高中生经典英文小说阅读欣赏与写作系列 The Father

The Affair at Coulter's Notchby Ambrose Bierce"Do you think, Colonel, that your brave Coulter would like to put one of his guns in here?" the general asked.He was apparently not altogether serious; it certainly did not seem a place where any artillerist, however brave, would like to put a gun. The colonel thought that possibly his division commander meant good-humoredly to intimate that in a recent conversation between them Captain Coulter's courage had been too highly extolled."General," he replied warmly, "Coulter would like to put a gun anywhere within reach of those people," with a motion of his hand in the direction of the enemy."It is the only place," said the general. He was serious, then.The place was a depression, a "notch," in the sharp crest of a hill. It was a pass, and through it ran a turnpike, which reaching this highest point in its course by a sinuous ascent through a thin forest made a similar, though less steep, descent toward the enemy. For a mile to the left and a mile to the right, the ridge, though occupied by Federal infantry lying close behind the sharp crest and appearing as if held in place by atmospheric pressure, was inaccessible to artillery. There was no place but the bottom of the notch, and that was barely wide enough for the roadbed. From the Confederate side this point was commanded by two batteries posted on a slightly lower elevation beyond a creek, and a half-mile away. All the guns but one were masked by the trees of an orchard; that one--it seemed a bit of impudence--was on an open lawn directly in front of a rather grandiose building, the planter's dwelling. The gun was safe enough in its exposure--but only because the Federal infantry had been forbidden to fire. Coulter's Notch--it came to be called so--was not, that pleasant summer afternoon, a place where one would "like to put a gun."Three or four dead horses lay there sprawling in the road, three or four dead men in a trim row at one side of it, and a little back, down the hill. All but one were cavalrymen belonging to the Federal advance. One was a quartermaster. The general commanding the division and the colonel commanding the brigade, with their staffs and escorts, had ridden into the notch to have a look at the enemy's guns--which had straightway obscured themselves in towering clouds of smoke. It was hardly profitable to be curious about guns which had the trick of the cuttle-fish, and the season of observation had been brief. At its conclusion--a short remove backward from where it began--occurred the conversation already partly reported."It is the only place," the general repeated thoughtfully, "to get at them."The colonel looked at him gravely. "There is room for only one gun, General--one against twelve.""That is true--for only one at a time," said the commander with something like, yet not altogether like, a smile. "But then, your brave Coulter--a whole battery in himself."The tone of irony was now unmistakable. It angered the colonel, but he did not know what to say. The spirit of military subordination is not favorable to retort, nor even to deprecation.At this moment a young officer of artillery came riding slowly up the road attended by his bugler. It was Captain Coulter. He could not have been more than twenty-three years of age. He was of medium height, but very slender and lithe, and sat his horse with something of the air of a civilian. In face he was of a type singularly unlike the men about him; thin, high-nosed, gray-eyed, with a slight blond mustache, and long, rather straggling hair of the same color. There was an apparent negligence in his attire. His cap was worn with the visor a trifle askew; his coat was buttoned only at the sword-belt, showing a considerable expanse of white shirt, tolerably clean for that stage of the campaign. But the negligence was all in his dress and bearing; in his face was a look of intense interest in his surroundings. His gray eyes, which seemed occasionally to strike right and left across the landscape, like search-lights, were for the most part fixed upon the sky beyond the Notch; until he should arrive at the summit of the road there was nothing else in that direction to see. As he came opposite his division and brigade commanders at the road-side he saluted mechanically and was about to pass on. The colonel signed to him to halt."Captain Coulter," he said, "the enemy has twelve pieces over there on the next ridge. If I rightly understand the general, he directs that you bring up a gun and engage them."There was a blank silence; the general looked stolidly at a distant regiment swarming slowly up the hill through rough undergrowth, like a torn and draggled cloud of blue smoke; the captain appeared not to have observed him. Presently the captain spoke, slowly and with apparent effort:"On the next ridge, did you say, sir? Are the guns near the house?""Ah, you have been over this road before. Directly at the house.""And it is--necessary--to engage them? The order is imperative?"His voice was husky and broken. He was visibly paler. The colonel was astonished and mortified. He stole a glance at the commander. In that set, immobile face was no sign; it was as hard as bronze. A moment later the general rode away, followed by his staff and escort. The colonel, humiliated and indignant, was aboutto order Captain Coulter in arrest, when the latter spoke a few words in a low tone to his bugler, saluted, and rode straight forward into the Notch, where, presently, at the summit of the road, his field-glass at his eyes, he showed against the sky, he and his horse, sharply defined and statuesque. The bugler had dashed down the speed and disappeared behind a wood. Presently his bugle was heard singing in the cedars, and in an incredibly short time a single gun with its caisson, each drawn by six horses and manned by its full complement of gunners, came bounding and banging up the grade in a storm of dust, unlimbered under cover, and was run forward by hand to the fatal crest among the dead horses. A gesture of the captain's arm, some strangely agile movements of the men in loading, and almost before the troops along the way had ceased to hear the rattle of the wheels, a great white cloud sprang forward down the slope, and with a deafening report the affair at Coulter's Notch had begun.It is not intended to relate in detail the progress and incidents of that ghastly contest--a contest without vicissitudes, its alternations only different degrees of despair. Almost at the instant when Captain Coulter's gun blew its challenging cloud twelve answering clouds rolled upward from among the trees about the plantation house, a deep multiple report roared back like a broken echo, and thenceforth to the end the Federal cannoneers fought their hopeless battle in an atmosphere of living iron whose thoughts were lightnings and whose deeds were death.Unwilling to see the efforts which he could not aid and the slaughter which he could not stay, the colonel ascended the ridge at a point a quarter of a mile to the left, whence the Notch, itself invisible, but pushing up successive masses of smoke, seemed the crater of a volcano in thundering eruption. With his glass he watched the enemy's guns, noting as he could the effects of Coulter's fire--if Coulter still lived to direct it. He saw that the Federal gunners, ignoring those of the enemy's pieces whose positions could be determined by their smoke only, gave their whole attention to the one that maintained its place in the open--the lawn in front of the house. Over and about that hardy piece the shells exploded at intervals of a few seconds. Some exploded in the house, as could be seen by thin ascensions of smoke from the breached roof. Figures of prostrate men and horses were plainly visible."If our fellows are doing so good work with a single gun," said the colonel to an aide who happened to be nearest, "they must be suffering like the devil from twelve. Go down and present the commander of that piece with my congratulations on the accuracy of his fire."Turning to his adjutant-general he said, "Did you observe Coulter's damned reluctance to obey orders?""Yes, sir, I did.""Well, say nothing about it, please. I don't think the general will care to make any accusations. He will probably have enough to do in explaining his own connection with this uncommon way of amusing the rear-guard of a retreating enemy."A young officer approached from below, climbing breathless up the acclivity. Almost before he had saluted, he gasped out:"Colonel, I am directed by Colonel Harmon to say that the enemy's guns are within easy reach of our rifles, and most of them visible from several points along the ridge."The brigade commander looked at him without a trace of interest in his expression. "I know it," he said quietly.The young adjutant was visibly embarrassed. "Colonel Harmon would like to have permission to silence those guns," he stammered."So should I," the colonel said in the same tone. "Present my compliments to Colonel Harmon and say to him that the general's orders for the infantry not to fire are still in force."The adjutant saluted and retired. The colonel ground his heel into the earth and turned to look again at the enemy's guns."Colonel," said the adjutant-general, "I don't know that I ought to say anything, but there is something wrong in all this. Do you happen to know that Captain Coulter is from the South?""No; was he, indeed?""I heard that last summer the division which the general then commanded was in the vicinity of Coulter's home--camped there for weeks, and--""Listen!" said the colonel, interrupting with an upward gesture. "Do you hear that?""That" was the silence of the Federal gun. The staff, the orderlies, the lines of infantry behind the crest--all had "heard," and were looking curiously in the direction of the crater, whence no smoke now ascended except desultory cloudlets from the enemy's shells. Then came the blare of a bugle, a faint rattle of wheels; a minute later the sharp reports recommenced with double activity. The demolished gun had been replaced with a sound one."Yes," said the adjutant-general, resuming his narrative, "the general made the acquaintance of Coulter's family. There was trouble--I don't know the exact nature of it--something about Coulter's wife. She is a red-hot Secessionist, as they all are, except Coulter himself, but she is a good wife and high-bred lady. There was a complaint to army headquarters. The general was transferred to this division. It is odd that Coulter's battery should afterward have been assigned to it."The colonel had risen from the rock upon which they had been sitting. His eyeswere blazing with a generous indignation."See here, Morrison," said he, looking his gossiping staff officer straight in the face, "did you get that story from a gentleman or a liar?""I don't want to say how I got it, Colonel, unless it is necessary"--he was blushing a trifle--"but I'll stake my life upon its truth in the main."The colonel turned toward a small knot of officers some distance away. "Lieutenant Williams!" he shouted.One of the officers detached himself from the group and coming forward saluted, saying: "Pardon me, Colonel, I thought you had been informed. Williams is dead down there by the gun. What can I do, sir?"Lieutenant Williams was the aide who had had the pleasure of conveying to the officer in charge of the gun his brigade commander's congratulations."Go," said the colonel, "and direct the withdrawal of that gun instantly. No--I'll go myself."He strode down the declivity toward the rear of the Notch at a break-neck pace, over rocks and through brambles, followed by his little retinue in tumultuous disorder. At the foot of the declivity they mounted their waiting animals and took to the road at a lively trot, round a bend and into the Notch. The spectacle which they encountered there was appalling!Within that defile, barely broad enough for a single gun, were piled the wrecks of no fewer than four. They had noted the silencing of only the last one disabled--there had been a lack of men to replace it quickly with another. The dbris lay on both sides of the road; the men had managed to keep an open way between, through which the fifth piece was now firing. The men?--they looked like demons of the pit! All were hatless, all stripped to the waist, their reeking skins black with blotches of powder and spattered with gouts of blood. They worked like madmen, with rammer and cartridge, lever and lanyard. They set their swollen shoulders and bleeding hands against the wheels at each recoil and heaved the heavy gun back to its place. There were no commands; in that awful environment of whooping shot, exploding shells, shrieking fragments of iron, and flying splinters of wood, none could have been heard. Officers, if officers there were, were indistinguishable; all worked together--each while he lasted--governed by the eye. When the gun was sponged, it was loaded; when loaded, aimed and fired. The colonel observed something new to his military experience--something horrible and unnatural: the gun was bleeding at the mouth! In temporary default of water, the man sponging had dipped his sponge into a pool of comrade's blood. In all this work there was no clashing; the duty of the instant was obvious. When one fell, another, looking a trifle cleaner, seemed to rise from the earth in the dead man's tracks, to fall in his turn.With the ruined guns lay the ruined men--alongside the wreckage, under it and atop of it; and back down the road--a ghastly procession!--crept on hands and knees such of the wounded as were able to move. The colonel--he had compassionately sent his cavalcade to the right about-- had to ride over those who were entirely dead in order not to crush those who were partly alive. Into that hell he tranquilly held his way, rode up alongside the gun, and, in the obscurity of the last discharge, tapped upon the cheek the man holding the rammer--who straightway fell, thinking himself killed. A fiend seven times damned sprang out of the smoke to take his place, but paused and gazed up at the mounted officer with an unearthly regard, his teeth flashing between his black lips, his eyes, fierce and expanded, burning like coals beneath his bloody brow. The colonel made an authoritative gesture and pointed to the rear. The fiend bowed in token of obedience. It was Captain Coulter.Simultaneously with the colonel's arresting sign, silence fell upon the whole field of action. The procession of missiles no longer streamed into that defile of death, for the enemy also had ceased firing. His army had been gone for hours, and the commander of his rear-guard, who had held his position perilously long in hope to silence the Federal fire, at that strange moment had silenced his own. "I was not aware of the breadth of my authority," said the colonel to anybody, riding forward to the crest to see what had really happened. An hour later his brigade was in bivouac on the enemy's ground, and its idlers were examining, with something of awe, as the faithful inspect a saint's relics, a score of straddling dead horses and three disabled guns, all spiked. The fallen men had been carried away; their torn and broken bodies would have given too great satisfaction.Naturally, the colonel established himself and his military family in the plantation house. It was somewhat shattered, but it was better than the open air. The furniture was greatly deranged and broken. Walls and ceilings were knocked away here and there, and a lingering odor of powder smoke was everywhere. The beds, the closets of women's clothing, the cupboards were not greatly dam-aged. The new tenants for a night made themselves comfortable, and the virtual effacement of Coulter's battery supplied them with an interesting topic.During supper an orderly of the escort showed himself into the dining-room and asked permission to speak to the colonel."What is it, Barbour?" said that officer pleasantly, having overheard the request."Colonel, there is something wrong in the cellar; I don't know what-- somebody there. I was down there rummaging about.""I will go down and see," said a staff officer, rising."So will I," the colonel said; "let the others remain. Lead on, orderly."They took a candle from the table and descended the cellar stairs, the orderly invisible trepidation. The candle made but a feeble light, but presently, as they advanced, its narrow circle of illumination revealed a human figure seated on the ground against the black stone wall which they were skirting, its knees elevated, its head bowed sharply forward. The face, which should have been seen in profile, was invisible, for the man was bent so far forward that his long hair concealed it; and, strange to relate, the beard, of a much darker hue, fell in a great tangled mass and lay along the ground at his side. They involuntarily paused; then the colonel, taking the candle from the orderly's shaking hand, approached the man and attentively considered him. The long dark beard was the hair of a woman--dead. The dead woman clasped in her arms a dead babe. Both were clasped in the arms of the man, pressed against his breast, against his lips. There was blood in the hair of the woman; there was blood in the hair of the man. A yard away, near an irregular depression in the beaten earth which formed the cellar's floor--fresh excavation with a convex bit of iron, having jagged edges, visible in one of the sides--lay an infant's foot. The colonel held the light as high as he could. The floor of the room above was broken through, the splinters pointing at all angles downward. "This casemate is not bomb-proof," said the colonel gravely. It did not occur to him that his summing up of the matter had any levity in it.They stood about the group awhile in silence; the staff officer was thinking of his unfinished supper, the orderly of what might possibly be in one of the casks on the other side of the cellar. Suddenly the man whom they had thought dead raised his head and gazed tranquilly into their faces. His complexion was coal black; the cheeks were apparently tattooed in irregular sinuous lines from the eyes downward. The lips, too, were white, like those of a stage negro. There was blood upon his forehead.The staff officer drew back a pace, the orderly two paces."What are you doing here, my man?" said the colonel, unmoved."This house belongs to me, sir," was the reply, civilly delivered."To you? Ah, I see! And these?""My wife and child. I am Captain Coulter."。

父与子高中英语读后感After reading "Father and Son" in high school, I was deeply moved by the complex relationship between the father and the son. The story depicts the struggles and conflicts that arise between the two characters as they try to understand each other and find common ground. It also highlights the importance of communication and empathy in maintaining a healthy relationship.The father, who is a strict and traditional man, hashigh expectations for his son. He wants his son to followin his footsteps and take over the family business. However, the son has different dreams and aspirations, which creates tension between them. The son feels pressured to live up to his father's expectations, while the father struggles to accept his son's choices.Throughout the story, the son tries to bridge the gap between himself and his father by expressing his thoughts and feelings. He seeks his father's approval and understanding, but often feels rejected and misunderstood. The father, on the other hand, is portrayed as a man of fewwords, making it difficult for the son to connect with him on a deeper level.As the story unfolds, we see the father and songrappling with their differences and trying to find a wayto reconcile their conflicting desires. It is a powerful reminder of the complexity of parent-child relationshipsand the challenges of generational gaps.This story made me reflect on the importance of open communication and mutual respect in family dynamics. Italso shed light on the struggles that many young peopleface when trying to assert their independence while seeking validation from their parents. The story serves as a poignant reminder that understanding and acceptance are crucial in fostering strong and healthy relationshipswithin a family.阅读完《父与子》这篇文章后，我深受父子之间复杂关系的感动。

The Veteranby Stephen CraneOut of the low window could be seen three hickory trees placed irregularly in a meadow that was resplendent in spring-time green. Farther away, the old, dismal belfry of the village church loomed over the pines. A horse, meditating in the shade of one of the hickories, lazily swished his tail. The warm sunshine made an oblong of vivid yellow on the floor of the grocery."Could you see the whites of their eyes?" said the man, who was seated on a soap box."Nothing of the kind," replied old Henry warmly. "Just a lot of flitting figures, and I let go at where they 'peared to be the thickest. Bang!""Mr. Fleming," said the grocer--his deferential voice expressed somehow the old man's exact social weight--"Mr. Fleming, you never was frightened much in them battles, was you?"The veteran looked down and grinned. Observing his manner, the entire group tittered. "Well, I guess I was," he answered finally. "Pretty well scared, sometimes. Why, in my first battle I thought the sky was falling down. I thought the world was coming to an end. You bet I was scared."Every one laughed. Perhaps it seemed strange and rather wonderful to them that a man should admit the thing, and in the tone of their laughter there was probably more admiration than if old Fleming had declared that he had always been a lion. Moreover, they knew that he had ranked as an orderly sergeant, and so their opinion of his heroism was fixed. None, to be sure, knew how an orderly sergeant ranked, but then it was understood to be somewhere just shy of a major-general's stars. So, when old Henry admitted that he had been frightened, there was a laugh."The trouble was," said the old man, "I thought they were all shooting at me. Yes, sir, I thought every man in the other army was aiming at me in particular, and only me. And it seemed so darned unreasonable, you know. I wanted to explain to 'em what an almighty good fellow I was, because I thought then they might quit all trying to hit me. But I couldn't explain, and they kept on being unreasonable--blim!--blam! bang! So I run!"Two little triangles of wrinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes. Evidently he appreciated some comedy in this recital. Down near his feet, however, little Jim, his grandson, was visibly horror-stricken. His hands were clasped nervously, and his eyes were wide with astonishment at this terrible scandal, his most magnificent grandfather telling such a thing."That was at Chancellorsville. Of course, afterward I got kind of used to it. Aman does. Lots of men, though, seem to feel all right from the start. I did, as soon as I 'got on to it,' as they say now; but at first I was pretty well flustered. Now, there was young Jim Conklin, old Si Conklin's son--that used to keep the tannery--you none of you recollect him--well, he went into it from the start just as if he was born to it. But with me it was different. I had to get used to it."When little Jim walked with his grandfather he was in the habit of skipping along on the stone pavement, in front of the three stores and the hotel of the town, and betting that he could avoid the cracks. But upon this day he walked soberly, with his hand gripping two of his grandfather's fingers. Sometimes he kicked abstractedly at dandelions that curved over the walk. Any one could see that he was much troubled."There's Sickles's colt over in the medder, Jimmie," said the old man. "Don't you wish you owned one like him?""Um," said the boy, with a strange lack of interest. He continued his reflections. Then finally he ventured: "Grandpa--now--was that true what you was telling those men?""What?" asked the grandfather. "What was I telling them?""Oh, about your running.""Why, yes, that was true enough, Jimmie. It was my first fight, and there was an awful lot of noise, you know."Jimmie seemed dazed that this idol, of its own will, should so totter. His stout boyish idealism was injured.Presently the grandfather said: "Sickles's colt is going for a drink. Don't you wish you owned Sickles's colt, Jimmie?"The boy merely answered: "He ain't as nice as our'n." He lapsed then into another moody silence.* * * * *One of the hired men, a Swede, desired to drive to the county seat for purposes of his own. The old man loaned a horse and an unwashed buggy. It appeared later that one of the purposes of the Swede was to get drunk.After quelling some boisterous frolic of the farm hands and boys in the garret, the old man had that night gone peacefully to sleep, when he was aroused by clamouring at the kitchen door. He grabbed his trousers, and they waved out behind as he dashed forward. He could hear the voice of the Swede, screaming and blubbering. He pushed the wooden button, and, as the door flew open, the Swede, a maniac, stumbled inward, chattering, weeping, still screaming: "De barn fire! Fire! Fire! De barn fire! Fire! Fire! Fire!"There was a swift and indescribable change in the old man. His face ceased instantly to be a face; it became a mask, a grey thing, with horror written about themouth and eyes. He hoarsely shouted at the foot of the little rickety stairs, and immediately, it seemed, there came down an avalanche of men. No one knew that during this time the old lady had been standing in her night-clothes at the bedroom door, yelling: "What's th' matter? What's th' matter? What's th' matter?"When they dashed toward the barn it presented to their eyes its usual appearance, solemn, rather mystic in the black night. The Swede's lantern was overturned at a point some yards in front of the barn doors. It contained a wild little conflagration of its own, and even in their excitement some of those who ran felt a gentle secondary vibration of the thrifty part of their minds at sight of this overturned lantern. Under ordinary circumstances it would have been a calamity.But the cattle in the barn were trampling, trampling, trampling, and above this noise could be heard a humming like the song of innumerable bees. The old man hurled aside the great doors, and a yellow flame leaped out at one corner and sped and wavered frantically up the old grey wall. It was glad, terrible, this single flame, like the wild banner of deadly and triumphant foes.The motley crowd from the garret had come with all the pails of the farm. They flung themselves upon the well. It was a leisurely old machine, long dwelling in indolence. It was in the habit of giving out water with a sort of reluctance. The men stormed at it, cursed it; but it continued to allow the buckets to be filled only after the wheezy windlass had howled many protests at the mad-handed men.With his opened knife in his hand old Fleming himself had gone headlong into the barn, where the stifling smoke swirled with the air currents, and where could be heard in its fulness the terrible chorus of the flames, laden with tones of hate and death, a hymn of wonderful ferocity.He flung a blanket over an old mare's head, cut the halter close to the manger, led the mare to the door, and fairly kicked her out to safety. He returned with the same blanket, and rescued one of the work horses. He took five horses out, and then came out himself, with his clothes bravely on fire. He had no whiskers, and very little hair on his head. They soused five pailfuls of water on him. His eldest son made a clean miss with the sixth pailful, because the old man had turned and was running down the decline and around to the basement of the barn, where were the stanchions of the cows. Some one noticed at the time that he ran very lamely, as if one of the frenzied horses had smashed his hip.The cows, with their heads held in the heavy stanchions, had thrown themselves, strangled themselves, tangled themselves--done everything which the ingenuity of their exuberant fear could suggest to them.Here, as at the well, the same thing happened to every man save one. Their hands went mad. They became incapable of everything save the power to rush into dangerous situations.The old man released the cow nearest the door, and she, blind drunk with terror, crashed into the Swede. The Swede had been running to and fro babbling. He carried an empty milk-pail, to which he clung with an unconscious, fierce enthusiasm. He shrieked like one lost as he went under the cow's hoofs, and the milk-pail, rolling across the floor, made a flash of silver in the gloom.Old Fleming took a fork, beat off the cow, and dragged the paralysed Swede to the open air. When they had rescued all the cows save one, which had so fastened herself that she could not be moved an inch, they returned to the front of the barn, and stood sadly, breathing like men who had reached the final point of human effort.Many people had come running. Some one had even gone to the church, and now, from the distance, rang the tocsin note of the old bell. There was a long flare of crimson on the sky, which made remote people speculate as to the whereabouts of the fire.The long flames sang their drumming chorus in voices of the heaviest bass. The wind whirled clouds of smoke and cinders into the faces of the spectators. The form of the old barn was outlined in black amid these masses of orange-hued flames.And then came this Swede again, crying as one who is the weapon of the sinister fates: "De colts! De colts! You have forgot de colts!"Old Fleming staggered. It was true: they had forgotten the two colts in the box-stalls at the back of the barn. "Boys," he said, "I must try to get 'em out." They clamoured about him then, afraid for him, afraid of what they should see. Then they talked wildly each to each. "Why, it's sure death!" "He would never get out!" "Why, it's suicide for a man to go in there!" Old Fleming stared absent-mindedly at the open doors. "The poor little things!" he said. He rushed into the barn.When the roof fell in, a great funnel of smoke swarmed toward the sky, as if the old man's mighty spirit, released from its body--a little bottle--had swelled like the genie of fable. The smoke was tinted rose- hue from the flames, and perhaps the unutterable midnights of the universe will have no power to daunt the colour of this soul.。

讲述父爱的英文小说作文英文：Fatherly love is something that cannot be described in words. It is a feeling that is beyond explanation and can only be experienced. My father has always been the pillar of strength in my life, and his love has been my guiding light. He has always been there for me, through thick and thin, and has never once let me down.One of the most memorable instances of my father's love was when I was going through a tough time in my life. I was struggling with my studies and was feeling demotivated. My father sensed my distress and took me out for a walk. We talked about everything under the sun, and he gave me some valuable advice that I still remember to this day. He told me that failure is not the end of the road and that I should never give up on my dreams.Another example of my father's love was when I got intoa car accident. I was shaken and scared, but my father rushed to the scene and stayed with me until everything was sorted out. He held my hand and told me that everything was going to be okay. His presence gave me the strength to get through that difficult time.My father's love is unconditional, and he has always been my biggest cheerleader. He has taught me to be strong, independent, and to never give up on myself. He has always been there to pick me up when I fall and has never once judged me for my mistakes. I am grateful for his love and support, and I know that I can always count on him to be there for me.中文：父爱是一种无法用言语描述的感觉。

2024届高三英语二轮复习读后续写亲情类—父亲的爱讲义素材读后续写原文中文He was 50 years old when I was born. I didn't know why he was home instead of Mom, but I was young and the only one of my friends who had their dad around. I considered myself very lucky. 我出生时他已经50岁了。

我不知道他为什么在家而不是妈妈呆在家里，但我还小，而且我是我所有朋友中唯一一个父亲在身边的。

我觉得自己非常幸运。

Dad did so many things for me during my grade school years. He convinced the school bus driver to pick me up at my house instead of the usual bus stop that was six blocks away. He always had my lunch ready for me when I came home. 在我小学的岁月里，爸爸为我做了很多事情。

他说服校车司机在我家接我，而不是在离家六个街区的常规公交车站。

每当我回家，他总是有我的午餐准备好。

As I got a little older, I wanted to move away from those "childish" signs of his love. But he wasn't going to give up. 随着我慢慢长大，我想摆脱他那些“孩子气”的爱的表现。

但他并未放弃。

In high school and no longer able to go home for lunch, I began taking my own. Dad would get up a little earlier and make it for me. The outside of the sack might be covered with a heart inscribed with "Dad-n-Angie K. K. ". Inside there would be a napkin with that same heart or an "I loveyou." 在高中，我不能再回家吃午饭，我开始自己带饭。

My father is a man of many facets, a figure who has influenced my life in ways that are both profound and subtle. Hes not just a father hes a mentor, a friend, and a source of endless inspiration. Growing up, Ive seen him as a towering presence, guiding me through the complexities of life with wisdom and patience.As a child, I was always in awe of my fathers work ethic. He would rise before the sun, ready to tackle the day with a vigor that seemed almost superhuman. His dedication to his job was unwavering, and it taught me the value of hard work and commitment. I remember the countless evenings when he would come home exhausted, yet he never failed to ask about my day or help me with my homework. His tireless nature was a testament to his strength and resilience, qualities that I have come to admire and strive to emulate.One of the most significant lessons I learned from my father was the importance of integrity. He always emphasized the need to be honest, even when it was difficult. There were times when I was tempted to take shortcuts or bend the truth, but my fathers example made me realize that honesty is the foundation of trust and respect. His unwavering commitment to doing the right thing, even when no one was watching, has been a guiding principle in my life.My father was also a man of few words, but when he spoke, his words carried weight. He believed in the power of silence and the value of thoughtful reflection. This has taught me to be mindful of the words I choose and to consider the impact they may have on others. His quietstrength and introspective nature have shaped my approach to communication and conflict resolution.Beyond his work and personal values, my father was also a man of many talents. He had a knack for fixing things around the house, from a broken faucet to a malfunctioning appliance. His ability to solve problems and create solutions inspired me to be resourceful and innovative. Ive learned that with a bit of creativity and determination, theres always a way to overcome obstacles.One of the most vivid memories I have of my father is his love for the outdoors. He would often take me on hikes and camping trips, teaching me to appreciate the beauty of nature and the importance of preserving our environment. These experiences instilled in me a deep respect for the natural world and a desire to protect it for future generations.My fathers influence extends beyond just his actions and words. His presence has been a constant source of comfort and reassurance. There were times when I felt lost or unsure of my path, but my fathers unwavering support and belief in me gave me the courage to face my fears and pursue my dreams.In conclusion, my father has been a beacon of inspiration, guiding me through life with his wisdom, strength, and love. He has taught me the importance of hard work, integrity, and resilience, and has shown me the value of silence and reflection. His love for the outdoors and his resourcefulness have inspired me to be innovative and protective of ourenvironment. Above all, his unwavering support and belief in me have given me the courage to face lifes challenges headon. My father is not just a role model he is the embodiment of the best qualities a person can possess, and I am grateful for every lesson he has imparted to me.。

打开父亲这本书作文英文回答：Opening the book written by my father, I am immediately transported into a world of memories and emotions. The words on the pages seem to come alive, as if my father is right there beside me, sharing his wisdom and experiences. It is a treasure trove of knowledge and insight, and I am grateful to have this opportunity to delve into his thoughts and ideas.As I flip through the pages, I am struck by the depth and breadth of topics covered in the book. From personal anecdotes to philosophical musings, my father's words resonate with me on a profound level. He has a unique way of capturing the essence of life and distilling it into simple, yet powerful, messages. I find myself nodding in agreement and reflecting on my own experiences as I read each chapter.One of the things that stands out to me is my father's emphasis on the importance of family. He writes about the unconditional love and support that parents provide, and how it shapes us into the individuals we become. This resonates with me deeply, as I have always felt fortunate to have a loving and supportive family. My father's words serve as a reminder to cherish and nurture these relationships, as they are the foundation of our happiness and well-being.Another theme that runs through the book is the power of perseverance and resilience. My father shares stories of his own struggles and challenges, and how he overcame them through sheer determination and hard work. This serves as a source of inspiration for me, as I navigate my own path in life. It reminds me that success is not always easy or immediate, but with perseverance, anything is possible.Furthermore, my father's book delves into the complexities of human relationships. He explores the dynamics of friendships, romantic relationships, and even professional connections. He offers insights on how tonavigate these relationships with empathy, understanding, and open communication. This resonates with me, as I have experienced both the joys and challenges of various relationships in my own life. My father's words serve as a guide, reminding me of the importance of nurturing these connections and approaching them with kindness and respect.In conclusion, opening my father's book is like opening a window into his soul. The words he has written are a testament to his wisdom, experiences, and love. I amgrateful to have this opportunity to learn from him and to carry his words with me as I navigate my own journey. My father's book is not just a collection of words on a page, but a legacy that will continue to inspire and guide me throughout my life.中文回答：打开父亲这本书，我立刻被带入了一个充满回忆和情感的世界。

英语阅读文章MyFather父爱无边英语阅读文章My Father父爱无边My father was a self-taught mandolin player. He was oneof the best string instrument players in our town. He could not read music, but if he heard a tune a few times, he could play it. When he was younger, he was a member of a small country music band. They would play at local dances and on a few occasions would play for the local radio station. He often told us how he had auditioned and earned a position ina band that featured Patsy Cline as their lead singer. Hetold the family that after he was hired he never went back. Dad was a very religious man. He stated that there was a lot of drinking and cursing the day of his audition and he didnot want to be around that type of environment.Occasionally, Dad would get out his mandolin and play for the family. We three children： Trisha, Monte and I, George Jr., would often sing along. Songs such as the Tennessee Waltz, Harbor Lights and around Christmas time, the well-known rendition of Silver Bells. "Silver Bells, Silver Bells, its Christmas time in the city" would ring throughout the house. One of Dad's favorite hymns was "The Old Rugged Cross". We learned the words to the hymn when we were very young, and would sing it with Dad when he would play and sing. Another song that was often shared in our house was a song that accompanied the Walt Disney series： Davey Crockett. Dad only had to hear the song twice before he learned it well enoughto play it. "Davey, Davey Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier" was a favorite song for the family. He knew we enjoyed the songand the program and would often get out the mandolin after the program was over. I could never get overhow he could play the songs so well after only hearing them a few times. I loved to sing, but I never learned how to play the mandolin. This is something I regret to this day.Dad loved to play the mandolin for his family he knew we enjoyed singing, and hearing him play. He was like that. If he could give pleasure to others, he would, especially his family. He was always there, sacrificing his time and efforts to see that his family had enough in their life. I had to mature into a man and have children of my own before I realized how much he had sacrificed.I joined the United States Air Force in January of 1962. Whenever I would come home on leave, I would ask Dad to play the mandolin. Nobody played the mandolin like my father. He could touch your soul with the tones that came out of that old mandolin. He seemed to shine when he was playing. You could see his pride in his ability to play so well for his family.When Dad was younger, he worked for his father on the farm. His father was a farmer and sharecropped a farm for the man who owned the property. In 1950, our family moved from the farm. Dad had gained employment at the local limestone quarry. When the quarry closed in August of 1957, he had to seek other employment. He worked for Owens Yacht Company in Dundalk, Maryland and for Todd Steel in Point of Rocks, Maryland. While working at Todd Steel, he was involved in an accident. His job was to roll angle iron onto a conveyor so that the welders farther up the production line would have it to complete their job. On this particular day Dad got the third index finger of his left hand mashed between two piecesof steel. The doctor who operated on the finger could not save it, and Dad ended up having the tip of the finger amputated. He didn't lose enough of the finger where it would stop him picking up anything, but it did impact his ability to play the mandolin.After the accident, Dad was reluctant to play the mandolin. He felt that he could not play as well as he had before the accident. When I came home on leave and asked him to play he would make excuses for why he couldn't play. Eventually, we would wear him down and he would say "Okay, but remember, I can't hold down on the strings the way I used to" or "Since the accident to this finger I can't play as good". For the family it didn't make any difference that Dad couldn't play as well. We were just glad that he would play. When he played the old mandolin it would carry us back to a cheerful, happier time in our lives. "Davey, Davey Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier", would again be heard in thelittle town of Bakerton, West Virginia.In August of 1993 my father was diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer. He chose not to receive chemotherapy treatments so that he could live out the rest of his life in dignity. About a week before his death, we asked Dad if he would play the mandolin for us. He made excuses but said "okay". He knew it would probably be the last time he would play for us. He tuned up the old mandolin and played a few notes. When I looked around, there was not a dry eye in the family. We saw before us a quiet humble man with an inner strength that comes from knowing God, and living with him in one's life. Dad would never play the mandolin for us again. We felt at the time that he wouldn't have enough strength to play, and。

He was a piano-tuner. Snow wasfalling as he went from house to house, his little blue hands tucked up his sleeves. Already during that morn-ing he had tuned three instruments in rooms where no fires burned and now through bleak streets was making his The Father父 亲文/赫伯特·欧内斯特·贝茨 译/朱建迅By Herbert Earnest Bates 1他是一名钢琴调音师。

漫天飘雪的时候，他走进一户户人家，两只青色的小手缩在衣袖里。

这天上午，他已经在没生火的房间里调试了三架钢琴，眼下正经过几条阴冷‘I’d be well enough,’ he replied. ‘Iused to be strong. I never had an illness.But it’s my daughter, Selina, who’s asinger. That’s what’s the matter.’8 He pointed out the notice. As thewoman read it he drank more wine and whimpered5 quietly. Hearing him, thewoman in consolation sniffed and then whimpered too. They wept together. Byand by there seemed to come over thewoman, the cold piano, and the cheer-less room a change and in the place ofthe great stone across his chest came something soothing and warm. He feltsuddenly that he must pour out a longstream of confidences and woes into hersoft, kind face.9 ‘She’s my only child,’ he whim-pered. ‘When she was young I used tosay she’d be a singer. A prima donna6, Ifancied. It’s nice now to think that I wasright. I taught her to read and play—andthen after all that—’‘Yes?’5 whimper抽搭，抽泣。

“THE FATHER” - HUGH GARNERIt wasn't the boy who gave him the invitation, but the boy's mother, his wife. Somehow even a little thing like this had become a shameful chore that the boy had avoided. 'Over the past year or two father and son had drifted apart, so that a strange shame and embarrassment coloured every event that brought them into contact.His wife had waited until the children had gone out after supper, the boy to play baseball and his older sister to run and scream with other teen-agers in the schoolyard. Then she had said,"Johnny wonders if you'll go to the Boy Scout meeting with him tomorrow night?"It was on the tip of his tongue to say, "Scout meeting! What do I look like?" Instead he asked, "Why, what's on there?""It's a father-and-son banquet," she said."Why didn't Johnny ask me to go?""You know he is — I guess he was too shy," she answered."Too shy! Too shy to ask his own father to go somewhere?""Well, I guess he was afraid you'd say no," she said."I'll think it over," he said grudgingly, knowing that he owed it to the boy, and also feeling that it might be a way of overcoming the barrier that had sprung up between them.He didn't look forward to an evening spent in the company of a bunch of professional fathers, who were "real pals" to their sons. He had seen them making a nuisance of themselves, unable or unwilling to let their kids lead their own lives. They went swimming with their children, tried to umpire their ball games, and wrongly explained the displays at the museum and the animals at the zoo. He wouldn't normally mix with such men, but it was probably a big event for the boy, and it only happened once a year.He poured himself a small drink and sat before the TV set, thinking of the coolness between him and his son and trying vainly to pinpoint its beginning. He knew that most of the time he was too preoccupied with other things to pay much heed to the boy's activities, but he had dismissed his misgivings with the thought, "He's only a twelve-year-old who wants to be left alone."Over his drink he remembered the times he had been too harsh with the boy, and the times he had been curt and impatient. And with a feeling of angry revulsion he remembered siding with the teacher when he had been called to the school to discuss the boy's bad marks in reading. The principal had intimated that the boy's slowness might be caused by tensions in the home, but this he had vehemently denied. When the teacher had suggested keeping the boy in the same grade for a second year, he had acquiesced willingly, wanting only to get away from the place. The boy had looked up at him, bitten his lower lip, and had left the principal's office. From then on their distance one from the other was greater than ever.On the evening of the banquet he was a little late getting home, having stopped in for a few drinks with a customer who was buying an industrial site. He ate warmed-over supper by himself, insisting all the while to his wife that there was no use eating when he was going to a banquet."You'd better eat," she said. "You've got to be at your best tonight.""I'll be at my best, don't worry. I have a couple of drinks with a customer, and you're ready to shove me in an institution."After he had bathed and shaved he put on his best suit. Though he had only contempt for scoutmasters he was anxious to create a good impression for the sake of the boy. His suits were getting tight, as were the collars of his shirts. It was sitting at a desk all day did it, and not walking anywhere any more. At the end of the war he had been lean and tough, but now he was middle-aged, fat, with his hair thinning fast on top.He went downstairs and waited in the living room for the boy. The food his wife had pushed on to him had destroyed the glow from the pre-dinner drinks, so he poured himself a tall one for the road. From upstairs came the sound of his wife and son having their usual spat about the boy combing his hair. Though his wife and children quarrelled often, there was no tension between them at all.The boy came down, wearing a pair of flannels and a blazer. "Where's your scout uniform, Johnny?" he asked."We don't have to wear it if we don't want to," the boy said."I'll bet most of the other kids'll be wearing theirs."The little boy shrugged.His wife said, "Leave him alone, John. The reason he isn't wearing his uniform is that he only has half of it."He couldn't remember how the boy had been dressed on scout night."Why hasn't he got the whole thing?" he asked his wife angrily. "We're not on the welfare, are we? Surely we could spend a few dollars for a complete scout uniform.""Yes, but after you bought him the hockey pads and the rifle last Christmas he was afraid to ask you for anything else. He has the pants, belt and shirt, and all he needs is the neckerchief — ""Afraid to ask me! That's all I hear around this place. What's the matter with this family anyway? God knows what the neighbours must think of me.""There's no use getting angry," his wife said. "He'll have the whole uniform before long. He doesn't really need it tonight.""Jimmy Agnew and Don Robertson aren't going to wear their uniform," the boy said, trying to mollify him.He wondered angrily if the scoutmaster thought he was too cheap to buy the boy a uniform. Probably he said to his assistants, "It's too bad about little Johnny Purcell, isn't it? There's a kid been coming here for four months now and he still hasn't got a uniform." He felt a twinge of indigestion as he pictured the scoutmasters — a couple of big sissies running around in short pants playing woodsmen.He said to his wife, "Listen, Helen, for God's sake take him downtown with you tomorrow and get the rest of the Boy Scout outfit. I don't want those goons down at the church thinking I'm too cheap to buy him one."He expected the boy's face to light up at this, but he stood in the doorway wearing a blank expression. It was the same look the boy put on when he and his wife quarrelled, or when he had too much to drink and tried to talk to the kid man to man.When they left the house his daughter shouted after them, "Thank goodness we're getting rid of the men for the rest of the evening," and she and her mother laughed. The remark irritated him by pointing up the infrequency of such occasions.As they walked down the street he felt a warm pride as he stole glances down at the boy. Everyone said the youngster was the spit and image of himself when he was younger, and they both bore the same first name. Fatherhood was the rounding out of a life, probably what was meant in the Bible by a person having to be born again. But even as he thought these things he knew it was only a fuzzy sentimentality brought on by what he had drunk.The boy strode along beside him, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, even now managing to convey the distance that separated them. .He wanted to get the boy into conversation, but could think of nothing to talk about that wouldn't sound wooden and contrived. He knew there must be a common plane of interest somewhere if he only knew what it was. The boy seemed content to walk along in silence, so he retreated into his own thoughts as they entered the business street that led to the church.As they passed the schoolyard he asked the boy how the softball team was doing."All right. We beat the Tigers yesterday.""What score?""Fifteen-eight.""Say, that's great! Did you score any runs?""One, on Jimmy Agnew's two-bagger.""Great! Did you put many guys out?""No."He realized that he didn't even know what position his own son played, or even the name of the team. He thought it might be the Cardinals, but it might even be the Eskimos. He tried to picture the name on the front of the boy's sweater, but could not recall it."How many more games do you play?" he asked."Just two more in the regular schedule, one with the Eskimos tomorrow night, and one on Saturday with the Cardinals."Well, the team wasn't the Tigers, Eskimos or Cardinals. He tried without success to think of the names of the other teams in the league. When they got home he'd have to take a peek at the name on the sweater.They walked the rest of the way to the church in silence.A young man in a clerical collar greeted them at the door to the parish hall, introducing himself as Mr. Redpath, the curate."My name's John Purcell," he said, smiling and shaking the curate's hand."How do you do. Though I know Johnny, and also Mrs. Purcell and your daughter Joanne, this is the first time I've had the pleasure of meeting you I believe.""Yes it is."He was a little put out to discover that his family had a life separate from his. Of course they went to church fairly regularly, while he never went at all. When he was asked if he attended church he always answered, "Not since I was marched there with the army."The young curate didn't seem to know what to do now that they had been introduced. He turned to the boy and asked, "How is the swimming coming along, Johnny?""Fine, Mr. Redpath."The curate said, "He's going to be a great swimmer someday, is your son.""Yes I know," he answered. Though he was aware that the boy had been going two nights a week to a neighbourhood high school pool, he had never thought of him being an exceptional swimmer. He seemed to know less about the boy than anyone.They were interrupted by the appearance of the scout¬ master, a very tall man with glasses, wearing a Boy Scout shirt and long khaki trousers.Mr. Redpath said, "Mr. Purcell, I'd like you to meet Bob Wooley, the scoutmaster.""How do you do," he said, putting out his hand. He noticed the two Second World War medal ribbons on the man's left breast, and knew the scoutmaster had never left the country.The man peered at him as he took his hand. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch the name," he said."Purcell," he told him, his smile frozen on his lips."Oh yes, Johnny Purcell's father!"He managed an amiable nod, but decided that the scout¬ master had come up to expectations."Well, Mr. Purcell, I have a disagreeable duty to perform," the man said, pulling a sheaf of tickets from the pocket of his shirt. Holding out two of them he said, "That will be three dollars please," giggling at the curate.He decided to get into the spirit of the thing, and as he reached for his wallet he said, "Three dollars! Why I could have taken Johnny to a burlesque show for less than that."The curate and the scoutmaster snickered politely, but he noticed them exchange significant glances. He handed over the money and pocketed the tickets."Right upstairs, Mr. Purcell," Redpath said, his tone much cooler than it had been.When he looked around for the boy he found he had disappeared, and he climbed to the banquet hall alone.It was a large room, probably used for the Sunday-school. It had an odour of sanctity about it, an almost forgotten smell of hymnbooks and varnish that carried him back to his choir-boy days. Down the middle of the floor stretched two long plank tables supported on sawhorses, and covered with paper tablecloths. There were about fifty places set. Hanging on the walls were various exhibits of scoutcraft, and in one corner of the floor a tent and an imitation campfire had been set up, surrounded by imitation grass probably borrowed from the church cemetery next door.He spied his son, in the company of two other boys and their fathers, looking at some photographs on the wall, and walked over to them. As soon as he reached his side, Johnny led him away from the others and began pointing out the various knots that were illustrated by twisted pieces of sashcord mounted on a board."Have you anything on exhibition, Johnny?" he asked the boy."Only the Cree mask I made last winter."Cree mask! He'd never seen the boy making a mask, though he had wondered vaguely what he was doing in the basement sometimes. "Let's go over and see it," he said, and the boy led him around the tables to the opposite wall.They stopped before a wooden mask, painted red and yellow with holes cut in it for the eyes and mouth. He was no judge of such things but he was amazed at the workmanshipand artistry of it. He could see the tremendous amount of work that had gone into its carving, and felt an immeasurable loss as he realized he had not even enquired what the boy was doing all those long evenings in the basement."Say, Johnny, that's great! It's just great!" he said, slapping his son on the shoulder. "I never knew you could make things like that. Did you carve it out of a single piece of wood?""No. I had to glue two pieces together.""Where did you get it — the wood I mean?""Mr. Robertson gave me it. He helped me shape it, but I did most of the carving.""Who's Mr. Robertson?""Don's dad. You know Don Robertson.""Oh sure." He didn't know one boy or girl who came to the house from another. It must be the tall blond kid who went to the movies with Johnny on Saturday afternoons.Two boys and their fathers came along and stood beside them, admiring the mask. He was about to tell them it was the work of his boy, but Johnny was suddenly in a hurry to get away. "Come on, Dad," he said quickly. "There's a picture over here of Danny Mahaffey winning his mountaineer badge."He followed the boy to the end of the room, aware for the first time that his son was ashamed of him. As he pretended to look at the photograph he wondered what he had ever done to make the boy feel that way. Now he remembered the times he had met Johnny with his friends on the street, and had received only a grudging wave of the hand from him. And he remembered going to watch the boy play ball in the school¬ yard, and being pointedly ignored throughout the game.The dinner consisted of the usual creamed chicken and peas, and the after dinner speeches contained the usual intramural jokes shared by the scoutmaster, the curate and the boys. During the meal he became quite friendly with the father sitting on his right, not realizing until it was too late that he had acted over-loquacious, his earlier drinks, plus the heat of the hall, making him talk andlaugh too loudly. Once he stopped himself in time before criticizing the scout¬ master's home service ribbons.Johnny hardly spoke to him at all, but attached himself conversationally to a boy sitting on the other side of him. They laughed at the speakers' jokes and whispered conspiratorially, ignoring him completely.From the anecdotes of the speakers he was surprised to find that many of the fathers had visited the summer camp, and that some even joined in the weekend hikes. He had been under the impression that only the scoutmaster and his assistant went along with the boys. He began to feellike an outsider, and he glanced along the line of adult faces across the table, wondering if he was alone in his feelings. Every other father had the look of belonging.Just when the curate's stories were beginning to gripe him, that young man ended his speech and announced a five minute break before the presentations would be made. With a loud clatteringof chairs the boys and their fathers pushed themselves away from the tables.When he looked around for Johnny he saw him running towards the stairway in company with the boy who had been sitting beside him. He pushed his way through the crowd to the back door of the hall, and stood on the outside steps and lit a cigarette.The door behind him opened and a man came out."It's kind of stuffy in there," the man said."Yes, in more ways than one."The man laughed. "You said it. This is the first time I ever came to one of these things.""Me too.""Good. I was afraid I was the only one.""My name's Purcell —John Purcell," he said, offering the other his hand."Glad to know you, John. I'm Charley Murdoch — Murdoch's Radio and Appliances up on Lorimer Street.""Sure, I've seen your place.""What line of business are you in?""I'm with Saunders, Gordon and Company, real estate and industrial appraisers.""Fine."Murdoch lit a cigarette and they stood talking about the Boy Scouts and their unfamiliarity with dinners such as this one. They discovered they had a couple of mutual friends downtown.Then Murdoch said, "This may not be the exact place for it, but I've got a bottle of liquor in the car. Would you care for a snort before we go back to hear how the curate got marooned on the island in Elk Lake, or how the scoutmaster's tent blew down in the storm last summer?""You're a lifesaver," he said.They walked to Murdoch's car, which was parked against the cemetery wall. Murdoch took a pint of whiskey from the glove compartment, and then began to feel around in the back seat. "I've got a small bottle of ginger-ale back here some¬ where," he said. "Yeah, here she is!" He straightened up and took the top off the ginger-ale with a practised motion beneath the dashboard.They had three good drinks apiece before Murdoch said, "Maybe we'd better go back inside. If we don't get in there soon that kid of mine will tell his mother for sure."The presentations were well under way by the time they returned to the hall, and there was a craning of necks by almost everyone as they crossed the floor. As each boy's name was called, he and his father would go forward to the dais, where the scoutmaster presented the badges to the father, who then presented them to his son.Johnny gave him an apprehensive look when he sat down, and then crowded as far away from him as he could get, trying to associate himself with the boy and his father on the other side of him.He sat back in his chair and gave his attention to what was taking place on the platform, smiling to himself as the boys and their fathers left the tables, received their presentations, and returned to their seats. As the whiskey began to work he took a friendlier view of the affair, and applauded heartily as each twosome sat down. He mentioned to his neighbour that Ht looked like an investiture at Buckingham Palace, but the man shushed him with a finger placed to his lips. Once, he tried to catch Murdoch's eye, but his new friend was looking somewhere else.When the Assistant Scoutmaster called out, "John Purcell," he tapped his son on the shoulder and stood up, saying, "That's both of us." There were a few titters from the boys, and a couple of the fathers smiled. Johnny hurried to the platform without waiting for him. He followed, grinning at the upturned faces he passed. Now that he was on his feet the room began to blur, and the faces at the tables seemed to run together into one big bemused grin. He grinned back, feeling a fellowship with every other father in the room. They really weren't a bad bunch once you got to know them.As he climbed the steps to the dais the scoutmasters stared at him with a quizzical look, and the curate turned to the audience with an embarrassed smile. The scoutmaster approached him and said, "Mr. Purcell, I am happy and honoured to present this lifesaving certificate to your son, John Purcell, and also this badge for hobbycraft. It is not very often that a boy as young as John earns a lifesaving certificate, and I'm sure you must be very proud of him."He nodded his head and murmured his thanks. When he looked down to face the boy the room swam before his eyes, but he managed to stay erect. "Here you are, Johnny," he said, handing the boy the certificate and badge. He felt prouder than he had ever felt in his life before, and just handing the awards to his son like this didn't seem enough to mark the moment. In a paroxysm of pride and happiness he grasped the boy's hand, and facing the audience, held it aloft like a referee signifying the winner of a boxing bout.There was a short burst of embarrassed laughter from the tables. He turned to the scoutmaster, who was trying to smile, with little success. The boy broke away from him and ran back to his chair, his chin lowered on his chest.He stepped down carefully from the dais, and with all the dignity at his command made his way to his table. As he turned around its end he staggered slightly and fell against it, pushing the planks askew from the saw-horse that supported them. Two or three of the fathers prevented the whole thing from toppling, but a vase of flowers and a couple of plates fell to the floor with a loud crash.After apologizing profusely to those who were picking up the flowers from the floor, he reached his chair with extra careful steps and sat down. Some of the small boys stared at him wonderingly, but their fathers showed an absorbing interest in what was going on upon the platform. He now saw the humour of the accident, and turned to wink at his son to show that everything had turned out all right after all. The boy was sobbing silently, his thin shoulders shuddering beneath his blazer.Suddenly he was shamed by the enormity of his act, and had to prevent himself from taking his son on his knee and comforting him as he had done when the boy was younger. He pulled himself together instead, setting his mouth in a defiant line, and stared unseeing at the people on the platform.When the meeting came to an end he was the first person out of the hall. He walked about fifty yards down the street and stood in the shadows of the cemetery wall. The boy hurried down the steps and came running towards him, and when he drew abreast he stepped out and took him by the arm."I'm sorry, Johnny," he said, placing his arm around the small boy's shoulders. "I acted a little silly in there, but it was really nothing. It'll be forgotten in a day or two."The boy turned his tear-stained face up to him and said, "Leave me alone, Daddy, please.""Look, Johnny, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you like that. Listen, I'll tell you what we'll do — we'll go downtown tomorrow and I'll buy you a whole new Boy Scout outfit.""I'm not going to the Scouts any more.""Sure you are. Listen, you've got that lifesaving certificate and —""I left them behind. I don't want them any more.""But Johnny, listen —""Leave me alone, Daddy, please!" the boy cried, breaking away from him and running down the street."Johnny! Wait for me. Johnny! Listen, I want —"The boy was half a block away by now, running as fast as he could. He hurried after him, knowing it was useless but afraid to let him go like this. Why had he done it, he asked himself, but could get no answer from either his head or his heart. Had there always been something between himself and the boy that neither of them understood? "No," he said to himself. “No, it's your fault. It's always been your fault."Already the running form of the boy was two blocks ahead of him, and he would soon be out of sight entirely. As he hurried after him he wondered if he would ever be able to draw close to his son again.。