童话故事英文版丑小鸭,丑小鸭英文版原版视频

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One evening, the sun was just setting in with true splendor when 1)a flock of beautiful large birds appeared out of the bushes. The duckling had never seen anything so beautiful. They were dazzlingly white with long waving necks. They were swans and uttering a peculiar cry. They spread out their magnificent broad wings and flew away from the cold regions toward warmer lands and open seas.

They 2)mounted so high, so very high, and the ugly little duckling became strangely uneasy. He circled around and around in the water like a wheel, 3)craning his neck out into the air after them. Then he uttered the shriek so 4)piercing and so strange that he was quite frightened by himself. Oh, he could not forget those beautiful birds, those happy birds and as soon as they were out of sight. He 5)ducked right down to the bottom and when he came up again, he was quite beside himself. He did not know what the birds were or where’

d they flew. But all the same, he was more drawn towards them than he had ever been by any creatures before. He did not envy them in the least. How could it occur to him even to wish to be such a marvelous beautyHe wouldn’t be thankful if only the ducks would have tolerated him among them, the poor ugly creature.

Early in the morning, a peasant came along and saw him, he went out onto the ice and hammered a hole in it with his heavy wooden shoe, and carried the duckling home to his wife. There, it soon 6)revived. The children wanted to play with it. But the duckling thought they were going to ill use him and rushed in and he frightened to the milk-pan, and the milk 7)spurted out all over the room. The woman shrieked and threw up her hands. Then it flew to the butter-cask and down into the meal-tub and out again. Oh, just imagine what it looked like by this time. The woman screamed and tried to hit it with the 8)tongs, and the children 9)tumbled over one another in trying to catch it, and they screamed with laughter.

By good luck, the door stood open and the duckling flew out among the bushes and the new fallen snow. And it lay there, thoroughly exhausted, but it would be too sad to mention all the privation and misery had to go through during that hard winter. When the sun began to shine warmly again, the duckling was in a marsh, lying among the rushes. The larks were singing, and the beautiful spring had come. Then all at once, it raised its wings and they flapped with much greater strength than before and bore him off vigorously. Before he knew where he was, he found himself in a large garden with the apple trees were in full blossom. And the air was scentedly with lilacs, the long branches of which overhung the indented shores of the lake. Oh, the spring freshness was so delicious. Just in front of him, he saw three beautiful white swans advancing towards him from a 10)thicket. With 11)rustling feathers, they swam lightly over the water. The duckling recognized the majestic birds, and he was overcome by a strange melancholy.

“I will fly to them, the royal birds, and they will hack me to pieces because I who am so ugly venture to approach them. But it won’t matter. Better to be killed by them than be snacked up by the ducks, 12)pecked by the hens, or 13)spurned by the hen wife, or suffer so much misery in the winter.” So he flew into the water and swam towards the stately swans. They saw him and darted toward him with ruffled feathers. “Kill me, oh, kill me.” said the poor creature. And bowing his head towards the water, he awaited his death. But what did he seeReflected in the transparent water, he saw below him his own image, but he was no longer a clumsy dark gray bird, ugly and ungainly. He was himself, a swan.

ALL the songs of the east speak of the love of the nightingale for the rose in the silent starlight night. The winged songster serenades the fragrant flowers.

Not far from Smyrna, where the merchant drives his loaded camels, proudly arching their long necks as they journey beneath the lofty pines over holy ground, I saw a hedge of roses. The turtle-dove flew among the branches of the tall trees, and as the sunbeams fell upon her wings, they glistened as if they were mother-of-pearl. On the rose-bush GREw a flower, more beautiful than them all, and to her the nightingale sung of his woes; but the rose remained silent, not even a dewdrop lay like a tear of sympathy on her leaves. At last she bowed her head over a heap of stones, and said, "Here rests the greatest singer in the world; over his tomb will I spread my fragrance, and on it I will let my leaves fall when the storm scatters them. He who sung of Troy became earth, and from that earth I have sprung. I, a rose from the grave of Homer, am too lofty to bloom for a nightingale." Then the nightingale sung himself to death. A camel-driver came by, with his loaded camels and his black slaves; his little son found the dead bird, and buried the lovely songster in the grave of the great Homer, while the rose trembled in the wind.

The evening came, and the rose wrapped her leaves more closely round her, and dreamed: and this was her dream.

It was a fair sunshiny day; a crowd of strangers drew near who had undertaken a pilgrimage to the grave of Homer. Among the strangers was a minstrel from the north, the home of the clouds and the brilliant lights of the aurora borealis. He plucked the rose and placed it in a book, and carried it away into a distant part of the world, his fatherland. The rose faded with grief, and lay between the leaves of the book, which he opened in his own home, saying, "Here is a rose from the grave of Homer."

Then the flower awoke from her dream, and trembled in the wind. A drop of dew fell from the leaves upon the singer's grave. The sun rose, and the flower bloomed more beautiful than ever. The day was hot, and she was still in her own warm Asia. Then footsteps approached, strangers, such as the rose had seen in her dream, came by, and among them was a poet from the north; he plucked the rose, pressed a kiss upon her fresh mouth, and carried her away to the home of the clouds and the northern lights. Like a mummy, the flower now rests in his "Iliad," and, as in her dream, she hears him say, as he opens the book, "Here is a rose from the grave of Homer."

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