted to keep my resolutions to myself. I limited myself to two modest
ambitions: to do physical exercises every morning and to read more of an
evening. An all-night party on New Year's Eve,provided me with a good excuse
for not carrying out either of these new resolutions on the first day of the year,
but on the second, I applied myself assiduously to the task.
The daily exercises lasted only eleven minutes and I proposed to do them
early in the morning before anyone had got up. The self-discipline required to
drag myself out of bed eleven minutes earlier than usual was considerable.
Nevertheless, I managed to creep down into the living-room for two days before
anyone found me out. After jumping about on the carpet and twisting the
human frame into uncomfortable positions, I sat down at the breakfast table in
an exhausted condition. It was this that betrayed me. The next morning the
whole family trooped in to watch the performance. That was really unsettling
but I fended off the taunts and jibes of the family good-humouredly and soon
everybody got used to the idea. However, my enthusiasm waned. The,time I
spent at exercises gradually diminished. Little by little the eleven minutes fell to
zero. By January 10th, I was back to where I had started from. I argued that if I
spent less time exhausting myself at exercises in the morning I would keep my
mind fresh for reading when I got home from work. Resisting the hypnotizing
effect of television, I sat in my room for a few evenings with my eyes glued to a
book, one night, however, feeling cold and lonely, I went downstairs and sat in
front of the television pretending to read. That proved to be my undoing, for I
soon got back to my old bad habit of dozing off in front of the screen. I still
haven't given up my resolution to do more reading. In fact, I have just bought a
book entitled 'How to Read a Thousand Words a Minute'. Perhaps it will
solve my problem, but I just haven't had time to read it!