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《现代大学英语精读5》课程后句子翻译Lesson1-5《现代大学英语精读5》课后句子翻译-英译中Translate the Following into ChineseLesson One: Where Do We Go from Here?1、A white lie is better than a black lie.一个无关紧要的谎言总比一个恶意的谎言要好。
2、To upset this homicide, ---Olympian manhood.为了挫败这种蓄意培植的低人一等的心态，黑人必须直起腰来宣布自己高贵的人格。
3、with a spirit straining ---- self-abnegation.黑人必须以一种竭尽全力自尊自重的精神，大胆抛弃自我克制的枷锁。
4、what is needed is a realization---- sentimental and anemic.必须懂得的是没有爱的权力是毫无节制，易被滥用的，而没有权力的爱则是多愁善感，苍白无力的。
5、It is precisely this collision --- of our times.正是这种邪恶的权力与毫无权力的道义的冲突构成了我们时代的主要危机。
6、Now early in this century---and responsibility.在本世纪初，这种建议会受到嘲笑和谴责，认为它对主动性和责任感起负面作用。
7、The fact is that the work which improves the condition of mankind, the work which extends knowledge and increases power and enriched literature and elevates thought, is not done to secure a living.事实上，人们从事改善人类出镜的工作，从事传播知识、增强实力、丰富文学财富以及升华思想的工作并不是为了谋生。
三一文库（）〔现代大学英语精读5课文翻译详解〕*篇一：现代大学英语精读5课文翻译1-11课现代大学英语译文及练习答案一、Where_do_we_go_from_here我们向何处去？马丁.路德.金1．为了回答“我们向何处去”这一问题，我们现在必须明确我们的现状。
当初拟定宪法时，一个不可思议的公式规定黑人在纳税和选举权方面只是一个完整人的60%。
如今又一个匪夷所思的公式似乎规定黑人只盂交纳一个人应交税的50%，只享受一个人应享受的选举权利的50%。
对于生活中的好事，黑人大约只享有白人所享受的一半；而生活中的不愉快，黑人却要承受白人所面对的两倍。
因此，所有黑人中有一半人住着低标准的住房。
并且黑人的收入只是白人的一半。
每当审视生活中的负面经历时，黑人总是占双倍的份额。
黑人无业者是白人的两倍。
黑人婴儿的死亡率是白人的两倍，从黑人所占的总人口比率上看，在越南死亡的黑人是白人的两倍。
2．其他领域也有同样惊人的数字。
在小学，黑人比白人落后一至三年，并且他们的被白人隔离的学校的学生人均所得到的补贴比白人的学校少得多。
20个上大学的学生中，只有一个是黑人。
在职的黑人中75%的人从事低收入、单凋乏味的非技术性工作。
3．这就是我们的现状。
我们的出路在哪里?首先，我们必须维护自己的尊严和价值。
我们必须与仍压迫我们的制度抗争，从而树立崇高的不可诋毁的价值观。
我们再不能因为是自已黑人而感到羞耻。
几百年来灌输黑人是卑微的、无足轻重的，因此要唤起他们做人的尊严绝非易事。
4．甚至语义学似乎也合谋把黑色的说成足丑陋的、卑劣的。
罗杰特分类词典中与黑色相关的词有120个，其中至少60个微词匿影藏形，例如。
污渍、煤烟、狰狞的、魔鬼和恶臭的。
而与白色相关的词约有134个，它们却毫无例外都褒嘉洋溢，诸如纯洁、洁净、贞洁和纯真此类词等。
白色的(善意的)谎言总比黑色的(恶意的)谎言要好。
家中最为人所不齿的人是“黑羊”，即败家子。
奥西．戴维斯曾建议或许应重造英语语言，从而教师将不再迫不得已因教黑人孩子60种方式蔑视自己而使他们继续怀有不应有的自卑感，因教白人孩子134种方式宠爱自己而使他们继续怀有不应有的优越感。
Lesson Eight The Kindness of StrangersMike Mclntyre1. One summer I was driving from my home town of Tahoe City, Calif, to New Orleans. In the middle of the desert, I cameupon a young man standing by the roadside. He had his thumb out and held a gas can in his other hand. I drove right by him.There was a time in the country when you' d be considered a jerk if you passed by somebody in need. Now you are a fool for helping. With gangs, drug addicts, murderers, rapists, thieves lurking everywhere, "I don't want to get involved" has become a national motto.2. Several states later I was still thinking about the hitchhiker. Leaving him stranded in the desert did not bother me so much.What bothered me was how easily I had reached the decision. I never even lifted my foot off the accelerator.3. Does anyone stop any more? I wondered. I recalled Blanche DuBois's famous line: "I have always depended on thekindness of strangers." Could anyone rely on the kindness of strangers these days? One way to test this would be for a person to journey from coast to coast without any money, relying solely on the good will of his fellow Americans. What kind of Americans would he find? Who would feed him, shelter him, carry him down the road?4. The idea intrigued me.5. The week I turned 37, I realized that I had never taken a gamble in my life. So I decided to travel from the Pacific to theAtlantic without a penny. It would be a cashless journey through the land of the almighty dollar. I would only accept offers of rides, food and a place to rest my head. My final destination would be Cape Fear in North Carolina, a symbol of all the fears I'd have to conquer during the trip.6. I rose early on September 6, 1994, and headed for the Golden Gate Bridge with a 50-pound pack on my back and a signdisplaying my destination to passing vehicles: "America."7. For six weeks I hitched 82 rides and covered 4223 miles across 14 states. As I traveled, folks were always warning meabout someplace else. In Montana they told me to watch out for the cowboys in Wyoming, In Nebraska they said people would not be as nice in Iowa. Yet I was treated with kindness everywhere I went. I was amazed by people's readiness to help a stranger, even when it seemed to run contrary to their own best interests.8. One day in Nebraska a car pulled to the road shoulder. When I reached the window, I saw two little old ladies dressed intheir Sunday finest." I know you're not supposed to pick up hitchhikers, but it's so far between towns out here, you feel bad passing a person," said the driver, who introduced herself as Vi. I didn't know whether to kiss them or scold them forstopping. This woman was telling me she'd rather risk her life than feel bad about passing a stranger on the side of the road.9. Once when I was hitchhiking unsuccessfully in the rain, a trucker pulled over, locking his brakes so hard he skidded on thegrass shoulder. The driver told me he was once robbed at knifepoint by a hitchhiker. "But I hate to see a man stand out in the rain," he added. "People don't have no heart anymore."10. I found, however, that people were generally compassionate. Hearing I had no money and would take none, people boughtme food or shared whatever they happened to have with them. Those who had the least to give often gave the most. In Oregon a house painter named Mike noted the chilly weather and asked if I had a coat. When he learned that I had "a light one," he drove me to his house, and handed me a big green army-style jacket. A lumber-mill worker named Tim invited me to a simple dinner with his family in their shabby house. Then he offered me his tent. I refused, knowing it was probably one of the family's most valuable possessions. But Tim was determined that I have it, and finally I agreed to take it.11. I was grateful to all the people I met for their rides, their food, their shelter, and their gifts. But what I found most touchingwas the fact that they all did it as a matter of course.12. One day I walked into the chamber of commerce in Jamestown, Tenn. to find out about camping in the area. The executivedirector, Baxter Wilson, 59, handed me a brochure for a local campground. Seeing that it cost $12, I replied, "No, that's all right. I'll try something else." Then he saw my backpack. "Most people around here will let you pitch a tent on their land, if that's what you want," he said. Now we're talking, I thought. "Any particular direction?" I asked. "Tell you what. I've got a big farm about ten miles south of here. If you're here at 5:30, you can ride with me."13. I accepted, and we drove out to a magnificent country house. Suddenly I realized he'd invited me to spend the night in hishome. His wife, Carol, a seventh-grade science teacher, was cooking a pot roast when we walked into the kitchen. Baxter explained that local folks were "mountain stay-at-home people" who rarely entertained in their house. "When we do," he said, "it's usually kin." This revelation made my night there all the more special.14. The next morning when I came downstairs, Carol asked if I'd come to their school and talk to her class about my trip. Iagreed, and before long had been scheduled to talk to every class in the school. The kids were attentive and kept asking all kinds of questions: Where were people the kindest? How many pairs of shoes did you have? Did anybody try to run you over? Did you fall in love with someone? What were you most afraid of?15. Although I hadn't planned it this way, I discovered that a patriotic tone ran through the talks I gave that afternoon. I told thestudents how my faith in America had been renewed. I told them how proud I was to live in a country where people were still willing to help. I told them that the question I had had in mind when I planned this journey was now clearly answered.In spite of everything, you can still depend on the kindness of strangers.第八课陌生人的仁慈1一个夏天，我正驱车从我的家乡加利福尼亚州的塔霍湖市前往新奥尔良。
（完整word版）现代大学英语精读5课后翻译现代大学英语精读5课后翻译Lesson 1 Where Do We Go from Here1. A white lie is better than a black lie,一个无关紧要的谎言总比一个善意的谎言要好。
2.To upset this cultural homicide, the Negro must rise up with an affirmation of his own Olympian manhood.为了挫败各种蓄意培植的低人一等的心态，黑人必须直起腰来宣布自己高贵的人格。
3.…with a spirit straining toward true self-esteem, the Negro must boldly throw off the manacles of self-abnegation…黑人必须以一种竭尽全力自尊自重的精神，大胆抛弃自我克制的枷锁。
4.What is needed is a realization that power without love is reckless and abusive, and love without power issentimental and anemic.必须懂得没有爱的权力是毫无节制、易被滥用的，而没有权力的爱则是多愁善感、脆弱无力的。
5.It is precisely this collision of immoral power with powerless morality which constitutes the major crisis of our times.正是这种邪恶的权力和没有权势的道义的冲突构成了我们时代的主要危机。
6.Now, early in this century this proposal would have been greeted with ridicule and denunciation, as destructive of initiative and responsibility.在本世纪之初，这种建议会受到嘲笑和谴责，认为它对主动性和责任感起到负面作用。
大学英语精读第一册第5课内容介绍大学英语精读第一册第5课内容介绍导语：圣诞节虽然是西方的节日，但是我们好多人都会过这个节日，因为我们心中有圣诞老人。
下面YJBYS店铺分享有关圣诞节的英语课文，欢迎大家学习!Unit Five: A Miserable，Merry ChristmasTEXTA miserable and merry Christmas? How could it be?A Miserable, Merry ChristmasChristmas was coming. I wanted a pony. T o make sure that my parents understood, I declared that I wanted noting else."Nothing but a pony?" my father asked."Nothing," I said."Not even a pair of high boots?"That was hard. I did want boots, but I stuck to the pony. "No, not even boots.""Nor candy? There ought to be something to fill your stocking with, and Santa Claus can't put a pony into a stocking,"That was true, and he couldn't lead a pony down the chimney either . But no. "All I want is a pony," I said. "If I can't have a pony, give me nothing, nothing."On Christmas Eve I hung up my stocking along with my sisters.The next morning my sisters and I woke up at six. Then we raced downstairs to the fireplace. And there they were, the gifts, all sorts of wonderful things, mixed-up piles of presents. Only my stocking was empty; it hung limp; not a thing in it; and under and around it -- nothing. My sisters had knelt down, each by her pile of gifts; they were crying with delight, till they looked up and sawme standing there looking so miserable. They came over to me and felt my stocking: nothing.I don't remember whether I cried at that moment, but my sisters did. They ran with me back to my bed, and there we all cried till I became indignant. That helped some. I got up, dressed, and driving my sisters away, I went out alone into the stable, and there, all by myself, I wept. My mother came out to me and she tried to comfort me. But I wanted no comfort. She left me and went on into the house with sharp words for my father.My sisters came to me, and I was rude. I ran away from them.I went around to the front of the house, sat down on the steps, and, the crying over, I ached. I was wronged, I was hurt. And my father must have been hurt, too, a little. I saw him looking out of the window. He was watching me or something for an hour or two, drawing back the curtain so little lest I catch him, but I saw his face, and I think I can see now the anxiety upon on it, the worried impatience.After an hour or two, I caught sight of a man riding a pony down the street, a pony and a brand-new saddle; the most beautiful saddle I ever saw, and it was a boy's saddle. And the pony! As he drew near, I saw that the pony was really a small horse, with a black mane and tail, and one white foot and a white star on his forehead. For such a horse as that I would have given anything.But the man came along, reading the numbers on the houses, and, as my hopes -- my impossible hopes -- rose, he looked at our door and passed by, he and the pony, and the saddle. Too much, I fell upon the steps and broke into tears. Suddenly I heard a voice."Say, kid," it said, "do you know a boy named LennieSteffens?"I looked up. It was the man on the pony, back again."Yes," I spluttered through my tears. "That's me.""Well," he said, "then this is your horse. I've been looking all over for you and your house. Why don't you put your number where it can be seen?""Get down," I said, running out to him. I wanted to ride.He went on saying something about "ought to have got here at seven o'clock, but--"I hardly heard, I could scarcely wait. I was so happy, so thrilled.I rode off up the street. Such a beautiful pony. And mine! After a while I turned and trotted back to the stable. There was the family, father, mother, sisters, all working for me, all happy. They had been putting in place the tools of my new business: currycomb, brush, pitchfork -- everything, and there was hay in the loft.But that Christmas, which my father had planned so carefully, was it the best or the worst I ever knew? He often asked me that;I never could answer as a boy. I think now that it was both. It covered the whole distance from broken-hearted misery to bursting happiness -- too fast, A grown-up could hardly have stood it.NEW WORDSmiserablea. causing unhappiness; very unhappy 悲惨的merrya. cheerful, full of lively happiness, fun, etc. 欢乐的，愉快的ponyn. a small horse 矮种马;小马bootn. 长统靴candyn. (AmE) sweets 糖果stickingn. 长(统)袜chimneyn. 烟囱even. 前夕fireplacen. 壁炉mixed-upa. (different things) put together 混合的，混杂的limpa. soft; not stiff or firm 软的`;松沓的kneelv. go down or remain on the knee(S) 跪下indignanta. angry at sth. unfair 气愤的;愤慨的stablen. building for keeping and feeding animals, esp. horses 马厩weepv. cry 哭泣;流泪rudea. not at all polite 粗鲁的，不礼貌的wrongvt. treat unjustly 委屈curtainn. 窗帘lestconj. for fear that 唯恐，以免anxietyn. fear caused by uncertainty about sth. 焦虑impatiencen. inability to wait calmly 不耐烦，急躁patiencen.brandn. 商标，牌子brand-newa. entirely new and unused 崭新的saddlen. 马鞍manen. 马鬃foreheadn. that part of the face above the eyes and below the hair 前额kidn. childsplutterv. speak quickly and confusedly (from excitement, etc.) 语无伦次地说scarcelyad. hardly, almost not 几乎不，简直不scarcea.thrillvt. excite greatly 使非常激动trotvi. run or ride slowly, with short steps (马)小跑currycombn. a special comb used to rub and clean a horse 马梳pitchforkn. 干草叉hayn. dried grass 干草loftn. a room over a stable, where hay is kept 草料棚broken-hearteda. filled with grief; very sad 心碎的;极其伤心的miseryn. the state of being very unhappy, poor, ill, lonely, etc. 悲惨;不幸;苦难happinessn. the state of being happy 快乐;幸福grown-upa. & n. (of) an adult person 成人(的)PHRASES & EXPRESSIONSmake surect so as to make something certain 确保;查明nothing butnothing other than; only 除了...以外没有什么;仅仅，只不过stick torefuse to give up or change 坚持，不放弃hang upfix (sth,) at a high place so that it does not touch the ground 挂起or something(used when the speaker is not sure) 诸如此类catch sight ofsee suddenly or for a moment 看到，发现draw nearmover near 接近break intosuddenly start (to cry, laugh, etc.) 突然...起来in placein the right place 在适当的位置PROPER NAMESSanta Claus圣诞老人Christmas Eve圣诞前夜Lennie Steffens伦尼.斯蒂芬斯下载全文下载文档。
现代大学英语精读5第一课中英文对照Martin Luther King Speech - Where do we go from hereNow, in order to answer the question, "Where do we go from here?" which is our theme, we must first honestly recognize where we are now. When the Constitution was written, a strange formula to determine taxes and representation declared that the Negro was 60 percent of a person. Today another curious formula seems to declare he is 50 percent of a person. Of the good things in life, the Negro has approximately one half those of whites. Of the bad things of life, he has twice those of whites. Thus half of all Negroes live in substandard housing. And Negroes have half the income of whites. When we view the negative experiences of life, the Negro has a double share. There are twice as many unemployed.The rate of infant mortality among Negroes is double that of whites and there are twice as many Negroes dying in Vietnam as whites in proportion to their size in the population.现在,为了回答这个问题,“我们该何去何从呢?”是我们的主题,我们首先必须坦白承认我们现在是在什么地方。
Lesson Thirteen Christmas Day in the MorningPearl S. Buck1. He woke suddenly and completely. It was four o'clock, the hour at which his father had always called him toget up and help with the milking. Strange how the habits of his youth clung to him still! His father had been dead for thirty years, and yet he still woke at four o'clock in the morning. But this morning, because it was Christmas, he did not try to sleep again.2. Yet what was the magic of Christmas now? His childhood and youth were long past, and his own childrenhad grown up and gone.3. Yesterday his wife had said, "It isn't worthwhile, perhaps— "4. And he had said, "Yes, Alice, even if there are only the two of us, let's have a Christmas of our own."5. Then she had said, "Let's not trim the tree until tomorrow, Robert. I'm tired."6. He had agreed, and the tree was still out by the back door.7. He lay in his bed in his room.8. Why did he feel so awake tonight? For it was still night, a clear and starry night. No moon, of course, butthe stars were extraordinary! Now that he thought of it, the stars seemed always large and clear before the dawn of Christmas Day.9. 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.10. "Mary, I hate to call Rob in the mornings. He's growing so fast, and he needs his sleep. I wish I couldmanage alone."11. "Well, you can't, Adam." His mother's voice was brisk, "Besides, he isn't a child any more. It's time he tookhis turn."12. "Yes," his father said slowly, "But I sure do hate to wake him."13. 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. Now that he knew his father loved him, there would be no more loitering in the mornings and having to be called again. He got up, stumbling blind with sleep, and pulled on his clothes.14. And then on the night before Christmas, he lay thinking about the next day. They were poor, and most of theexcitement was in the turkey they had raised themselves and in the mince pies his mother made. His sisterssewed presents, and his mother and father always bought something he needed, a warm jacket, maybe, or a book. And he always saved and bought them each something, too.15. He wished, that Christmas he was fifteen, he had a better present for his father instead of the usual tie fromthe ten-cent store. He lay on his side and looked out of his attic window.16. "Dad," he had once asked when he was a little boy, "What is a stable?"17. "It's just a barn," his father had replied, "like ours."18. Then Jesus had been born in a barn, and to a barn the shepherds and the Wise Men had come, bringing theirChristmas gifts!19. A thought struck him like a silver dagger. Why should he not give his father a special gift, out there in thebarn? He could get up earlier, creep into the barn and get all the milking done. And then when his father went in to start the milking, he'd see it all done.20. He laughed to himself as he gazed at the stars. It was what he would do, and he mustn't sleep too soundly.21. He must have waked twenty times, striking a match each time to look at his old watch.22. At a quarter to three, he got up and crept downstairs, careful of the creaky boards, and let himself out. A bigstar hung low over the roof, a reddish gold. The cows looked at him, sleepy and surprised. It was early for them, too.23. But they accepted him calmly and he brought some hay for each cow and then got the milking pail and thebig milk cans.24. He had never milked all alone before, but it seemed almost easy. He smiled and milked steadily, two strongstreams rushing into the pail, frothing and fragrant. The cows were behaving well, as though they knew it was Christmas.25. The task went more easily than he had ever known it to before. Milking for once was not a chore. It was agift to his father. He finished, the two milk cans were full, and he covered them and closed the milk-house door carefully, making sure of the latch. 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 barred the door behind him.26. Back in his room he had only a minute to pull off his clothes and jump into bed, before he heard his fatherget up. He put the covers over his head to silence his quick breathing. The door opened.27. "Rob! " his father called. "We have to get up, son, even if it is Christmas."28. "Aw-right," he said sleepily.29. "I'll go on out," his father said. "I'll get things started."30. The door closed and he lay still, laughing to himself. In just a few minutes his father would know. Hisdancing heart was ready to jump from his body.31. The minutes were endless—ten, fifteen, he did not know how many—and he heard his father's footstepsagain. The door opened.32. "Rob!"33. "Yes, Dad—"34. "You son of a—" His father was laughing, a queer sobbing sort of a laugh. "Thought you'd fool me, didyou?" His father was standing beside his bed, feeling for him, pulling away the cover.35. He found his father and clutched him in a great hug. He felt his father's arms go around him. It was dark, andthey could not see each other's faces.36. "Son, I thank you. Nobody ever did a nicer thing—"37. "It's for Christmas, Dad!"38. He did not know what to say. His heart was bursting with love.39. "Well. I guess I can go back to sleep," his father said after a moment. "No, come to think of it, son, I'venever seen you children when you first saw the Christmas tree. I was always in the barn. Come on!"40. He pulled on his clothes again, and they went down to the Christmas tree, and soon the sun was creeping upto where the star had been. Oh, what a Christmas morning, and how his heart had nearly burst again with shyness and pride as his father told his mother about how he, Rob, had got up all by himself.41. "The best Christmas gift I ever had, and I'll remember it, son, every year on Christmas morning, as long as Ilive."42. They had both remembered it, and now that his father was dead he remembered it alone: that blessedChristmas dawn when, along with the cows in the barn, he had made his first gift of true love. Outside the window now the stars slowly faded. He got out of bed and put on his slippers and bathrobe and went softly downstairs. He brought in the tree, and carefully began to trim it. It was done very soon. He then went to his library and brought the little box that contained his special gift to his wife, a diamond brooch, not large, but beautiful in design. But he was not satisfied. He wanted to tell her—to tell her how much he loved her.43. How fortunate that he had been able to love! Ah, that was the true joy of life, the ability to love! For he wasquite sure that some people were genuinely unable to love anyone. But love was alive in him; it still was.44. It occurred to him suddenly that it was alive because long ago it had been born in him when he knew hisfather loved him. That was it: love alone could waken love.45. And this morning, this blessed Christmas morning, he would give it to his beloved wife. He could write itdown in a letter for her to read and keep forever. He went to his desk and began: My dearest love.46. When it was finished, he sealed it and tied it on the tree. He put out the light and went tiptoing up the stairs.The stars in the sky were gone, and the first rays of the sun were gleaming in the east, such a happy, happy Christmas!第十三课圣诞节的早上1他猛然彻底醒了过来。
Lesson 11 AN IOWA CHRISTMASBy PAUL ENGLEILLUSTATED FOR AMERICAN HERITAGE BY DOUGLAS GORSLINEE very Christmas should begin with the sound of bells, and when I was a child mine always did. But they were sleigh bells, not church bells, for we lived in a part of Cedar Rapids, Iowa, where there were no churches. My bells were on my father’s team of horses as he drove up to our horse-headed hitching post with the bobsled that would take us to celebrate Christmas on the family farm ten miles out in the country. My father would bring the team down Fifth Avenue at a smart trot, (licking his whip over the horses’ rumps and making the bells double their light, thin jangling over the snow, whose radiance threw back a brilliance like the sound of bells.There are no such departures any more: the whole family piling into the bobsled with a foot of golden oat straw to lie in and heavy bullalo robes to lie under, the horses stamping the soft snow, and at every motion of their hoofs the bells jingling, jingling. My father sat there with the reins firmly held, wearing a long coat made from the hide of a favorite family horse, the deep chestnut color still glowing, his mittens also from ihe same hide. It always troubled me as a boy of eight that the horses had so indiderent a view of their late friend appearing as a warm overcoat on the back of the man who put the iron bit in their mouths.There are no streets like those any more: the snow sensibly left on the road for the sake of sleighs and easy travel. We could hop oil and ride the heavy runners as they made their hissing, tearing sound over the packed snow. And along the streets we met other horses, so that we moved from one set of bells to another, from the tiny tinkle of the individual bells on the shafts to the silvery, leaping sound of the long strands hung over the harness. There would be an occasional brass-mounted automobile laboring on its narrow tires and as often as not pulled up the slippery hills by a horse, and we would pass it with a triumphant shout for an awkward nuisance which was obviously not here to stay.The country road ran through a landscape of little hills and shallow valleys and heavy groves of timber, including one of great towering black walnut trees which were all cut down a year later to be made into gunstocks for the First World War. The great moment was when we left the road and turned up the long lane on the farm. It ran through fields where watermelons were always planted in the summer because of the fine sandy soil, and I could go out and break one open to see its Christmas colors of green skin and red inside. My grandfather had been given some of that farm as bounty land for service as a cavalryman in the Civil War.Near the low house on the hill, with oaks on one side and apple trees on the other, my father would stand up, flourish his whip, and bring the bobsled right up to the door of the house with a burst of speed.There are no such arrivals any more: the harness bells ringing and clashing like faraway steeples, the horses whinnying at the horses in the barn and receiving a great, trumpeting whinny in reply, the dogs leaping into the bobsled and burrowing under the buffalo robes, a squawking from the hen house, a yelling of “Whoa, whoa,” at the excited horses, boy and girl cousins howling around the bobsled, and the descent into the snow with the Christmas basket carried by my mother.While my mother and sisters went into the house, the team was unhitched and taken to the barn, to be covered with blankets and given a little grain. That winter odor of a barn is a wonderfully complex one,rich and warm and utterly unlike the smell of the same barn in summer: the body heat of many animals weighing a thousand pounds and more; pigs in one corner making their dark, brown-sounding grunts; milk cattle still nuzzling the manger for wisps of hay; horses eyeing the newcomers and rolling their deep, oval eyes white; oats, hay, and straw tangy still with the live August sunlight; the manure steaming; the sharp odor of leather harness rubbed with neat’s-foot oil to keep it supple; the molasses-sweet odor of ensilage in the silo where the fodder was almost fermenting. It is a smell from strong and living things, and my father always said it was the secret of health, that it scoured out a man’s lungs; and he would stand there, breathing deeply, one hand on a horse’s rump, watching the steam come out from under the blankets as the team cooled down from their rapid trot up the lane. It gave him a better appetite, he argued, than plain fresh air, which was thin and had no body to it.A barn with cattle and horses is the place to begin Christmas; after all, that’s where the original event happened, and that same smell was the first air that the Christ Child breathed.By the time we reached the house, my mother and sisters were wearing aprons and busying in the kitchen, as red-faced as the women who had been there all morning. The kitchen was the biggest room in the house and all family life save sleeping went on there. My uncle even had a couch along one wall where he napped and where the children lay when they were ill. The kitchen range was a tremendous black and gleaming one called a Smoke Eater, with pans bubbling over the holes above the fire box and a reservoir of hot water at the side, lined with dull copper, from which my uncle would dip a basin of water and shave above the sink, turning his lathered face now and then to drop a remark into the women’s talk, waving his straightedged razor as if it were a threat to make them believe him. My job was to go to the woodpile out back and keep the fire burning, splitting the chunks of oak and hickory, watching how cleanly the ax went through the tough wood.It was a handmade Christmas. The tree came from down in the grove, and on it were many paper ornaments made by my cousins, as well as beautiful ones brought from the Black Forest, where the family had originally lived. There were popcorn balls, from corn planted on the sunny slope by the watermelons, paper horns with homemade candy, and apples from the orchard. The gifts tended to be hand-knit socks, or wool ties, or fancy crocheted “yokes” for nightgowns, tatted collars for blouses, doilies with fancy flower patterns for tables, tidies for chairs, and once I received a brilliantly polished cow horn with a cavalryman crudely but bravely carved on it. And there would usually be a cornhusk doll, perhaps with a prune or walnut for a face, and a gay dress of an old corset-cover scrap with its ribbons still bright. And there were real candles burning with real flames, every guest sniffing the air for the smell of scorching pine needles. No electrically lit tree has the warm and primitive presence of a tree with a crown of living fires over it, suggesting whatever true flame Joseph may have kindled on that original cold night.There are no dinners like that any more: every item from the farm itself, with no deep freezer, no car for driving into town for packaged food. The pies had been baked the day before, pumpkin, apple, and mince; as we ate them, we could look out the window and see the cornfield where the pumpkins grew, the trees from which the apples were picked. There was cottage cheese, with the dripping bags of curds still hanging from the cold cellar ceiling. The bread had been baked that morning, heating up the oven for the meat, and as my aunt hurried by I could smell in her apron that freshest of all odors with which the human nose is honored—bread straight from the oven. There would be a huge brown crock of beans with smoked pork from the hog butchered every November. We could see, beyond the crock, the broad black iron kettle in a corner of the barnyard, turned upside down, the innocent hogs stopping to scratch on it.There would be every form of preserve: wild grape from the vines in the grove, crab apple jelly, wild blackberry and tame raspberry, strawberry from the bed in the garden, sweet and sour pickles with dill from the edge of the lane where it grew wild, pickles from the rind of the same watermelon we had cooled in the tank at the milk house and eaten on a hot September afternoon.Cut into the slope of the hill behind the house, with a little door of its own, was the vegetable cellar, from which came carrots, turnips, cabbages, potatoes, squash, Sometimes my scared cousins were sent there for punishment, to sit in darkness and meditate on their sins; but never on Christmas Day. For days after such an ordeal they could not endure biting into a carrot.And of course there was the traditional sauerkraut,, with Hecks of caraway seed. I remember one Christmas Day, when a ten-gallon crock of it in the basement, with a stone weighting down the lid, had blown up, driving the stone against the floor of the parlor, and my uncle had exclaimed, “Good God, the piano’s fallen through the floor.”All the meat was from the home place too. Most useful of all, the goose—the very one which had chased me the summer before, hissing and darting out its bill at the end of its curving neck like a feathered snake. Here was the universal bird of an older Christmas: its down was plucked, washed, and hung in bags in the barn to be put into pillows; its awkward body was roasted until the skin was crisp as a fine paper; and the grease from its carcass was melted down, a little camphor added, and rubbed on the chests of coughing children. We ate, slept on, and wore that goose.I was blessed as a child with a remote uncle from the nearest railroad town, Uncle Ben, who was admiringly referred to as a “railroad man,” working the run into Omaha. Ben had been to Chicago; just often enough, as his wife Minnie said with a sniff in her voice, “to ruin the fool, not often enough to teach him anything useful.” Ben refused to eat fowl in any form, and as a Christmas token a little pork roast would be put in the oven just, for him, always referred to by t he hurrying ladies in the kitchen as “Ben’s chunk.” Ben would make frequent trips to the milk house, returning each time a little redder in the face, usually with one of the men toward whom he had jerked his head. It was not many years before I came to ass ociate Ben’s remarkably fruity breath not only with the mince pie, but with the jug 1 funnel sunk in the bottom of the cooling tank with a stone tied to its neck. He was a romantic person in my life for his constant travels and for that dignifying term “railroad man,” so much more impressive than farmer or lawyer. Yet now I see that he was a short man with a fine natural shyness, giving us knives and guns because he had no children of his own.And of course the trimmings were from the farm too: the hickory nut cake made with nuts gathered in the grove after the first frost and hulled out by my cousins with yellowed hands; the black walnut cookies, sweeter than any taste; the fudge with butternuts crowding it. In the mornings we would be given a hammer, a (lut iron, and a bowl of nuts to crack and pick out for the homemade ice cream.And there was the orchard beyond the kitchen window, the Wealthy, the Russet, the Wolf with itsgiant-sized fruit, and an apple romantically called the Northern Spy as if it were a suspicious character out of the Civil War.All families had their special Christmas food. Ours was called Dutch Bread, made from a dough halfway between bread and cake, stuffed with citron and every sort of nut from the farm—hazel, black walnut, hickory, butternut. A little round one was always baked for me in a Clabber Girl baking soda can, and my last act on Christmas Eve was to put it by the tree so that Santa Clans would find it and have asnack—after all, he’d come a long, cold way to our house. And every Christmas morning, he would have eaten it. My aunt made the same Dutch Bread and we smeared over it the same butter she had been churning from their own Jersey (highest butterfat content) milk that same morning.To eat in the same room where food is cooked—that is the way to thank the Lord for His abundance. The long table, with its different levels where additions had been made for the small fry, ran the length of the kitchen. The air was heavy with odors not only of food on plates but of the act of cooking itself, along with the metallic smell of heated iron from the hard-working Smoke Eater, and the whole stove offered us its yet uneaten prospects of more goose and untouched pies. To see the giblet gravy made and poured into a gravy boat, which had painted on its sides winter scenes of boys sliding and deer bounding over snow, is the surest way to overeat its swimming richness.The warning for Christmas dinner was always an order to go to the milk house lor cream, where we skimmed From the cooling pans of fresh milk the cream which had the same golden color as the flanks of the Jersey cows which had given it. The last deed before eating was grinding the coffee beans in the little mill, adding that exotic odor to the more native ones of goose and spiced pumpkin pie. Then all would sit at the table and my uncle would ask the grace, sometimes in German, but later, for the benefit of us ignorant chil” dren, in English:Come, Lord Jesus, beour guest,Share this food tliat youhave blessed.There are no blessings like that any more: every scrap of food for which my uncle had asked the blessing was the result of his own hard work. What he took to the Lord for Him to make holy was the plain substance that an Iowa farm could produce in an average year with decent rainfall and proper plowing and manure.The first act of dedication on such a Christmas was to the occasion which had begun it, thanks to the Child of a pastoral couple who no doubt knew a good deal about rainfall and grass and the fattening of animals. The second act of dedication was to the ceremony of eating. My aunt kept a turmoil of food circulating, and to refuse any of it was somehow to violate the elevated nature of the day. We were there not only to celebrate a fortunate event for mankind, but also to recognize that suitering is the natural lot of men—and to consume the length and breadth of that meal was to suder! But we all laced the ordeal with courage. Uncle Ben would let out his belt—a fancy Western belt with steer heads and silver buckle—with a snap and a sigh. The women managed better by always getting up from the table and trotting to the kitchen sink or the Smoke Eater or outdoors for some item left in the cold. The men sat there grimly enduring the glory of their appetites.After dinner, late in the afternoon, the women would make despairing gestures toward the dirty dishes and scoop up hot water from the reservoir at the side of the range. The men would go to the barn and look after the livestock. Afy older cousin would take his new .22 rifle and stalk out across the pasture with the remark, “I saw that fox just now looking for his Christmas goose.” Or sleds would be dragged out and we would slide in a long snake, feet hooked into the sled behind, down the hill and across the westward sloping fields into the sunset. Bones would be thrown to dogs, suet tied in the oak trees for the juncos and winterdefying chickadees, a saucer of skimmed milk set out for the cats, daintily and disgustedly picking their padded feet through the snow, and crumbs scattered on a bird feeder where already thecrimson cardinals would be dropping out of the sky like blood. Then back to the house for a final warming-up before leaving.There was usually a song around die tree before we were all bundled up, many thanks all around for gilts, the basket as loaded as when it came, more so, for leftover food had been piled in it. My father and uncle would have brought up the team from the barn and hooked them into the double shafts of the bobsled, and we would all go out into the freezing air of early evening.On the way to the door I would walk under a photograph of my grandfather, his cavalry saber hung over it (I had once sneaked it down from the wall and in a burst of gallantry had killed a mouse with it behind the cornc rib). With his long white beard he looked like one of the prophets in Hurlbut’s illustrated Stoiy of the Bible, and it was years before I discovered that he had not been off, as a young man, fighting the Philistines, but the painted Sioux. It was hard to think of that gentle man, whose family had left Germany in protest over military service, swinging that deadly blade and yelling in a cavalry charge. But he had done just that, in some hard reali/ation that sometimes the way to have peace and a quiet life on a modest farm was to go off and fight for them.And now those hells again as the horses, impatient from their long standing in the barn, stamped and shook their harness, my lather holding them hack with a soft clucking in his throat and a hard pull on the reins. The smell of wood smoke flavoring the air in our noses, the cousins shivering with cold, “Goodbye, good-bye,” called out from everyone, and the bobsled would move oil, creaking over the frostbrittle snow. All of us, my mother included, would dig down in the straw and pull the buffalo robes up to our chins. As the horses settled into a steady trot, the bells gently chiming in their rhythmical beat, we would fall half asleep, the hiss of the runners comforting. As we looked up at the night sky through halfclosed eyelids, the constant bounce and swerve of the runners would seem to shake the little stars as if they would fall into our laps. But that one great star in the East never wavered. Nothing could shake it from the sky as we drifted home on Christmas.Paul Engle was born in Iowa in 1908, grew up in Cedar Rapids, and was educated in Iowa schools. Soon after receiving his master’s degree from the State University of Iowa he began teaching there. He is now professor of English and conductor of the un iversity’s nationally famous poetry workshop.。
