亚洲欧美另类图片_天天躁夜夜躁狠狠躁2021_年轻的邻居女教师1_日本无遮挡色又黄的视频在线

On the Chicken Farm

我相信，我的父親生來(lái)是一個(gè)開朗善良的人。34歲之前，他一直在俄亥俄州比德韋爾鎮(zhèn)的一家農(nóng)場(chǎng)上為一個(gè)叫托馬斯•巴特沃思的農(nóng)場(chǎng)主打工。他自己有匹馬，每周六晚上都騎馬到鎮(zhèn)上和農(nóng)場(chǎng)其他雇農(nóng)混上幾個(gè)鐘頭。10點(diǎn)鐘的時(shí)候，他就沿一條偏僻的鄉(xiāng)間小路騎馬回家。將馬安頓停當(dāng)后，他上床就寢。他對(duì)自己的生活心滿意足，當(dāng)時(shí)，他并沒有任何要出人頭地的念想。

35歲那年的春天，父親娶了當(dāng)時(shí)還是學(xué)校教員的母親。第二年春天，我便呱呱墜地。自從那時(shí)起，他倆就發(fā)生了變化。他們變得野心勃勃，滿腦子都是美國(guó)式飛黃騰達(dá)的遠(yuǎn)大理想。

對(duì)此我母親應(yīng)該負(fù)一定責(zé)任。作為一個(gè)學(xué)校老師，她一定經(jīng)常讀書看報(bào)。我猜想，她讀過有關(guān)伽菲爾德、林肯和其他一些美國(guó)人是怎樣從窮苦人變成有聲望的偉人的書籍�；蛟S，在她分娩時(shí)，她也夢(mèng)想過躺在她身邊的我，有朝一日也能夠呼風(fēng)喚雨。不管怎么說(shuō)，是她慫恿爸爸辭掉了雇農(nóng)的工作，賣了馬匹，然后開始自己獨(dú)立創(chuàng)業(yè)。

他們的第一樁投資就慘不忍睹。他們?cè)诰嚯x比德韋爾鎮(zhèn)12千米的格里格路上租了十英畝貧瘠的沙石地，在那里開始了他們的養(yǎng)雞事業(yè)。我在那里慢慢長(zhǎng)大，并形成了對(duì)人生的第一印象。最初的印象充滿了各種各樣的災(zāi)難和不幸。如果說(shuō)我后來(lái)變成了一個(gè)悲觀的男人，總是看到生活中黑暗的一面，那么這應(yīng)該歸功于我在養(yǎng)雞場(chǎng)度過的本來(lái)應(yīng)該天真快樂的童年時(shí)光。

沒有過同樣生活經(jīng)歷的人根本就不明白一只小雞所要面臨的諸多悲慘狀況。它從蛋里孵出來(lái)，幾個(gè)星期內(nèi)都是毛茸茸的可愛樣子，就像復(fù)活節(jié)卡片里畫的一樣；接著變成可怕的光禿禿的模樣，成堆成堆地吃掉父親用辛勤汗水換來(lái)的玉米和飼料；然后患上諸如喉舌病、霍亂等各種傳染病，目光呆滯地看著太陽(yáng)，病怏怏地站著，越來(lái)越衰弱，直至死掉。一些母雞和少數(shù)公雞，為了履行上帝的神秘旨意，掙扎著活到成年。雞生蛋，蛋又生雞，悲慘的生活輪回借此畫上句號(hào)。這是個(gè)匪夷所思的復(fù)雜過程。絕大多數(shù)的哲學(xué)家想必都在養(yǎng)雞場(chǎng)長(zhǎng)大成人。一個(gè)人對(duì)一只雞寄予厚望，到頭來(lái)卻大失所望。出生的小雞剛剛步入生活的征途，看似聰明機(jī)警，實(shí)際蠢得驚人。這些雛雞和人是如此地相似，混淆了真實(shí)生活和對(duì)生活的判斷。倘若能夠僥幸熬過疾病，你開始對(duì)它們期待滿滿，它們卻在某一天信步走到車輪的下面……多年以后，我驚奇地發(fā)現(xiàn)竟然出現(xiàn)了以描寫?zhàn)B雞致富為題材的文學(xué)作品……

千萬(wàn)別受誘惑，這可不是寫給你看的。你可以去阿拉斯加的冰山淘金，信賴政治家的誠(chéng)實(shí)，相信——假使你愿意的話——世界正在一天天地變好，正義終將會(huì)戰(zhàn)勝邪惡，但千萬(wàn)不要閱讀和相信描寫母雞的文學(xué)作品……

不過，我有點(diǎn)兒跑題了。我的故事不是以母雞為中心的；確切地說(shuō)，故事的重點(diǎn)是雞蛋。十年來(lái)，我的父母為了讓養(yǎng)雞場(chǎng)扭虧為盈而歷經(jīng)艱辛，最后卻以失敗告終。他們放棄了養(yǎng)雞場(chǎng)，開始了另一個(gè)投資項(xiàng)目。他們搬到了俄亥俄州的比德韋爾鎮(zhèn)上，在那里開始他們的餐飲事業(yè)。經(jīng)歷了十年的殫精竭慮后，我們丟掉養(yǎng)雞場(chǎng)，打包好行李，裝上馬車，離開格里格路，駛向比德韋爾鎮(zhèn)。小馬車也載著我們的希望：找到一個(gè)新的地方，開始我們步步高升的人生之旅。

On the Chicken Farm

My father was, I am sure, intended by nature to be a cheerful, kindly man. Until he was thirty-four years old he worked as a farm hand for a man named Thomas Butterworth whose place lay near the town of Bidwell, Ohio. He had then a horse of his own and on Saturday evenings drove into town to spend a few hours in social intercourse with other farm hands... At ten o’clock Father drove home along a lonely country road, made his horse comfortable for the night and himself went to bed, quite happy in his position in life. He had at that time no notion of trying to rise in the world.

It was in the spring of his thirty-fifth year that Father married my mother, then a country schoolteacher, and in the following spring I came wriggling and crying into the world. Something happened to the two people. They became ambitious. The American passion for getting up in the world took possession of them.

It may have been that Mother was responsible. Being a schoolteacher she had no doubt read books and magazines. She had, I presume, read of how Garfield, Lincoln and other Americans rose from poverty to fame and greatness and as I lay beside her—in the days of her lying-in-she may have dreamed that I would some day rule men and cities.

At any rate, she induced Father to give up his place as a farm hand, sell his horse and embark on an independent enterprise of his own...

The first venture into which the two people went turned out badly. They rented ten acres of poor stony land on Grigg’s Road, eight miles from Bidwell, and launched into chicken raising. I grew into boyhood on the place and got my first impressions of life there. From the beginning they were impressions of disaster and if, in my turn, I am gloomy man inclined to see the darker side of life. I attribute it to the fact that what should have been for me the happy joyous days of childhood were spent on a chickenfarm.

One unversed in such matters can have no notion of the many and tragic things that can happen to a chicken. It is born out of an egg, lives for a few weeks as a tiny fluffy thing such as you will see pictured on Easter cards, then becomes hideously naked, eats quantities of corn and meal bought by the sweat of your father’s brow,gets diseases called pip, cholera and other names, stands looking with stupid eyes at the sun, becomes sick and dies. A few hens and now and then a rooster, intended to serve God’s mysterious ends, struggle through to maturity. The hens lay eggs out of which come other chickens and the dreadful cycle is thus made complete. It is all unbelievably complex. Most philosophers must have been raised on chicken farms. One hopes for so

much from a chicken and is so dreadfully disillusioned. Small chickens just setting out on the journey of life, look so bright and alert and they are in fact so dreadfully stupid.

They are so much like people they mix one up in one’s judgments of life. If disease does not kill them they wait until your expectations are thoroughly aroused and then walk under the wheels of a wagon...In later life I have seen how a literature has been built up on the subject of fortunes to be made out of the raising of chickens...Do not be led astray by it. It was not written for you. Go hunt for gold on the frozen hills of Alaska, put your faith in the honesty of a politician, believe if you will that the world is daily growing better and that good will triumph over evil, but do not read and believe the literature that is written concerning the hen. . .

I, however, digress. My tale does not primarily concern itself with the hen. If correctly told it will center on the egg. For ten years my father and mother struggled to make our chicken farm pay and then they gave up that struggle and began another. They moved into the town of Bidwell, Ohio, and embarked in the restaurant business. After ten years of worry, we threw all aside and packing our belongings on a wagon drove down Grigg’s Road toward Bidwell, a tiny caravan of hope looking