سامری (خلاصه ) داستان The Night the Bed Fell به همراه ترجمه فارسی
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سامری (خلاصه ) داستان The Interlopers به همراه ترجمه فارسی
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قیمت 2 هزار تومان برای خلاصه داستان The Interlopers و ترجمه فارسی خلاصه آن
قیمت 3 هزار تومان برای متن کامل داستان The Interlopers (ترجمه فارسی داستان The Interlopers)
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Ulrich von Gradwitz and Georg Znaeym were bitter enemies. In the days of Ulrich's grandfather, a famous lawsuit had occurred. The bone of contention was a strip of forest land that lay between their two properties. Ulrich's grandfather had won the case, but the neighbor refused to abide by the decision. Since the days of Ulrich's grandfather, the Znaeym family hunted in the disputed land, just as if it were still their possession.
During one stormy winter night, Ulrich noticed that something was scaring the roebuck, so he figured that his neighbors were poaching again. He led his foresters to the disputed territory and prepared an ambush. He himself went ahead, hoping to meet Georg face to face. His wish was granted.
The two men gripped their rifles and stood glaring at one another. Since the days of Homer, enemies have often exchanged words before engaging in mortal combat, and it was the intention of Ulrich and Georg to do the same.
An act of God prevented them. The fierce storm caused a beech tree to come crashing down on the two men. Both men were pinned down by the fallen tree and could not free themselves. A few of Ulrich's bones were fractured. Some twigs had injured his face, so he had to wipe the blood away from his eyes before he could see.
Georg also had serious injuries on his face. He could hardly see anything because of the blood in his eyes. Since his hands were pinned down, he could not wipe it away.
The two men expressed their hostility to one another. Ulrich told Georg that his men would soon come. Georg would then suffer the consequences of poaching on his land.
Georg said that he also had men in the forest. When they arrived, they would roll the trunk of the beech tree on Ulrich and crush him to death.
Ulrich said that Georg had given him a good idea. When his men arrived, they would push the trunk on Georg.
It pleased Georg that they were going to fight it out to the end. One of them would die, and no interlopers could prevent it.
The two men actually knew that it would be a long time before their men came looking for them.
Ulrich managed to reach his wine cask with his one arm that was partially free. He drank a refreshing draft. He began to feel sorry for Georg and offered him some wine, saying: "Let us drink, even if tonight one of us dies."
In response, Georg said that he would not be able to drink it because he had too much blood in his eyes. He continued with the words: "In any case I don't drink with an enemy."
Ulrich and Georg gradually lost their hatred for one another. Ulrich told Georg that it was foolish for them to continue to fight over a strip of land that was practically worthless. He asked Georg to be his friend.
Georg agreed to be Ulrich's friend. He agreed never to hunt on Ulrich's land unless he was invited, and suggested that Ulrich could come down to his marsh to shoot wild ducks. He contemplated the surprise people would experience when they saw the two feuding families walking together in amity. They would henceforth be friends, and no interlopers could prevent it.
Each of the two men resolved to do a kindness to his new friend. If his men arrived on the scene first, he would instruct him to free his former enemy before himself.
Ulrich suggested that they call for help. After a while, Ulrich saw some figures coming through the woods. He could not see them distinctly, but there were nine or ten approaching. Georg said that they must be Ulrich's men because he had only seven with him.
The figures approached at a rapid rate. When they emerged into view, Ulrich was stricken with terror. When Georg again asked who was approaching, Ulrich said" "Wolves."
In this story, it is easy to understand that the wolves are the interlopers who frustrate the plans of the two men. Some of Saki's stories are not so transparent.
سامری (خلاصه ) داستان The Story-Teller به همراه ترجمه فارسی
مناسب برای رشته مترجمی و ادبیات زبان انگلیسی
درس بیان شفاهی داستان
قیمت 2 هزار تومان برای خلاصه و ترجمه خلاصه (فارسی) داستان کوتاه انگلیسی The Story-Teller
قیمت 3 هزار تومان برای ترجمه کامل متن داستان کوتاه انگلیسی The Story-Teller (فارسی)
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خلاصه و ترجمه خلاصه خاص و ویژه است
پیشنهاد می کنم ان را تهیه کنید
Summary of the Story The Story-Teller _ H.H Munro ,Saki
It was a hot afternoon, and the railway carriage was correspondingly sultry, and the next stop was at Templecombe, nearly an hour ahead. The occupants of the carriage were a small girl, and a smaller girl, and a small boy. An aunt belonging to the children occupied one corner seat, and the further corner seat on the opposite side was occupied by a bachelor who was a stranger to their party, but the small girls and the small boy emphatically occupied the compartment. Both the aunt and the children were conversational in a limited, persistent way, reminding one of the attentions of a housefly that refuses to be discouraged. Most of the aunt's remarks seemed to begin with "Don't," and nearly all of the children's remarks began with "Why?" The bachelor said nothing out loud. "Don't, Cyril, don't," exclaimed the aunt, as the small boy began smacking the cushions of the seat, producing a cloud of dust at each blow.
"Come and look out of the window," she added.
The child moved reluctantly to the window. "Why are those sheep being driven out of that field?" he asked.
"I expect they are being driven to another field where there is more grass," said the aunt weakly.
"But there is lots of grass in that field," protested the boy; "there's nothing else but grass there. Aunt, there's lots of grass in that field."
"Perhaps the grass in the other field is better," suggested the aunt fatuously.
"Why is it better?" came the swift, inevitable question.
"Oh, look at those cows!" exclaimed the aunt. Nearly every field along the line had contained cows or bullocks, but she spoke as though she were drawing attention to a rarity.
"Why is the grass in the other field better?" persisted Cyril.
The frown on the bachelor's face was deepening to a scowl. He was a hard, unsympathetic man, the aunt decided in her mind. She was utterly unable to come to any satisfactory decision about the grass in the other field.
The smaller girl created a diversion by beginning to recite "On the Road to Mandalay." She only knew the first line, but she put her limited knowledge to the fullest possible use. She repeated the line over and over again in a dreamy but resolute and very audible voice; it seemed to the bachelor as though some one had had a bet with her that she could not repeat the line aloud two thousand times without stopping. Whoever it was who had made the wager was likely to lose his bet.
"Come over here and listen to a story," said the aunt, when the bachelor had looked twice at her and once at the communication cord.
The children moved listlessly towards the aunt's end of the carriage. Evidently her reputation as a story- teller did not rank high in their estimation.
In a low, confidential voice, interrupted at frequent intervals by loud, petulant questionings from her listeners, she began an unenterprising and deplorably uninteresting story about a little girl who was good, and made friends with every one on account of her goodness, and was finally saved from a mad bull by a number of rescuers who admired her moral character.
"Wouldn't they have saved her if she hadn't been good?" demanded the bigger of the small girls. It was exactly the question that the bachelor had wanted to ask.
"Well, yes," admitted the aunt lamely, "but I don't think they would have run quite so fast to her help if they had not liked her so much."
"It's the stupidest story I've ever heard," said the bigger of the small girls, with immense conviction.
"I didn't listen after the first bit, it was so stupid," said Cyril.
The smaller girl made no actual comment on the story, but she had long ago recommenced a murmured repetition of her favourite line.
"You don't seem to be a success as a story-teller," said the bachelor suddenly from his corner.
The aunt bristled in instant defence at this unexpected attack.
"It's a very difficult thing to tell stories that children can both understand and appreciate," she said stiffly.
"I don't agree with you," said the bachelor.
"Perhaps you would like to tell them a story," was the aunt's retort.
"Tell us a story," demanded the bigger of the small girls.
"Once upon a time," began the bachelor, "there was a little girl called Bertha, who was extra-ordinarily good."
The children's momentarily-aroused interest began at once to flicker; all stories seemed dreadfully alike, no matter who told them.
"She did all that she was told, she was always truthful, she kept her clothes clean, ate milk puddings as though they were jam tarts, learned her lessons perfectly, and was polite in her manners."
"Was she pretty?" asked the bigger of the small girls.
"Not as pretty as any of you," said the bachelor, "but she was horribly good."
There was a wave of reaction in favour of the story; the word horrible in connection with goodness was a novelty that commended itself. It seemed to introduce a ring of truth that was absent from the aunt's tales of infant life.
"She was so good," continued the bachelor, "that she won several medals for goodness, whi
سامری (خلاصه ) داستان the Story OF THE SIX ROWS OF POMPONS به همراه ترجمه فارسیSummary
مناسب برای رشته مترجمی و ادبیات زبان انگلیسی
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هیچ جا ترجمه فارسی سامری را براتون نمی گذارند تا بتوانید بفهمین
سایر سامری ها نیز پذیرفته می شوند می توانید با کمترین هزینه سامری و خلاصه داستان دریافت کنید
When little nephew Tatsuo came to live with us he liked to do everything the adults were doing on the nursery, and although his little mind did not know it, everything he did was the opposite of adult conduct, unknowingly destructive and disturbing. So Uncle Hiroshi after witnessing several weeks of rampage said, “This has got to stop, this sawing the side of a barn and nailing the doors to see if it would open. But we must not whip him. We must not crush his curiosity by any means.”
And when Nephew Tatsuo, who was seven and in high second grade, got used to the place and began coming out into the fields and pestering us with difficult questions as “What are the plants here for? What is water? Why are the bugs made for? What are the birds and why do the birds sing?” and so on, I said to Uncle Hiroshi, “We must do something about this. We cannot answer questions all the time and we cannot be correct all the time and so we will do harm. But something must be done about this beyond a doubt.”
“Let us take him in our hands,” Uncle Hiroshi said. So Uncle Hiroshi took little Nephew Tatsuo aside, and brought him out in the fields and showed him the many rows of pompons growing. “Do you know what these are?” Uncle Hiroshi said. “These things here?”
“Yes. Very valuable,” Nephew Tatsuo said. “Plants.”
“Do you know when these plants grow up and flower, we eat?” Uncle Hiroshi said.
Nephew Tatsuo nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I knew that.”
“All right. Uncle Hiroshi will give you six rows of pompons,” Uncle Hiroshi said. “You own these six rows. You take care of them. Make them grow and flower like your uncles.”
“Gee!” Nephew Tatsuo said.
“Do you want to do it?” Uncle Hiroshi said.
“Sure!” he said.
“Then jump right in and start working,” Uncle Hiroshi said. “But first, let me tell you something.
You cannot quit once you start. You must not let it die, you must make it grow and flower like your uncles.”
“All right,” little Nephew Tatsuo said, “I will.”
“Every day you must tend to your plants. Even after the school opens, rain or shine,” Uncle Hiroshi said.
“All right,” Nephew Tatsuo said. “You’ll see!”
So the old folks once more began to work peacefully, undisturbed, and Nephew Tatsuo began to work on his plot. However, every now and then Nephew Tatsuo would run to Uncle Hiroshi with much excitement.
“Uncle Hiroshi, come!” he said. “There’s bugs on my plants! Big bugs, green bugs with black dots and some brown bugs. What shall I do?”
“They’re bad bugs,” Uncle Hiroshi said. “Spray them.”
“I have no spray,” Nephew Tatsuo said excitedly.
“All right. I will spray them for you today,” Uncle Hiroshi said. “Tomorrow I will get you a small hand spray. Then you must spray your own plants.”
Several tall grasses shot above the pompons and Uncle Hiroshi noticed this. Also, he saw the beds beginning to fill with young weeds.
“Those grasses attract the bugs,” he said. “Take them away. Keep the place clean.”
It took Nephew Tatsuo days to pick the weeds out of the six beds. And since the weeds were not picked cleanly, several weeks later it looked as if it was not touched at all. Uncle Hiroshi came around sometimes to feel the moisture in the soil. “Tatsuo,” he said, “your plants need water. Give it plenty, it is summer. Soon it will be too late.”
Nephew Tatsuo began watering his plants with the three-quarter hose.
“Don’t hold the hose long in one place and short in another,” Uncle Hiroshi said. “Keep it even and wash the leaves often.”
In October Uncle Hiroshi’s plants stood tall and straight and the buds began to appear. Nephew Tatsuo kept at it through summer and autumn, although at times he looked wearied and indifferent. And each time Nephew Tatsuo’s enthusiasm lagged, Uncle Hiroshi took him over to the six rows of pompons and appeared greatly surprised.
“Gosh,” he said, “your plants are coming up! It is growing rapidly; pretty soon the flowers will come.”
“Do you think so?” Nephew Tatsuo said.
“Sure, can’t you see it coming?” Uncle Hiroshi said. “You will have lots of flowers. When you have enough to make a bunch, I will sell it for you at the flower market.”
“Really?” Nephew Tatsuo said. “In the flower market?”
Uncle Hiroshi laughed. “Sure,” he said. “That’s where the plant business goes on, isn’t it?”
One day Nephew Tatsuo wanted an awful lot to have us play catch with him with a tennis ball. It was at the time when the nursery was the busiest and even Sundays were all work.
“Nephew Tatsuo, don’t you realize we are all men with responsibilities?” Uncle Hiroshi said. “Uncle Hiroshi has lots of work to do today. Now is the busiest time. You also have lots of work to do in your beds. And this should be your busiest time. Do you know whether your pompons are dry or wet?”
“No, Uncle Hiroshi,” he said. “I don’t quite remember.”
“Then attend to it. Attend to it,” Uncle Hiroshi said.
Nephew Tatsuo ran to the six rows of pompons to see if it was dry or wet. He came running back. “Uncle Hiroshi, it is still wet,” he said.
“All right,” Uncle Hiroshi said, “but did you see those holes in the ground with the piled-up mounds of earth?”
“Yes. They’re gopher holes,” Nephew Tatsuo said.
“Right,” Uncle Hiroshi said. “Did you catch the gopher?”'
“No,” said Nephew Tatsuo.
“Then attend to it, attend to it right away,” Uncle Hiroshi said.
One day in late October Uncle Hiroshi’s pompons began to bloom. He began to cut and bunch and take them early in the morning to the flower market in Oakland. And by this time Nephew Tatsuo was anxious to see his pompous bloom. He was anxious to see how it feels to cut the flowers of his plants. And by this time Nephew Tatsuo’s six beds of pompons looked like a patch of tall weeds left uncut through the summer. Very few pompon buds stood out above the tangle.
Few plants survived out of the six rows. In some parts of the beds where the pompons had plenty of water and freedom, the stems grew strong and tall and the buds were big and round. Then there were parts where the plants looked shriveled and the leaves were wilted and brown. The majority of the plants were dead before the cool weather arrived. Some died by dryness, some by gophers or moles, and some were dwarfed by the great big grasses which covered the pompons altogether.
When Uncle Hiroshi’s pompous began to flower, everywhere the older folks became worried.
“We must do something with Tatsuo’s six beds. It is worthless and his bugs are coming over to our beds,” Tatsuo’s father said. “Let’s cut it down and burn them today.”
“No,” said Uncle Hiroshi. “That will be a very bad thing to do. It will kill Nephew Tatsuo. Let the plants stay.”
So the six beds of Nephew Tatsuo remained intact, the grasses, the gophers, the bugs, the buds and the plants and all. Soon after, the buds began to flower and Nephew Tatsuo began to run around calling Uncle Hiroshi. He said the flowers are coming. Big ones, good ones. He wanted to know when can he cut them.
“Today,” Uncle Hiroshi said. “Cut it today and I will sell it for you at the market tomorrow.”
Next day at the flower market Uncle Hiroshi sold the bunch of Nephew Tatsuo’s pompons for twenty-five cents. When he came home Nephew Tatsuo ran to the car.
“Did you sell it, Uncle Hiroshi?” Nephew Tatsuo said.
“Sure. Why would it not sell?” Uncle Hiroshi said.
“They are healthy, carefully cultured pompons.”
Nephew Tatsuo ran around excitedly. First, he went to his father. “Papa!” he said, “someone bought my pompons!” Then he ran over to my side and said, “The bunch was sold! Uncle Hiroshi sold my pompons!”
At noontime, after the lunch was over, Uncle Hiroshi handed over the quarter to Nephew Tatsuo.
“What shall I do with this money?” asked Nephew Tatsuo, addressing all of us, with shining eyes.
“Put it in your toy bank,” said Tatsuo’s father.
“No,” said Uncle Hiroshi. “Let him do what he wants. Let him spend and have a taste of his money.”
“Do you want to spend your quarter, Nephew Tatsuo?” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“Then do anything you wish with it,” Uncle Hiroshi said. “Buy anything you want. Go and have a good time. It is your money.”
On the following Sunday we did not see Nephew Tatsuo all day. When he came back late in the afternoon Uncle Hiroshi said, “Nephew Tatsuo, what did you do today?”
“I went to a show, then I bought an ice cream cone and then on my way home I watched the baseball game at the school, and then I bought a popcorn from the candy man. I have five cents left,” Nephew Tatsuo said.
“Good,” Uncle Hiroshi said. “That shows a good spirit.”
Uncle Hiroshi, Tatsuo’s father and I sat in the shade. It was still hot in the late afternoon that day. We sat and watched Nephew Tatsuo riding around and around the yard on his red tricycle, making a furious dust.
“Next year he will forget what he is doing this year and will become a wild animal and go on a rampage again,” the father of Tatsuo said.
“Next year is not yet here,” said Uncle Hiroshi.
“Do you think he will be interested to raise pompons again?” the father said.
“He enjoys praise,” replied Uncle Hiroshi, “and he takes pride in good work well done. We will see.”
“He is beyond a doubt the worst gardener in the country,” I said. “Probably he is the worst in the world.”
“Probably,” said Uncle Hiroshi.
“Tomorrow he will forget how he enjoyed spending his year’s income,” the father of Tatsuo said.
“Let him forget,” Uncle Hiroshi said. “One year is nothing. We will keep this six rows of pompon business up till he comes to his senses.”
We sat that night the whole family of us, Uncle Hiroshi, Nephew Tatsuo’s father, I, Nephew Tatsuo and the rest, at the table and ate, and talked about the year and the prospect of the flower business, about Uncle Hiroshi’s pompon crop, and about Nephew Tatsuo’s work and, also, his unfinished work in this world.
سامری (خلاصه ) داستان Christmas Day in the Morning به همراه ترجمه فارسی
مناسب برای رشته مترجمی و ادبیات زبان انگلیسی
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Christmas Day in the Morning
by Pearl Buck
He woke suddenly and completely. It was four o'clock, the hour at which his father had always called him to get up and help with the milking. Strange how the habits of his youth clung to him still! Fifty years ago, and his father had been dead for thirty years, and yet he woke at four o'clock in the morning. He had trained himself to turn over and go to sleep, but this morning, because it was Christmas, he did not try to sleep.
Yet what was the magic of Christmas now? His childhood and youth were long past, and his own children had grown up and gone. Some of them lived only a few miles away but they had their own families, and though they would come in as usual toward the end of the day, they had explained with infinite gentleness that they wanted their children to build Christmas memories about their houses, not his. He was left alone with his wife.
Yesterday she had said, "It isn't worthwhile, perhaps—"
And he had said, "Oh, yes, Alice, even if there are only the two of us, let's have a Christmas of our own."
Then she had said, "Let's not trim the tree until tomorrow, Robert—just so it's ready when the children come. I'm tired."
He had agreed, and the tree was still out in the back entry.
Why did he feel so awake tonight? It was, after all, a still night, a clear and starry night. There was no moon, of course, but the stars were extraordinary! Now that he thought of it, the stars always seemed large and clear before the dawn of Christmas Day. There was one star now that was certainly larger and brighter than any of the others. He could even imagine it moving, as it had seemed to him to move one night long ago.
He slipped back in time, as he did so easily nowadays. He was fifteen years old and still on his father's farm. He loved his father. He had not known it until one day a few days before Christmas, when he had overheard what his father was saying to his mother.
Our story so far: Rob wakes up early on Christmas morning and remembers one Christmas long ago, when he was 15. He overhears his mother and father talking.
Christmas Day in the Morning, Part 2: A Special Present
"Mary, I hate to call Rob in the morning. He's growing so fast and he needs his sleep. If you could see how he sleeps when I go in to wake him up! I wish I could manage alone.
"Well, you can't, Adam." His mother's voice was brisk. "Besides, he isn't a child anymore. It's time he took his turn."
"Yes," his father said slowly, "but I really don't want to wake him."
When he heard these words, something in him woke—his father loved him! He had never thought of it before, taking for granted. the tie of their blood. Neither his father nor his mother talked about loving their children—they had no time for such things. There was always so much to do on a farm.
Now that he knew his father loved him, there would be no more wasting time in the mornings and having to be called again. He got up after that, stumbling blind with sleep, and pulled on his clothes, his eyes tight shut, but he got up.
And then on the night before Christmas, that year when he was fifteen, he lay for a few minutes thinking about the next day. They were poor, and most of the excitement was in the turkey they had raised themselves and in the mince pies his mother made. His sisters sewed presents and his mother and father always bought something he needed, not only a warm jacket, maybe, but something more, such as a book. And he saved and bought them each something, too.
He wished, that Christmas he was fifteen, he had a better present for his father. As usual he had gone to the ten-cent store and bought a tie. It had seemed nice enough until he lay thinking the night before Christmas, and then he wished that he had heard his father and mother talking in time to save for something better.
He lay on his side, his head supported by his elbows, and looked out of his attic window. The stars were bright, much brighter than he ever remembered seeing them, and one star in particular was so bright that he wondered if it were really the Star of Bethlehem.
"Dad," he had once asked when he was a little boy, "what is a stable?"
"It's just a barn," his father had replied, "like ours."
Then Jesus Christ had been born in a barn and to a barn the shepherds and the wise men had come, bringing their Christmas gifts!
The thought struck him like a silver dagger. He could also give his father a special gift, out there in the barn! HE could get up early, earlier than four o'clock, and he could go into the barn and do all the milking. He'd do it alone, milk and clean up, and then when his father went in to start the milking, he'd see it all done. And he would know who had done it.
He must have woken twenty times, scratching a match each time to look at his old watch—midnight, and half past one, and then two o'clock.
At a quarter to three he got up and put on his clothes. He crept downstairs, careful of the creaky boards, and let himself out. The big star hung lower over the barn roof, a reddish gold. The cows looked at him, sleepy and surprised. It was early for them, too.
"So, Boss," he whispered. They accepted him placidly and he fetched some hay for each cow and then got the milking pail and the big milk cans.
He had never milked all alone before, but it seemed almost easy. He kept thinking about his father's surprise. He father would come in and call him, saying that he would start while Rob was getting dressed. He'd go to the barn, open the door, and then he'd go to get the two big empty milk cans. But they wouldn't be waiting or empty; they'd be standing in the milkhouse, filled with milk.
"What in the world?" he could hear his father exclaiming.
He smiled and milked steadily, two strong streams rushing into the bucket, bubbly and fragrant. The cows were still surprised but acquiescent. For once they were behaving well, as though they knew it was Christmas.
The task went more easily than he had ever known it to before. Milking for once was not a chore. It was something else, a gift to his father that loved him. He finished, the two milk cans were full, and he covered them and closed the milkhouse door carefully, making sure the latch was closed. He put the stool in its place by the door and hung up the clean milk pail. Then he went out of the barn and locked the door behind him.
پ@
Our story so far: Rob has awakened early on Christmas morning and is thinking about an unusual Christmas present for his father long ago.
Christmas Day in the Morning, Part 3: The Best Ever
Back in his room he had only a minute to pull off his clothes in the darkness and jump into bed, for he heard his father.
"Rob!" his father called. "We have to get up, Son, even if it is Christmas."
"OK," he said sleepily.
"I'll go ahead," his father said. "I'll get things started."
The door closed and he lay still, laughing to himself. In just a few minutes his father would know. His dancing heart was ready to jump from his body.
The minutes were endless—ten, fifteen, he did not know how many—and then he heard his father's footsteps again. The door opened and he lay still.
"Rob!"
"Yes, Dad—"
"You rascal!" His father was laughing, a queer, sobbing sort of laugh. "Thought you'd fool me, did you?" His father was standing beside his bed, feeling for him, pulling away the blanket.
"It's for Christmas, Dad!"
He found his father and clutched him in a great hug. He felt his father's arms go around him. It was dark and they could not see each other's faces.
"Son, I thank you. Nobody ever did a nicer thing—"
"Oh, Dad, I want you to know—I do want to be good!" The words broke from him of their own will. He did not know what to say. His heart was bursting with love.
"Well, I reckon I can go back to bed and sleep," his father said after a moment. "No, hark—the little ones are waking up. Come to think of it, Son, I've never seen you children when you first saw the Christmas tree. I was always in the barn. Come on!"
Rob got up and pulled on his clothes again and they went down to the Christmas tree, and soon the sun was creeping up to where the star had been. Oh, what a Christmas, and how his heart had nearly burst again with shyness and pride as his father told his mother and made the younger children listen about how he, Rob, had gotten up all by himself.
"The best Christmas gift I ever had, and I'll remember it, Son, every year on Christmas morning, so long as I live."
پ@
(50 years later)
They had both remembered it, and now that his father was dead he remembered it alone: that special Christmas dawn when, alone with the cows in the barn, he had made his first gift of true love.
Outside the window now the great star slowly sank. He got up out of the bed, put on his slippers and bathrobe, and went softly upstairs to the attic to find the box of Christmas tree decorations. He took them downstairs into the living room. Then he brought in the tree. It was a little one—they had not had a big tree since the children went away—but he set it in the holder and then on the long table under the window. Then carefully he began to trim it.
It was dawn very soon, the time passing as quickly as it had that morning long ago in the barn. He went to his library and fetched the little box that contained his special gift to this wife, a star of diamonds, not large but dainty in design. He had written the card for it the day before. He tied the gift on the tree and then stood back. It was pretty, very pretty, and she would be surprised.
However, he was not satisfied. He wanted to tell her—to tell her how much he loved her. It had been a long time since he had really told her, although he loved her in a very special way, much more than when they were young.
He had been fortunate that she had loved him—and how fortunate that he had been able to love. Ah, that was the true joy of life, the ability to love! He was quite sure that some people were genuinely unable to love anyone, but love was alive in him, it still was.
It occurred to him suddenly that it was alive because long ago it had been born in him when he knew his father loved him. That was it: love alone could awaken love.
And he could give the gift again and again. This morning, this wonderful Christmas morning, he would give it to his beloved wife. He could write it down in a letter for her to read and keep forever. He went to his desk and began his love letter to his wife: My dearest love...
When it was finished, he sealed it and tied it on the tree where she would see it the first thing when she came into the room. She would read it, surprised and then moved, and realize how very much he loved her.
He turned off the light and went tiptoeing up the stairs. The star in the sky was gone, and the first rays of the sun were gleaming in the sky. Such a happy, happy Christmas.
