我喜欢的童话故事英文作文【一】
近年来，电影“忠犬八公——一只狗的故事”非常的流行。主要说的是一条忠实的狗和一个教授之间的感人故事。对我来说，我们可以从电影中学到许多东西。
To begin with, I believe that most people who have watched this film were moved by the dog’s loyalty. The dog has waited for his owner for a lifetime and hid loyal behavior has taught us never forget anyone we loved—the meaning of loyalty. We can learn that we should try to get along with each other with true affection and never betray in an intimated relationship so that we can strengthen our relationship and understand each other better. And we should believe that there is still a true affection in the world.
首先，我相信很多人看过这部电影的人都被狗的忠诚感动了。狗等它的主人等了一辈子，这一忠诚的行为告诉我们永远不要忘记任何你所爱的人——忠诚的意义。我们可以学习，我们可以学到我们应该应该用真实的情感与他人交流相处并永远不出卖亲密的关系，这样我们才能够加强我们的关系，更好地相互理解。我们应该相信世界上还存在有真情。
Another thing we can learn from the film is to value what we have. In other words, we should learn to count our fortunes. What we own is always unique and cannot be replaced by others, so we have to value what we have. As the saying goes, “Tree prefers calm while wind not subsides; Son chooses filial while parents died”. We should never be regretful until losing.
我们可以从电影中学会的另一件事是珍惜我们所拥有的。换句话说，我们应该学会数数我们的.财富。我们拥有的一般都是独一无二、不可替代的，所以我们要珍惜我们所拥有的。俗话说，“树欲静而风不消退；父母去世后儿子才孝顺”。我们应该在失去前都不后悔。
Finally, we should learn to treat our pets well because they are also our friends and even our family members.
最后，我们应该好好的对待我们的宠物，因为他们也是我们的朋友甚至是我们的家人。
我喜欢的童话故事英文作文【二】
There were three of them. There were four of us, and April lay on the campsite and on the river, a mixture of dawn at a damp extreme and the sun in the leaves at cajole. This was Deer Lodge1on the Pine River in Ossipee, New Hampshire, though the lodge was naught2 but a foundation remnant in the earth. Brother Bentley's father, Oren, had found this place sometime after the First World War, a foreign affair that had seriously done him no good but he found solitude3abounding4 here. Now we were here, post World War II, post Korean War, Vietnam War on thebrink5. So much learned, so much yet to learn.
Peace then was everywhere about us, in the riot of young leaves, in the spree of bird confusion and chatter6, in the struggle of pre-dawn animals for the start of a new day, a CooperHawk7 that had smashed down through trees for a squealing8 rabbit, yap of a fox at a youngster, a skunk9 at rooting.
We had pitched camp in the near darkness, Ed LeBlanc, Brother Bentley, Walter Ruszkowski, myself. A dozen or more years we had been here, and seen no one. Now, into our campsite deep in the forest, so deep that at times we had to rebuild sections of narrow road (more a logger's path flushed out by earlier rains, deep enough where we thought we'd again have no traffic, came a growling10 engine, an old solid body van, a Chevy, the kind I had driven for Frankie Pike and the Lobster11 Pound in Lynn delivering lobsters12 throughout the Merrimack Valley. It had pre-WW II high fenders, a faded black paint on a body you'd swear had been hammered out of corrugated13 steel, and an engine that made sounds too angry and too early for the start of day. Two elderly men, we supposed in their seventies, sat the front seat; felt hats at the slouch and decorated with an assortment14 of tied flies like a miniature bandoleer ofammunition15 on the band. They could have been conscripts for Emilano Zappata, so loaded their hats and their vests as they climbed out of the truck.
"Mornin', been yet?" one of them said as he pulled his boots up from the folds at his knees, the tops of them as wide as a big mouth bass16 coming up from the bottom for a frog sitting on a lily pad. His hands were large, the fingers long and I could picture them in a shop barn working aprimal17 plane across the face of a maple18 board. Custom-made, old elegance19, those hands said.
"Barely had coffee," Ed LeBlanc said, the most vocal1 of the four of us, quickest at friendship, at shaking hands. "We've got a whole pot almost. Have what you want." The pot was pointed2out sitting on a hunk of grill3 across the stones of our fire, flames licking lightly at its sides. The pot appeared as if it had been at war, a number of dents4 scarred it, the handle had evidently been replaced, and if not adjusted against a small rock it would have fallen over for sure. Once, a half-hour on the road heading north, noting it missing, we'd gone back to get it. When we fished the Pine River, coffee was the glue, the morning glue, the late evening glue, even though we'd often unearth5 our beer from a natural cooler in early evening. Coffee, camp coffee, has a ritual. It is thick, it is dark, it is potboiled over a squaw-pine fire, it is strong, it is enough to wake the demon6 in you, stoke last evening's cheese and pepperoni. First man up makes the fire, second man the coffee; but into that pot has to go fresh eggshells to hold the grounds down, give coffee a taste of history, a sense of place. That means at least one egg be cracked open for its shells, usually in the shadows and glimmers7 of false dawn. I suspect that's where "scrambled8 eggs" originated, from some camp like ours, settlers rushing west, lumberjacks hungry, hoboes lobbying for breakfast. So, camp coffee has made its way into poems, gatherings9, memories, a time and thing not letting go, not being manhandled, not being cast aside.
"You're early enough for eggs and bacon if you need a start." Eddie added, his invitation tossedkindly10 into the morning air, his smile a match for morning sun, a man of welcomes. "We have hot cakes, kulbassa, home fries, if you want." We have the food of kings if you really want to know. There were nights we sat at his kitchen table at 101 Main Street, Saugus, Massachusetts planning the trip, planning each meal, planning the campsite. Some menus were founded on a case of beer, a late night, a curse or two on the ride to work when day started.
"Been there a'ready," the other man said, his weaponry also noted11 by us, a little more orderly in its presentation, including an old Boy Scout12 sash across his chest, the galaxy13of flies in supreme14 positioning. They were old Yankees, in the face and frame the pair of them undoubtedly15 brothers, staunch, written into early routines, probably had been up at three o'clock to get here at this hour. They were taller than we were, no fat on their frames, wide-shouldered, big-handed, barely coming out of their reserve, but fishermen. That fact alone would win any of us over. Obviously, they'd been around, a heft of time already accrued16.
Then the pounding came, from inside the truck, as if a tire iron was beating at the sides of the vehicle. It was not a timid banging, not a minor1 signal. Bang! Bang! it came, and Bang! again. And the voice of authority from some place in space, some regal spot in the universe. "I'm not sitting here the livelong day whilst you boys gab2 away." A toothless meshing3 came in his words, like Walter Brennan at work in the jail in Rio Bravo or some such movie.
"Comin', pa," one of them said, the most orderly one, the one with the old scout4 sash riding him like a bandoleer.
They pulled open the back doors of the van, swung them wide, to show His Venerable Self, ageless, white-bearded, felt hat too loaded with an arsenal5 of flies, sitting on a white wicker rocker with a rope holding him to a piece of vertical6 angle iron, the crude kind that could have been on early subways or trolley7 cars. Across his lap he held three delicate fly rods, old as him, thin, bamboo in color, probably too slight for a lake's three-pounder. But on the Pine River, upstream or downstream, under alders8 choking some parts of the river's flow, at a significant pool where side streams merge9 and phantom10 trout11 hang out their eternal promise, most elegant, fingertip elegant.
"Oh, boy," Eddie said at an aside, "there's the boss man, and look at those tools."Admiration12 leaked from his voice.
Rods were taken from the caring hands, the rope untied13, and His Venerable Self, white wicker rocker and all, was lifted from the truck and set by our campfire. I was willing to bet that my sister Pat, the dealer14 in antiques, would scoop15 up that rocker if given the slightest chance. The old one looked about the campsite, noted17 clothes drying from a previous day's rain, order of equipment and supplies aligned18 the way we always kept them, the canvas of our tent taut19 and true in its expanse, our fishing rods off the ground and placed atop the flyleaf so as not to tempt20 raccoons with smelly cork21 handles, no garbage in sight. He nodded.
We had passed muster22.
"You the ones leave it cleaner than you find it ever' year. We knowed sunthin' 'bout16 you. Never disturbed you afore. But we share the good spots." He looked closely at Brother Bentley, nodded a kind of recognition. "Your daddy ever fish here, son?"
Brother must have passed through the years in a hurry, remembering his father bringing him here as a boy. "A ways back," Brother said in his clipped North Saugus fashion, outlander, specific, no waste in his words. Old Oren Bentley, it had been told us, had walked five miles through the unknown woods off Route 16 as a boy and had come across the campsite, the remnants of an old lodge1, and a great curve in the Pine River so that a mile's walk in either direction gave you three miles of stream to fish, upstream or downstream. Paradise up north.
His Venerable Self nodded again, a man of signals, then said, "Knowed him way back some. Met him at the Iron Bridge. We passed a few times." Instantly we could see the story. A whole history of encounter was in his words; it marched right through us the way knowledge does, as well as legend. He pointed2 at the coffeepot. "The boys'll be off, but my days down there get cut up some. I'll sit a while and take some of thet." He said thet too pronounced, too dramatic, and it was a short time before I knew why.
The white wicker rocker went into a slow and deliberate motion, his head nodded again. Hespoke3 to his sons. "You boys be back no more'n two-three hours so these fellers can do their things too, and keep the place tidied up."
The most orderly son said, "Sure, pa. Two-three hours." The two elderly sons left the campsite and walked down the path to the banks of the Pine River, their boots swishing at thigh4 line, the most elegant rods pointing the way through scattered5 limbs, experience on the move.Trout6 beware, we thought.
"We been carpenters f'ever," he said, the clip still in his words. "Those boys a mine been some good at it too." His head cocked, he seemed to listen for their departure, the leaves and branches quiet, the murmur7 of the stream a tinkling8 idyllic9 music rising up the banking10. Old Venerable Himself moved the wicker rocker forward and back, a small timing11 taking place. He was hearing things we had not heard yet, the whole symphony all around us. Eddie looked at me and nodded his own nod. It said, "I'm paying attention and I know you are. This is our one encounter with a man who has fished for years the river we love, that we come to twice a year, in May with the mayflies, in June with the black flies." The gift and the scourge12, we'd often remember, having been both scarred and sewn by it.
Brother was still at memory, we could tell. Silence we thought was heavy about us, but there was so much going on. A bird talked to us from a high limb1. A fox called to her young. We were on the Pine River once again, nearly a hundred miles from home, in Paradise2.
"Name's Roger Treadwell. Boys are Nathan and Truett." The introductions had been accounted for.
Old Venerable Roger Treadwell, carpenter, fly fisherman, rocker, leaned forward and said, "You boys wouldn't have a couple spare beers, would ya?"
Now that's the way to start the day on the Pine River.
我喜欢的童话故事英文作文【三】
Once upon a time, when cups were plates and when knives and forks grew in the ground, there was an old woman who had never seen an eagle.
在和现在非常不一样的从前，有一位老妇人，她从来没见过鹰。
One day, an eagle was flying high in the sky and decided to stop for a rest. He swooped down and landed — where do you think?
有一天，一只高高飞翔的鹰想歇息一会儿，就从天上飞下来，停在了 ... 你猜哪里?
He landed right at the front door of the old woman’s house.
对了，就在这位老妇人的门前。
The old woman took a long, hard look at the eagle and said, “Oh my, what a funny pigeon you are!” She figured he was a pigeon, you see, because although she had never seen an eagle, she had seen lots of pigeons.
“I am not a pigeon at all,” said the eagle, drawing himself up to his full height.
老妇人仔细瞧了鹰很久，她说：“哦，你真是一只看上去很可笑的鸽子”。她认为这只鹰是鸽子，因为她从没见过鹰，但见过很多鸽子。
“我不是鸽子”，鹰说，还努力地立起来，让老妇人好好看看自己。
“Nonsense!” said the old woman. “I’ve lived for more years than you’ve got feathers in your wings, and I know a pigeon when I see one.”
“If you’re so sure that I’m a pigeon,” said the eagle, “then why do you say I’m a funny pigeon?”
“胡说!”老妇人说。“我活得年数比你翅膀上的羽毛还多，我不会认错一只鸽子。”
“如果你这么确定我是一只鸽子”，鹰说，“那你为什么说我很可笑?”
“Well, just look at your beak,” said the old woman. “It’s all bent. Pigeons have nice, straight beaks. And look at those claws of yours! Pigeons don’t have long claws like that. And look at the feathers on top of your head! They are all messed up and need to be brushed down. Pigeons have nice, smooth feathers on their heads.”
“看看你的喙”，老妇人说：“它是弯的，鸽子的喙很直很好看。再看看你的爪子，鸽子的爪子没那么长。还有你头上的羽毛，乱哄哄竖立着，应该梳平，像鸽子头上的毛那样顺。”
And before the eagle could reply, she got hold of him and carried him into the house. She took her clippers and trimmed his claws until they were quite short.
鹰还没来得及回答，老妇人就把他抱起来，带进屋子里，拿出剪刀，把他的爪子剪短剪平了。
She pulled on his beak until it was quite straight. And she brushed down the lovely tuft of feathers on top of his head until it was quite flat.
把它的嘴巴拉直，把头上的那簇毛也梳平了。
“Now you look more like a pigeon!” said the old woman. “That’s so much better!” But the eagle didn’t feel any better. In fact, he felt quite sad.
“好了，你现在终于看上去像一只鸽子了”，老妇人说，“真棒”。但是鹰的感觉可不好，他觉得很悲伤。
As soon as the old woman let him go he flew to the top of a tree. As he was sitting there wondering what to do, another eagle came along and alighted on the bough beside him.
“Well, well,” said the new bird. “Aren’t you a funny looking eagle!”
“Well, at least you know I’m an eagle,” said the first eagle. “Thank goodness for that!”
“What happened to you?” asked the new eagle.
所以当老妇人放下他，他马上飞到了树顶上;正在考虑下一步做什么的'时候，另外一只鹰飞过来，立在他身边。
第二只鹰说：“哈哈，你真是一只看上去很好笑的鹰!”
“好吧，至少你知道我是一只鹰”，第一只鹰说，“谢天谢地。”
“发生了什么事?”第二只鹰问。
“Well,” said the first eagle, “An old woman thought I was a pigeon. And since pigeons don’t have long claws, she trimmed my claws. And since pigeons don’t have hooked beaks, she straightened my beak. And since pigeons don’t
have tufts of feathers on their heads, she brushed my tuft down.”
“是这样的”，第一只鹰说，“一位老妇人认为我是一只鸽子。因为鸽子的爪子不长，她就把我的爪子剪短了。因为鸽子没有弯弯的嘴巴，她就把我的嘴巴拉直了。因为鸽子头顶上没有那一簇毛，她就把我的毛梳平了。”
“She must be a very foolish old woman, indeed,” said the new eagle.
And with that, he took a brush from under his wing, and he brushed the first eagle’s feathers back into a tuft. And with his claws he bent the eagle’s beak down until it was nicely rounded once again.
“她一定是一个非常愚蠢的老妇人”，第二只鹰说。
说到这，第二只鹰从翅膀下拿出一把梳子，把第一只鹰头顶上的那簇毛又梳出来了;然后用自己的爪子去掰第一只鹰的喙，恢复了它原来弯弯的形状。
“There now!” he said, “you look like an eagle again. Don’t worry about your claws, they’ll soon grow back.”
“Thank you, my friend!” said the first eagle.
“Think nothing of it,” said his new friend.
“好了”，他说，“你现在看上去又像一只鹰啦。不要担心你的爪子，它们会长回来的。”
“谢谢你，我的朋友”，第一只鹰说。
“没有什么好谢的”，他的新朋友说。
“But remember this,” he continued, “there are a lot of silly people in the worldwho think that pigeons are eagles, or that eagles are pigeons, or that all sorts of things are other things. And when they are silly like that, they do very foolish things. We must be sure to keep away from that silly old woman and the people like her.”
“但是记住”，他继续说，“世界上有许多很傻的人，他们把鸽子当做鹰，把鹰当做鸽子，把各种事情搞得乱七八糟。他们犯傻的时候，会做非常愚蠢的事情。我们必须要远离这些人，比如那个老妇人，还有像她那样的人。”
And with that, the eagles flew back to their own country and returned to their own nests. And they never went near that silly old woman again.
And so everyone lived happily ever after.
说完，这两只鹰就飞向了他们自己的国度，回到了他们的家。他们再也没有接近过那位老妇人。
从此，大家都快快乐乐地生活。
