有没有人能帮我找到电子版的A Small Trip for Mrs Taylor啊？

是这个么？

Summary:  

我再找找

@@找到了其他几课的，就是找不到这篇

Professions for Women

Those are the questions that I should like, had I time, to ask you. And indeed, if I have laid stress upon these professional experiences of mine, it is because I believe that they are, though in different forms, yours also. Even when the path is nominally open--when there is nothing to revert a woman from being a doctor, a lawyer, a civil servant--there are many phantoms and obstacles, as I believe, looming in her way. To discuss and define them is I think of great value and importance; for thus only can the labor be shared, the difficulties be solved. But besides this, it is necessary also to discuss the ends and the aims for which we are fighting, for which we are doing battle with these formidable obstacles. Those aims cannot be taken for granted; they must be perpetually questioned and examined. The whole position, as I see it--here in this hall surrounded by women practicing for the first time in history I know not how many different professions--is one of extraordinary interest and importance. You have won rooms of your own in the house hitherto exclusively owned by men. You are able, though not without great labor and effort, to pay the rent. You are earning your five hundred pounds a year. But this freedom is only a beginning; the room is your own, but it is still bare. It has to be furnished; it has to be decorated; it has to be shared. How are you going to furnish it, how are you going to decorate it? With whom are you going to share it, and upon what terms? These, I think are questions of the utmost importance and interest. For the first time in history you are able to ask them; for the first time you are able to decide for yourself what the answers should be. Willingly would I stay and discuss those questions and answers--but not tonight. My time is up; and I must cease.

A Visit to Walt Whitman
By Edmund Goose   

In the early and middle years of his life, Whitman was obscure and rarely visited. When he grew old, pilgrims not unfrequently took scrip and staff, and set out to worship him. Several accounts of his appearance and mode of address on these occasions have been published, and if I add one more it must be my excuse that the visit to be described was not undertaken in the customary spirit. All other accounts, so far as I know, of interviews with Whitman have been written by disciples who approached the shrine adoring and ready to be dazzled. The visitor whose experience – and it was a very delightful one – is now to be chronicled, started under what was, perhaps, the disadvantage of being very unwilling to go; at least, it will be admitted that the tribute – for tribute it has to be – is all the more sincere.

When I was in Boston, in the winter of 1884, I received a note from Whitman asking me not to leave America without coming to see him. My first instinct was promptly to decline the invitation. Camden, New Jersey, was a very long way off. But better counsels prevailed, curiosity and civility combined to draw me, and I wrote to him that I would come. It would be fatuous to mention all this, if it were not that I particularly wish to bring out the peculiar magic of the old man, acting not on a disciple, but on a stiff-necked and forward unbeliever.

To reach Camden, one must arrive at Philadelphia, where I put up on the 2nd of January, 1885, ready to pass over into New Jersey next morning. I took the hall-porter of the hotel into my confidence, and asked if he had ever heard of Mr. Whitman. Oh, yes, they all knew “Walt,” he said; on fine days he used to cross over on the ferry and take the tram into Philadelphia. He liked to stroll about in Chestnut Street and look at the people, and if you smiled at him he would smile back again; everybody knew “Walt”. In the North, I had been told that he was almost bedridden, in consequence oa an attack of paralysis. This seemed inconsistent with wandering round Philadephia.

The distance being considerable, I started early on the 3rd, crossed the broad Delaware River, where blocks of ice bumped and crackled around us, and saw the flat shores of New Jersey expanding in front, raked by the broad morning light. I was put ashore in a crude and apparently uninhabited village, grim with that concentrated ugliness that only an American township in the depth of winter can display. Nobody to ask the way, or next to nobody. I wandered aimlessly about, and was just ready to give all I possessed to be back again in New York, when I discovered that I was opposite No. 328 Mickle Street, and that on a minute brass plate was engraved “W. Whitman”. I knocked at this dreary little two-storey tenement house, and wondered what was going to happen. A melancholy woman opened the door; it was too late now to go away. But before I could speak, a large figure, hobbling down the stairs, called out in a cheery voice, “Is that my friend?” Suddenly, by I know not what magnetic charm, all wire-drawn literary reservations faded out of being, and One’s only sensation was of gratified satisfaction as being the “friend” of this very nice old gentleman.

There was a good deal of greeting on the stairs, and then the host, moving actively, though clumsily, and with a stick, advanced to his own dwelling-room on the first storey. The opening impression was, as the closing one would be, of extreme simplicity. A large room, without carpet on the scrubbed planks, a small bedstead. A little round stove with a stackpipe in the middle of the room, one chair – that was al the furniture. On the walls and in the fireplace such a miserable wall-paper-tinted, with a spot – as one sees in the bedrooms of labourers’ cottages; no pictures hung in the room, but pegs and shelves loaded with objects. Various boxes lay about, and one huge clamped trunk, and heaps, mountains of papers in a wild confusion, swept up here and there into stacks and peaks; but all the room, and the old man himself, clean in the highest degree, raised to the n the power of stainlessness, scoured and scrubbed to such a pitch that dirt seemed defied for all remaining time. Whitman, in particular, in his suit of hodden grey and shirt thrown wide open at the throat, his grey hair and whiter beard voluminously flowing, seemed positively blanched with cleanliness; the whole man sandwhite with spotlessness, like a deal table that has grown old under the scrubbing-brush.

Whitman sat down in the one chair with a small poker in his hand and spent much of his leisure in feeding and irritating the stove. I cleared some papers away from off a box and sat opposite to him. When he was not actively engaged upon the stove his steady attention was fixed upon his visitors, and I had a perfect opportunity of forming a mental picture of him. He sat with a very curious pose of the head thrown backward, as if resting it one vertebra lower down the spinal column than other people do, and thus tilting his face a little upwards. With his head so poised and the whole man fixed in contemplation of the interlocutor he seemed to pass into a state of absolute passivity, waiting for remarks or incidents, the glassy eyes half closed, the large knotted hands spread out before him. So he would remain, immovable for a quarter of an hour at a time; even the action of speech betraying no movement, the lips hidden under a cascade of beard. If it be true that all remarkable human beings resemble animals, then Walt Whitman was like a cat – a great old grey Angora Tom, alert in repose, serenely blinking under his combed waves of hair, with eyes inscrutably dreaming.

His talk was elemental, like his writings. It had none of the usual ornaments or irritants of conversation. It welled out naturally, or stopped; it was innocent of every species of rhetoric or epigram. It was the perfectly simple utterance of unaffected urbanity. So, I imagine, an Oriental sage would talk, in a low uniform tone, without any excitement or haste, without emphasis, in a land where time and flurry were unknown. Whitman sat there with his great head tilted back, smiling serenely, and he talked about himself. He mentioned his poverty, which was patent, and his paralysis; those were the two burdens beneath which he crouched, like Issacher,  he seemed to be quite at home with both of them, and scarcely heeded them. I think I asked leave to move my box, for the light began to pour in at the great uncurtained window; and then Whitman said that someone had promised him a gift of curtains, but he was not eager for them, he thought they “kept our some of the light”. Light and air, that was all he wanted; and through the winter he sat there patiently waiting for the air and light of summer, when he would hobble out again and bask his body in a shallow creek he knew “back of Camden”. Meanwhile he waited with infinite patience, uncomplaining, thinking about the sand, and the thin hot layer of water over it, in that shy New Jersey creek. And he winked away in silence, while I thought of the Indian poet Valmiki,  when, in a trance of voluptuous abstraction, he sat under the fig-tree and was slowly eaten of ants.

In the bareness of Whitman’s great double room only two objects suggested art in any way, but each of these was appropriate. One was a print of a Red Indian, given him, he told me, by Catlin;  it had inspired the passage about “the red aborigines” in Starting from Paumanok.  The other – positively the sole and only thing that redeemed the bareness of the back-room where Whitman’s bound works were store – was a photograph of a very handsome young man in a boat, sculling. I asked him about this portrait and he said several notable things in consequence. He explained, first of all, that this was one of his greatest friends, a professional oarsman from Canada, a well-known sporting character. He continued, that these were the people he liked best, athletes who had a business in the open air; that those were the plainest and most affectionate of men, those who lived in the light and air and had to study to keep their bodies clean and fresh and ruddy; that his soul went out to such people, and that they were strangely drawn to him, so that at the lowest ebb of his fortunes, when the world reviled him and ridiculed him most, fortunate men of this kind, highly prosperous as gymnasts or runners, had sought him out and had been friendly to him. “And now,” he went on, “I only wait for the spring, to hobble out with my staff into the woods, and when I can sit all day long close to a set of woodmen at their work, I am perfectly happy, for something of their life mixes with the smell of the chopped timber, and it passes into my veins and I am old an ill no longer.” I think these were his precise words, and they struck me more than anything else that he said throughout that long and pleasant day I spent with him.

It might be supposed, and I think that even admirers have said, that Whitman had no humour. But that seemed to me not quite correct. No boisterous humour, truly, but a gentle sort of sly fun, something like Tennyson’s,  he certainly showed. For example, he told me of some tribute from India, and added, with a twinkling smile, “You see, I ‘sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.’”  But this was rare: mostly he seemed dwelling in a vague pastoral past life, the lovely days when he was young, and went about with “the boys” in the sun. He read me many things; a new “poem”, intoning the long irregular lines of it not very distinctly; and a preface to some new edition. All this has left, I confess, a dim impression, swallowed up in the serene self-unconsciousness, the sweet, dignified urbanity, the feline immobility.

As I passed from the little house and stood in dull, deserted Mickle Street once more, my heart was full of affection for this beautiful old man, who had just said in his calm accents, “Good-bye, my friend!” I felt that the experience of the day was embalmed by something that a great poet had written long ago, but I could not find what it was till we started once more to cross the frosty Delaware; then it came to me, and I knew that when Shelley spoke of

Peace within and calm around,
And that content, surpassing wealth,
The sage in meditation found,
And walk’d with inward glory crown’d.

He had been prophesying of Walt Whitman, nor shall I ever read those lines again without thinking of the old rhapsodist in his empty room, glorified by patience and philosophy.
  
And so an unbeliever went to see Walt Whitman, and was captivated without being converted

What life means to be Jack London

Obviously, it’s a big, big topic. And things like that could be very complicated and simple at the same time, depending on how you treat them.

What life means to me? I have to confess I seldom dare to think over it. Who said that famous ironic sentence: “Whenever men start to think, God starts to laugh.”---Sorry I don’t know the original version. Indeed, our knowledge is limited however we try to learn more, how can I feel sure that my life is not a joke or gamble made by gods sitting on the Olympic mountain?

Someone once said: “we are extremely fortunate, not to know precisely the kind of world we live in.”

But anyway, as long as we come to this amazing world, there must be some reason for it, whatever it was. As for me, the meaning of my humble mortal life is a chance to learn more and to live happily. However long and hard the road may be. I will try my best.

Now we are talking about the happiness. I am not speaking of that shallow enjoyment that can easily get from drinking or eating, I am speaking of the real joy in life.

And I want you to know, that happiness is a voyage. It seems like, that most of us has been waiting for a better time to be happy. We tell ourselves that our life will be better once we find our true love, once we get married and not feeling lonely anymore. We tell ourselves that our life will be better when our children get older and understand us. We tell ourselves that our life will be better when we finally pay off the house mortgage and retire. Then we could be happy.

But there was always some obstacle along the way. And I finally come to know that those obstacles are life. There isn’t any road to happiness. Happiness is the road.

So stop waiting for a new job, for a return to home, for Friday evening, for Sunday morning. Stop waiting for a new car, for the next vacation, for spring, for summer, for winter. Stop waiting to die, to be reborn… before deciding to be happy. Because happiness is not a destination, it’s a voyage.

That’s my answer to this big question. What life means to me depends on what I do for life. I know that my destiny has been set already, like everybody else, but still I will do everything I could to fight back, and with grateful heart.

At the end of my speech, I’d like to recall what Scarlet’s father told her in the well-known novel “Gone with the wind”: Worth working for, worth fighting for, worth dying for. He was talking about land, and I am talking about life.

Thank you very much! And be happy from now on.

那只有书了

我看看，发几个链接给你

大家都在帮你找。我这里只找到三篇。
高级上册 ：第五篇 Professions for Women
网址：http://education.163.com/06/0308/10/2BME6T7700290165_2.html
第七篇A visit to Walt Whitman Edmund Gosse
http://www.nbgghzx.net.cn/blog/u/nnmm2222/archives/2007/445.html

第九篇What life means to be Jack London 
http://zhidao.baidu.com/question/75528253.html

如题：http://www.bookrags.com/essay-2003/11/12/2067/3431，就是猩猩贴的那个summary.

高级上册第一篇 ：http://blog.hjenglish.com/valan200688/archive/2008/10/05/1188785.html（看一下，是不是）

呀，猩猩，也找到这几篇啦。 这里有个小建议，楼主把那个“有没有人”换成“大家”更好。呵呵。。

那个第一篇是里面的一些经典例句