《【儿童英文读物】The Lost Prince.docx》由会员分享，可在线阅读，更多相关《【儿童英文读物】The Lost Prince.docx（198页珍藏版）》请在taowenge.com淘文阁网|工程机械CAD图纸|机械工程制图|CAD装配图下载|SolidWorks_CaTia_CAD_UG_PROE_设计图分享下载上搜索。
1、【儿童英文读物】The Lost PrinceI THE NEW LODGERS AT NO. 7 PHILIBERT PLACE There are many dreary and dingy rows of ugly houses in certain parts of London, but there certainly could not be any row more ugly or dingier than Philibert Place. There were stories that it had once been more attractive, but that had
2、 been so long ago that no one remembered the time. It stood back in its gloomy, narrow strips of uncared-for, smoky gardens, whose broken iron railings were supposed to protect it from the surging traffic of a road which was always roaring with the rattle of busses, cabs, drays, and vans, and the pa
3、ssing of people who were shabbily dressed and looked as if they were either going to hard work or coming from it, or hurrying to see if they could find some of it to do to keep themselves from going hungry. The brick fronts of the houses were blackened with smoke, their windows were nearly all dirty
4、 and hung with dingy curtains, or had no curtains at all; the strips of ground, which had once been intended to grow flowers in, had been trodden down into bare earth in which even weeds had forgotten to grow. One of them was used as a stone-cutters yard, and cheap monuments, crosses, and slates wer
5、e set out for sale, bearing inscriptions beginning with Sacred to the Memory of. Another had piles of old lumber in it, another exhibited second-hand furniture, chairs with unsteady legs, sofas with horsehair stuffing bulging out of holes in their covering, mirrors with blotches or cracks in them. T
6、he insides of the houses were as gloomy as the outside. They were all exactly alike. In each a dark entrance passage led to narrow stairs going up to bedrooms, and to narrow steps going down to a basement kitchen. The back bedroom looked out on small, sooty, flagged yards, where thin cats quarreled,
7、 or sat on the coping of the brick walls hoping that sometime they might feel the sun; the front rooms looked over the noisy road, and through their windows came the roar and rattle of it. It was shabby and cheerless on the brightest days, and on foggy or rainy ones it was the most forlorn place in
8、London. At least that was what one boy thought as he stood near the iron railings watching the passers-by on the morning on which this story begins, which was also the morning after he had been brought by his father to live as a lodger in the back sitting-room of the house No. 7. He was a boy about
9、twelve years old, his name was Marco Loristan, and he was the kind of boy people look at a second time when they have looked at him once. In the first place, he was a very big boytall for his years, and with a particularly strong frame. His shoulders were broad and his arms and legs were long and po
10、werful. He was quite used to hearing people say, as they glanced at him, What a fine, big lad! And then they always looked again at his face. It was not an English face or an American one, and was very dark in coloring. His features were strong, his black hair grew on his head like a mat, his eyes w
11、ere large and deep set, and looked out between thick, straight, black lashes. He was as un-English a boy as one could imagine, and an observing person would have been struck at once by a sort of SILENT look expressed by his whole face, a look which suggested that he was not a boy who talked much. Th
12、is look was specially noticeable this morning as he stood before the iron railings. The things he was thinking of were of a kind likely to bring to the face of a twelve-year-old boy an unboyish expression. He was thinking of the long, hurried journey he and his father and their old soldier servant,
13、Lazarus, had made during the last few daysthe journey from Russia. Cramped in a close third-class railway carriage, they had dashed across the Continent as if something important or terrible were driving them, and here they were, settled in London as if they were going to live forever at No. 7 Phili
14、bert Place. He knew, however, that though they might stay a year, it was just as probable that, in the middle of some night, his father or Lazarus might waken him from his sleep and say, Get updress yourself quickly. We must go at once. A few days later, he might be in St. Petersburg, Berlin, Vienna
15、, or Budapest, huddled away in some poor little house as shabby and comfortless as No. 7 Philibert Place. He passed his hand over his forehead as he thought of it and watched the busses. His strange life and his close association with his father had made him much older than his years, but he was onl
16、y a boy, after all, and the mystery of things sometimes weighed heavily upon him, and set him to deep wondering. In not one of the many countries he knew had he ever met a boy whose life was in the least like his own. Other boys had homes in which they spent year after year; they went to school regu
17、larly, and played with other boys, and talked openly of the things which happened to them, and the journeys they made. When he remained in a place long enough to make a few boy-friends, he knew he must never forget that his whole existence was a sort of secret whose safety depended upon his own sile
18、nce and discretion. This was because of the promises he had made to his father, and they had been the first thing he remembered. Not that he had ever regretted anything connected with his father. He threw his black head up as he thought of that. None of the other boys had such a father, not one of t
19、hem. His father was his idol and his chief. He had scarcely ever seen him when his clothes had not been poor and shabby, but he had also never seen him when, despite his worn coat and frayed linen, he had not stood out among all others as more distinguished than the most noticeable of them. When he
20、walked down a street, people turned to look at him even oftener than they turned to look at Marco, and the boy felt as if it was not merely because he was a big man with a handsome, dark face, but because he looked, somehow, as if he had been born to command armies, and as if no one would think of d
21、isobeying him. Yet Marco had never seen him command any one, and they had always been poor, and shabbily dressed, and often enough ill-fed. But whether they were in one country or another, and whatsoever dark place they seemed to be hiding in, the few people they saw treated him with a sort of defer
22、ence, and nearly always stood when they were in his presence, unless he bade them sit down. It is because they know he is a patriot, and patriots are respected, the boy had told himself. He himself wished to be a patriot, though he had never seen his own country of Samavia. He knew it well, however.
23、 His father had talked to him about it ever since that day when he had made the promises. He had taught him to know it by helping him to study curious detailed maps of itmaps of its cities, maps of its mountains, maps of its roads. He had told him stories of the wrongs done its people, of their suff
24、erings and struggles for liberty, and, above all, of their unconquerable courage. When they talked together of its history, Marcos boy-blood burned and leaped in his veins, and he always knew, by the look in his fathers eyes, that his blood burned also. His countrymen had been killed, they had been
25、robbed, they had died by thousands of cruelties and starvation, but their souls had never been conquered, and, through all the years during which more powerful nations crushed and enslaved them, they never ceased to struggle to free themselves and stand unfettered as Samavians had stood centuries be
26、fore. Why do we not live there, Marco had cried on the day the promises were made. Why do we not go back and fight? When I am a man, I will be a soldier and die for Samavia. We are of those who must LIVE for Samaviaworking day and night, his father had answered; denying ourselves, training our bodie
27、s and souls, using our brains, learning the things which are best to be done for our people and our country. Even exiles may be Samavian soldiersI am one, you must be one. Are we exiles? asked Marco. Yes, was the answer. But even if we never set foot on Samavian soil, we must give our lives to it. I
28、 have given mine since I was sixteen. I shall give it until I die. Have you never lived there? said Marco. A strange look shot across his fathers face. No, he answered, and said no more. Marco watching him, knew he must not ask the question again. The next words his father said were about the promis
29、es. Marco was quite a little fellow at the time, but he understood the solemnity of them, and felt that he was being honored as if he were a man. When you are a man, you shall know all you wish to know, Loristan said. Now you are a child, and your mind must not be burdened. But you must do your part
30、. A child sometimes forgets that words may be dangerous. You must promise never to forget this. Wheresoever you are; if you have playmates, you must remember to be silent about many things. You must not speak of what I do, or of the people who come to see me. You must not mention the things in your
31、life which make it different from the lives of other boys. You must keep in your mind that a secret exists which a chance foolish word might betray. You are a Samavian, and there have been Samavians who have died a thousand deaths rather than betray a secret. You must learn to obey without question,
32、 as if you were a soldier. Now you must take your oath of allegiance. He rose from his seat and went to a corner of the room. He knelt down, turned back the carpet, lifted a plank, and took something from beneath it. It was a sword, and, as he came back to Marco, he drew it out from its sheath. The
33、childs strong, little body stiffened and drew itself up, his large, deep eyes flashed. He was to take his oath of allegiance upon a sword as if he were a man. He did not know that his small hand opened and shut with a fierce understanding grip because those of his blood had for long centuries past c
34、arried swords and fought with them. Loristan gave him the big bared weapon, and stood erect before him. Repeat these words after me sentence by sentence! he commanded. And as he spoke them Marco echoed each one loudly and clearly. The sword in my handfor Samavia! The heart in my breastfor Samavia! T
35、he swiftness of my sight, the thought of my brain, the life of my lifefor Samavia. Here grows a man for Samavia. God be thanked! Then Loristan put his hand on the childs shoulder, and his dark face looked almost fiercely proud. From this hour, he said, you and I are comrades at arms. And from that d
36、ay to the one on which he stood beside the broken iron railings of No. 7 Philibert Place, Marco had not forgotten for one hour.II A YOUNG CITIZEN OF THE WORLD He had been in London more than once before, but not to the lodgings in Philibert Place. When he was brought a second or third time to a town
37、 or city, he always knew that the house he was taken to would be in a quarter new to him, and he should not see again the people he had seen before. Such slight links of acquaintance as sometimes formed themselves between him and other children as shabby and poor as himself were easily broken. His f
38、ather, however, had never forbidden him to make chance acquaintances. He had, in fact, told him that he had reasons for not wishing him to hold himself aloof from other boys. The only barrier which must exist between them must be the barrier of silence concerning his wanderings from country to count
39、ry. Other boys as poor as he was did not make constant journeys, therefore they would miss nothing from his boyish talk when he omitted all mention of his. When he was in Russia, he must speak only of Russian places and Russian people and customs. When he was in France, Germany, Austria, or England,
40、 he must do the same thing. When he had learned English, French, German, Italian, and Russian he did not know. He had seemed to grow up in the midst of changing tongues which all seemed familiar to him, as languages are familiar to children who have lived with them until one scarcely seems less fami
41、liar than another. He did remember, however, that his father had always been unswerving in his attention to his pronunciation and method of speaking the language of any country they chanced to be living in. You must not seem a foreigner in any country, he had said to him. It is necessary that you sh
42、ould not. But when you are in England, you must not know French, or German, or anything but English. Once, when he was seven or eight years old, a boy had asked him what his fathers work was. His own father is a carpenter, and he asked me if my father was one, Marco brought the story to Loristan. I
43、said you were not. Then he asked if you were a shoemaker, and another one said you might be a bricklayer or a tailorand I didnt know what to tell them. He had been out playing in a London street, and he put a grubby little hand on his fathers arm, and clutched and almost fiercely shook it. I wanted
44、to say that you were not like their fathers, not at all. I knew you were not, though you were quite as poor. You are not a bricklayer or a shoemaker, but a patriotyou could not be only a bricklayeryou! He said it grandly and with a queer indignation, his black head held up and his eyes angry. Lorist
45、an laid his hand against his mouth. Hush! hush! he said. Is it an insult to a man to think he may be a carpenter or make a good suit of clothes? If I could make our clothes, we should go better dressed. If I were a shoemaker, your toes would not be making their way into the world as they are now. He
46、 was smiling, but Marco saw his head held itself high, too, and his eyes were glowing as he touched his shoulder. I know you did not tell them I was a patriot, he ended. What was it you said to them? I remembered that you were nearly always writing and drawing maps, and I said you were a writer, but
47、 I did not know what you wroteand that you said it was a poor trade. I heard you say that once to Lazarus. Was that a right thing to tell them? Yes. You may always say it if you are asked. There are poor fellows enough who write a thousand different things which bring them little money. There is not
48、hing strange in my being a writer. So Loristan answered him, and from that time if, by any chance, his fathers means of livelihood were inquired into, it was simple enough and true enough to say that he wrote to earn his bread. In the first days of strangeness to a new place, Marco often walked a gr
49、eat deal. He was strong and untiring, and it amused him to wander through unknown streets, and look at shops, and houses, and people. He did not confine himself to the great thoroughfares, but liked to branch off into the side streets and odd, deserted-looking squares, and even courts and alleyways. He often stopped to watch workmen and talk