作者：迪士尼
出版社：华东理工大学出版社有限公司
格式: AZW3, DOCX, EPUB, MOBI, PDF, TXT
迪士尼大电影双语阅读.维尼与我 Christopher Robin试读：
AUTHOR’S NOTE
As a child, I spent many afternoons lost in the Hundred-Acre Wood, caught up in adventures with a silly old bear named Pooh and his best friend, Christopher Robin. The world of the wood was as real to me as my own backyard. I could picture Pooh’s home, with its large armoire full of honey pots, and felt as though I, myself, had knocked on Piglet’s door on many occasions. I loved Eeyore, with his droopy eyes and pessimistic view on life (though at the time, I had no idea what pessimistic meant). I just thought it was rather funny that the donkey could never see how much he was loved or how great things were (a lesson I remind myself of often in my older age) and wanted a hug from Kanga and to bounce along with Roo and Tigger.
Rabbit and Owl, with their more serious natures and understanding of the larger world, always intimidated me to a degree but became the characters I saw most in the adult f igures in my life. The Hundred-Acre Wood was a wonderful place to spend my time—and generations of children before and after me have also lost themselves among the woods and its hodgepodge of animals. What child hasn’t, at some point or another, believed in that innocent, wholehearted way that the stuffed animals they loved the most could come to life and be their companions on adventures, that they could provide comfort when faced with the inevitable sad or frightening moments of life.
Pooh was that hope come true—and even now, I believe in him and what he represented. I believe in the silly old bear who could, in his simple way, always f ind the silver lining and bring the world to right when it got knocked off-kilter. As Pooh himself so wisely said, “Life is a journey to be experienced, not a problem to be solved.” Enjoy the adventure!—E. Rudnick
It was, as it most usually was, a beautiful day in the Hundred-Acre Wood. The sky was blue, unblemished by clouds. The air was sweet, touched by the hint of honey that wafted from a familiar bear’s pot, and a gentle breeze kissed the cheeks of the friends who had gathered around a picnic table. But while the setting was idyllic and lent itself to happy thoughts, the expressions on the faces of the friends were rather, well, sad.
Looking around the table, Winnie the Pooh tried to ignore the rumbling, grumbling sound coming from his tummy. He wasn’t positive, but he had a feeling that now was not the time to mention he was hungry, even if they were at a picnic table—which, in his experience, was usually a place people picnicked. And picnics usually involved food. His tummy grumbled again.
“We all know why we’re here.”
Rabbit’s serious voice brought a quick stop to thoughts of food. Pooh looked over and watched as Rabbit walked to the head of the picnic table. “I have asked my friend Eeyore”—he paused and nodded in the direction of the grey donkey, whose head was hanging down, as usual—“I have asked him to propose a rissolution.”
Pooh cocked his head. Rissolution? He did not like when Rabbit used such big words. He opened his mouth to ask what a rissolution was, but before he could, Eeyore lumbered over to stand by Rabbit. He placed a piece of paper in the middle of the table and then proceeded to straighten it out—for a very long time. Finally, he cleared his throat and began to read: “‘Christopher Robin is going,’” he said, his voice slow and deep and, as usual, devoid of any happiness. “‘At least, I think he is. Where? Nobody knows. But he is going.’” Eeyore paused and his heavy brows furrowed as he looked over the words on the page. “I mean, ‘he goes,’” he corrected himself. Then he went on. “‘Do we care? We do. Very much. Anyhow, we send our love. The end.’”
The sullen donkey stopped speaking and slowly lifted his head from the paper. The other animals were silent. Pooh was looking beyond him at the large banner they had hung above the picnic table. The words FAIRWELL CHRISTOPHER ROBEM were written across it—not quite straight—in a mishmash of colors. Eeyore let out a long, slow sigh. “If anyone wants to clap,” he said f inally, with little enthusiasm in his voice, “now is the time to do it.”
As if on cue, Christopher Robin himself walked into the clearing.
“That’s a lovely poem, Eeyore,” he said in a kind voice. The seven-year-old had been hanging back at the edge of the clearing until Eeyore had f inished. Now he brushed back his auburn bangs, which had grown long and shaggy over the summer months, and looked around at all his friends. He felt a lump in his throat. He loved the odd collection of animals more than anything in the world. He loved sweet, innocent Piglet, with his squeaky voice and fear of, well, everything. There was Kanga and her joey, Roo, and Tigger, who, even during this somber occasion, couldn’t stop moving. Owl and Rabbit had remained serious the entire time, while Eeyore had managed to make the going-away poem sound even sadder than it was supposed to be.
And of course, there was his best friend, Winnie the Pooh. He was going to miss them all so much. They had spent so many long days together, playing in the woods behind his family’s house. Without them around, the summer would have been painfully slow—and painfully lonely. Mother and Father were not exactly fun playmates.
Knowing that the others were looking at him intently, eager to see if he liked his banner and poem, Christopher tried hard to smile. But he could tell that the others knew he was sad. Especially Pooh.
“It’s just too bad it’s over,” the bear said, pulling his red shirt down over his belly. “I would have liked it to go for a while longer.”
With a nod of agreement, Christopher Robin walked over to the picnic table. His shirt and shorts, which had f it at the beginning of the summer, were now too small—and he found himself pulling them down in a similar fashion to how Pooh tugged on his clothes. (Although Christopher knew that Pooh’s reason for a tight shirt wasn’t so much growing up as growing rounder from the abundant honey he ate.)
Jumping up onto the picnic table so he was closer in height to Christopher Robin, Piglet approached the boy. Even now, after countless hours of playing and adventuring together, the small pig seemed nervous. Christopher Robin tried not to smile as Piglet, whose expression was far too big and serious for such a tiny creature, held out a small bag. “I m-made you this sack of Hundred-Acre Wood haycorns,” he stammered. “They are my very f-f-favorite snack. Wherever you may go, they will remind you of the Hundred-Acre Wood.”
Christopher Robin took the haycorns solemnly. “Thank you, Piglet,” he said. The little creature nodded but didn’t take his eyes off the sack of haycorns. “Would you like one?” Christopher added, noting the hungry way Piglet was eying the treats. To his credit, Piglet shook his head. But his eyes stayed f ixated on the bag. “Well, I don’t think I’ll need any help remembering, but I shall treasure them always,” Christopher f inally said, giving Piglet another sincere thank-you. He was trying desperately to stay happy, but seeing how sad his friends were and the trouble they had gone to give him a farewell picnic just made Christopher even sadder than he had been when he had woken that morning.
The minutes leading up to when he had entered the wood that day had been utterly miserable. His mother had insisted he pack before he could play. Then she had told him to clean out the nursery and put his “baby” toys away, as he wouldn’t need them now that he was a big boy attending big-boy boarding school. Despite a lengthy, and in his mind well-argued protest about the importance of keeping things as reminders, Mother wouldn’t change her mind. So that had meant more time inside, sorting and putting things in storage. He hadn’t even been able to enjoy his last lunch, even though it was his favorite—a peanut butter, banana, and honey sandwich—because Father had arrived with the car right in the middle and had started packing up all their luggage. There had been one brief moment when Christopher was sure they were going to leave before he could escape to the woods, but then, thankfully, Father had been distracted, pulled away to f ix a broken pipe. Christopher had taken his chance and slipped away.
Arriving in the wood, he had hoped to get a break from the sadness he felt; but instead he found himself saying good-bye and feeling all the weepier by the moment.
Suddenly, the air was knocked from his lungs as Tigger threw his arms around Christopher and squished his face right up against the boy’s. “I’m gonna miss ya, I am!” he said, bouncing up and down on his tail as he squeezed Christopher tight.
Christopher couldn’t help himself—he let out a laugh. Tigger was always good for a laugh. And he provided Christopher with the distraction he greatly needed. “I’ll miss you, too, Tigger,” Christopher said. Then he turned to the others, determined to make the best of the rest of the picnic. “Now, c’mon, everyone! We still have pudding!”* * *
The rest of the afternoon sped by in a f lurry of pudding, playing, and feasting. As the sun sank lower and the woods grew darker, Christopher Robin’s friends began to fall asleep, one by one, until soon the only two left awake were Christopher and Pooh. The others lay on or around the picnic table, peacefully slumbering. Well, most of them were peacefully slumbering. Even in his sleep, Tigger’s feet and tail were in constant motion.
Pooh’s nose was buried in a pot of honey. Around him, already emptied of their contents, were eight other pots. Most were tipped over, their insides honey free, and even their outsides licked completely clean. Pooh felt a party was not a party without honey—lots and lots of honey. And he would never let any of the sweet goodness go to waste.
“Come on, Pooh!”
Christopher’s voice startled the bear and he pulled his nose free from the pot. Christopher Robin was on his feet, standing by the edge of the clearing. Pooh got to his own feet and scampered—or rather waddled as fast as he could—over to his friend. “Where are we going, Christopher Robin?” he asked.
In the light of the setting sun, the little boy’s hair seemed redder than usual, and in the wake of the excitement from the day, his cheeks looked f lushed, while his freckles stood out. His yellow shirt, which had been clean when he’d arrived in the wood, was now stained from pudding and grass and various other party fun. Even the shirt’s stiff white collar was sagging. Despite the long day, Christopher’s brown eyes were shining and bright. “Nowhere,” he said f inally, answering Pooh.
“One of my favorite places,” Pooh replied happily.Reaching up his paw, he waited for Christopher Robin to take it. The friends then turned and headed deeper into the woods together.
They walked in silence for a while, each happy to just be with the other. As they went, they recounted many of the adventures they had been on, often passing sights that triggered fond memories. They saw the tree where Pooh had tried to trick some honey bees by pretending to be a rain cloud only to end up landing—along with Christopher Robin—in a mud hole. They walked by Rabbit’s house, where Pooh had gotten stuck, and then meandered under Owl’s old home, which had once been blown down in a storm. Finally, they arrived in the large meadow hidden deep within the Hundred-Acre Wood. The sun was hovering over the horizon, turning the green grass gold.
As the two friends crossed through the meadow and toward Pooh Sticks Bridge, Christopher Robin looked down at his friend and asked, “What do you like doing best in the world, Pooh?”
“Well, what I like best . . .” He stopped and thought for a moment, tapping a f inger against his chin. He furrowed his brow and made thinking noises. Arriving at an answer, he began again. “Well, what I like best is me and Piglet going to see you and you saying, ‘What about a little Something?’ And me saying, ‘Well, I shouldn’t mind a little Something.’ And it being a hummy sort of day outside.” Pooh looked up, proud of his answer.
Christopher Robin nodded but didn’t say anything else until they arrived at Pooh Sticks Bridge. Peering over the edge of the bridge into the water below, he gazed at his ref lection. He certainly didn’t look any older than he had at the beginning of the summer. But his mother kept telling him he was a big boy now and that he had to act like one. He wasn’t sure what that exactly meant. But he didn’t think he liked it.
“What I like doing best is Nothing,” he said f inally.
Pooh cocked his head. “How do you do Nothing?” he asked, confused.
“It’s when people call out, ‘What are you going to do, Christopher Robin?’ And you say, ‘Oh, nothing,’ and then you go and do it,” he answered as though that were the most obvious answer in the whole world.
Pooh’s eyes grew wide as understanding dawned. “Ah, yes!” he cried. “Doing Nothing often leads to the very best Something.”
Delighted that they understood one another’s favorite things, the pair moved on. While he hadn’t intended to, Christopher realized he was taking a farewell tour of his favorite spots in the Hundred-Acre Wood. The meadow, Pooh Sticks Bridge, the woods themselves—they all held such precious memories of the many adventures he had been on with his best friend. But none of them were as special to him as the Enchanted Place—the spot they f inally arrived at just as the last rays of the sun snuck out over the horizon.
Below them, a valley stretched, its bottom already dark in the early evening. Looking out, Christopher felt his stomach drop as deep as the valley f loor. He could walk all he wanted, but there was no denying what was to come. He let out a sigh that was sadder and longer than even Eeyore’s saddest and longest sigh. “Pooh?” he said, turning to his friend. “I’m not going to do Nothing anymore.”
The words struck Pooh like a slap to the face. “Never again?” he said in disbelief.
Christopher Robin shook his head. “Well, they don’t let you at boarding school. They—” As he spoke, he started to sit down. He let out a yelp.
“Haycorns hurt?” Pooh asked, assuming Christopher’s response was to a loose haycorn that his backside had accidentally landed on.
Christopher Robin reached into the back pocket of his shorts, pulling out the bag of haycorns Piglet had given him. “Only when you sit on them,” he said with a wry smile.
“I’ll have to remember that,” Pooh said, nodding at Christopher’s wisdom. Looking over, Pooh saw that his friend’s face was sad. He wondered if it had anything to do with the bored-ing school he had mentioned. Pooh had never heard of a bored-ing school before. Christopher had mentioned school, but that was a fun place where someone read you stories and you got to play with new toys and be with your friends. Bored-ing school didn’t sound as fun. From the sound of Christopher’s voice, it actually seemed like a very un-fun place. Pooh didn’t like to think of his friend stuck in a place that wasn’t fun or nice.
Just then, Christopher let out a sigh that seemed too big for such a small boy. “Pooh,” he said softly, his gaze trained on the meadow in front of him. “When I’m off not doing Nothing, will you come up here sometimes?”
Pooh cocked his head. “Just me?” he asked. “Where will you be?”
“I’ll be right here,” Christopher answered. Lifting his hand, he tapped Pooh’s “Thinking Spot”—the side of his head—with his f inger.
That made sense to Pooh, and he nodded. Christopher was always in his Thinking Spot. That was where best friends were supposed to be—usually. “But what should happen if you forget about me?” Pooh asked, the thought hitting him hard. He felt sick suddenly, like when he discovered he had run out of honey. Or when he ate too much honey at once.
Christopher reached over and put his arm around Pooh’s shoulder. “I won’t ever forget you, Pooh,” he said softly. “I promise. Not even when I’m a hundred.”
Pooh frowned in concentration as he tried to calculate how old he would be when Christopher Robin was that old. His frown grew deeper and deeper until, f inally, he realized he couldn’t f igure it out himself and just asked.
“Ninety-nine,” Christopher replied, smiling.
Slowly, the boy got to his feet. Beside him, Pooh did the same. The sun had long since set, and while he had done his best to avoid it, he couldn’t delay the inevitable. It was time for him to leave the Hundred-Acre Wood. His mother and father had made it clear—it was time to grow up. But as he looked around the place that had provided him with adventure and friends, he couldn’t help wondering why growing up meant saying good-bye to the things he loved most. . . .* * *
Christopher tugged at the starched white collar around his neck. It felt like it was choking him. Everything about his new school uniform felt like it was choking him, actually. The awful-looking thing, with its pressed pants and stiff jacket, complete with big ugly round buttons, had been waiting for him on his bed when he had arrived home the night before from his f inal trip to the Hundred-Acre Wood, along with the instruction to try it on to ensure the f it. An empty suitcase had been sitting next to the uniform with yet more instructions. These read simply: PACK.
While he had hoped that staying in the woods until nightfall would save him from the f inal round of packing, he had been wrong. Christopher had arrived home to a hasty dinner and was then sent to bed with a warning that they would be leaving early the next morning, and that his room better be emptied and his bags fully packed by then. Reaching his room, he hadn’t had the heart or the energy to pack that night, instead falling into bed and burying his head in the pillow. Flopping over, he had seen a shooting star in the sky through his window and made a desperate wish that the morning would bring a change in his parents’ hearts.
But sadly, that had not been the case. Instead of rising to the hoped-for news that he was no longer going to boarding school, he had been awakened by his mother’s frantic shouts for him to hurry. He could hear his parents as they moved about the house below,checking to be sure that they had gotten everything they would need. It was unclear when they would be back next. Mr. Robin’s job was growing increasingly more demanding, and with Christopher off at boarding school, the house could very well go empty until the following summer—if Christopher was that lucky.
“Christopher! Son! Let’s go!”
Christopher’s shoulders tensed at his father’s voice. It was rare for the man to talk to him directly, leaving that up to Mrs. Robin for the most part. But ever since they had informed him that he would be going to boarding school, Christopher had seen a change in how his father treated him. It was almost like he no longer thought of Christopher as a baby (babies being the wife’s domain, in Mr. Robin’s opinion) but rather as a grown-up. He had even, on occasion, tried to engage Christopher in conversations, telling him about things that went on at his job or what had happened on the train ride to the country that particular visit. There was a part of Christopher that thought it was nice to have his father’s attention for once.
But there was another part of him that thought it was strange and uncomfortable. He had, in all honesty, grown used to being somewhat
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