童话故事的英文作文【一】
片子以一位老人和爱犬的生活点滴为主线，没什么惊心动魄，却很真实，让观众一下子就融入其中，在融入的过程中我们的心也跟着剧情跌宕起伏，片中音乐也处理得当，适时的音乐更煽情。片中的细节也符合逻辑，不矫情、不做作。
《忠犬八公》的故事开始于一个小镇的小火车站，一位大学教授帕克在下班回家的时候偶遇了迷路的小狗，看着楚楚可怜的狗狗善良的教授试图帮它寻找到主人，几经周折仍无果，于是教授小心翼翼的把它带回了家。冥冥之中教授与狗狗之间有着某种缘分，教授一抱起小狗就舍不得放下，狗狗也十分依赖教授，最终教授和狗狗之间的感情打动了坚决反对教授再次养狗的妻子凯蒂。
帕克也从一个日本朋友那里得知，狗狗是条正宗的秋天犬，是人类最早的朋友之一，而狗狗颈上的八更象征着好运，于是帕克给狗狗取名八公。
帕克爱八公，八公爱帕克。他们一起做游戏，一起洗澡，一起看球赛……帕克弹钢琴，八公就趴在地上静静地聆听，正如帕克女儿所言，八公能懂他的音乐，也喜欢他的音乐。帕克上班，八公就偷偷地送他到车站，直到目送他离开，帕克试图阻止它的这种行为，但八公还是义无反顾的坚持，帕克也就选择了接受。工作日，每天早上8点，下午5点，都会有帕克和八公亲昵的身影。周围的人们也渐渐地被他们深厚的感情所感染，纷纷喜欢上了忠诚可爱的八公。
帕克的朋友曾经说过，秋田犬是不会捡球的，除非有什么特殊的意义。
这一天终于来了，帕克在上班之前，八公闷闷不乐，一改常态不愿意出门，帕克几经劝说，八公却叼着球要和帕克玩球。到了车站，八公仍舍不得帕克离开，破天荒的玩捡球试图挽留住帕克，最后甚至对帕克大叫。主人带着骄傲和疑惑踏上了火车。或许八公已经感觉到什么不幸……帕克在上课的时候，心脏病发，永远的`离开了……
此后的每一天，八公都像个战士一样坚守在它以前等待帕克的地方，日复一日，春去冬来，从青年到老年，从步子稳健到步履蹒跚，静静地守候在那等待帕克的归来。
年后，八公在一个风雪交加的傍晚，慢慢地倒在了它等待帕克的那块花台，在雪花飘散中，它看见了它陪伴，等候的主人……它随着主人去了
年，对一个人来说只是一段很长的时间，但对一条狗来说就是一生。八公用一生来陪伴，守候永远不归的主人，谁能不为之而动容。
片尾一位男孩牵着属于他的天使——另一只八公，于铁路道上，渐行渐远。
原来，有些情感，是不会被人遗忘，却是一代一代的延续。而，我们称之为爱。
这是一个真实的故事，故事原型在日本，八公是真真实实存在过的。在东京涩谷车站北口，有一尊狗的铜像。它昂首翘望，好像总在等待着什么——那就是八公的塑像。
这也是一个现实的故事，生活中，有许许多多的狗狗也像八公一样忠诚、坚持。
童话故事的英文作文【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.
童话故事的英文作文【三】
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。
