"هیچکس نمی تواند برایت تجربه ای ایجاد کند، چونکه کسی نمی تواند مسیر ذهنی ات را کنترل کند. در مسیر شادی، خودت می توانی هر آنچه بخواهی بشوی، بدست آوری، انجام بدهی و کشف کنی . ابراهام هیکز"
It grieves me to tell you the Buttercup ( the spotted cow with on horn, Mother of Lesbia ) has done a disgraceful thing. She got into the orchard Friday evening and ate apples under the trees, and ate and ate until they went to her head. For two days she has been perfectly dead drunk! That is the truth I am telling. Did you ever hear anything so scandalous? Sir, I remain,
Your affectionate orphan,
PS. Indians in the first chapter and highwaymen in the second. I hold my breath. What can the third contain? 'Red Hawk leapt twenty feet in the air and bit the dust.' That is the subject of the frontispiece. Aren't Judy and Jervie having fun?
oats جو دو سر
orchard باغ میوه
frontispiece سرلوحه، دیباچه ی کتاب
highwayman راهزن، دزد سر گردنه
buttercup گل آلاله، نوعی شیرینی کوچک
disgraceful رسوایی، ننگین ، خفت آور
scandalous ننگ آور
affectionate مهربان، خونگرم
بابای عزیز عزیزم
چی شده؟ مگر نمی دانید به یک دختر هفده عیدی نمی دهند؟ یادتان باشد که من یک سوسیالیست هستم. مگر شما می خواهید مرا تبدیل به یک پلوتوکرات کنید؟ فکرش را بکنید اگر به طور اتفاقی ما باهم دعوا کنیم من بدبخت باید یک کامیون کرایه کنم تا بتوانم عیدی ها را پس بفرستم
شال گردنی که برایتان فرستادم خیلی بد بود. عذر می خوام با دست خودم آن را بافته ام ( بدون تردید از بد بودن آن این حقیقت را فهمیده اید) روزهای سرد آن را دور گردن بیندازید ، بعد دکمه های پالتو را هم تا بالا ببندید و کراوات را هم زیر آن پنهان کنید. بابا جان من خیلی خیلی متشکرم . شما بهترین باباهای دنیا هستید و دیوانه ترین
یک برگ چهار پر شبدر از اردوی مک براید آورده ام که به امید خوشبختی شما در سال جدید برایتان می فرستم
Do you wish to do something, Daddy, that will ensure your eternal salvation? There is a family here who are in awfully desperate straits. A mother and father and four visible children--the two older boys have disappeared into the world to make their fortune and have not sent any of it back. The father worked in a glass factory and got consumption--it's awfully unhealthy work-- and now has been sent away to a hospital. That took all their savings, and the support of the family falls upon the oldest daughter, who is twenty-four. she dressmakes for $1.50 a day ( when she can get it ) and embroiders centerpieces in the evening. The mother isn't very strong and is extremely ineffectual and pious. She sits with her hands folded, a picture of patient resignation, while the daughter kills herself with overwork and responsibility and worry; she doesn't see how they are going to get through the rest of the winter--and I don't either. One hundred dollars would buy some coal and some shoes for three children so that they could go to school, and give a little margin so that she needn't worry herself to death when a few days pass and she doesn't get work.
You are the richest man I know. Don't you suppose you could spare one hundred dollars? That girl deserves help a lot more than I ever did. I wouldn't ask it except for the girl; I don't care much what happens to the mother--she is such a jelly-fish.
The way people are for ever rolling their eyes to heaven and saying, 'Perhaps it's all for the best,' when they are perfectly dead sure it's not, makes me enraged. Humility or resignation or whatever you choose to call it, is simply impotent inertia. I'm for a more militant religion!
We are getting the most dreadful lessons in philosophy--all of Schopenhauer for tomorrow. The professor doesn't seem to realize that we are taking any other subject. He's queer old duck; he goes about with his head in the clouds and blinks dazedly when occasionally he strikes solid earth. He tries to lighten his lectures with an occasional witticism--and we do our best to smile, but I assure you his jokes are no laughing matter. He spends his entire time between classes in trying to figure out whether matter really exists or whether he only thinks it exists.
I'm sure my sewing girl hasn't any doubt but that it exists!
Where do you think my new novel is? In the waste-basket. I can see myself that it's no good on earth, and when a loving author realizes that, what WOULD be the judgment of a critical public?