警察与赞美诗英语 原文分析

第一篇：警察与赞美诗英语 原文分析

Original Text

The Cop and the Anthem

by O.Henry1 On his bench in Madison Square Soapy moved uneasily.When wild goose honk high of nights, and when women without sealskin coats grow kind to their husbands, and when Soapy moves uneasily on his bench in the park, you may know that winter is near at hand.A dead leaf fell in Soapy’s lap.That was Jack Frost’s card.Jack is kind to the regular denizens of Madison Square, and gives fair warning of his annual call.At the corners of streets his four hands his pasteboard to the North Wind, footman of the mansion of All Outdoors, so that the inhabitants there of may make ready.Soapy’s mind became cognisant of the fact that the time had come for him to resolve himself into a singular Committee of Ways and Means to provide against the coming rigour.And therefore he moved uneasily on his bench.The hibernatorial ambitions of Soapy were not of the highest.In them were no considerations of Mediterranean cruises, of soporific Southern skies or drifting in the Vesuvian Bay.Three months on the Island was what his soul craved.Three months of assured board and bed and congenial company, safe from Boreas and bluecoats, seemed to Soapy the essence of things desirable.For years the hospitable Blackwell’s had been his winter quarters.Just as his more fortunate fellow New Yorkers had bought their tickets to annual hegira to the Island.And now the time was come.On the previous night three Sabbath newspapers, distributed beneath his coat, about his ankles and over his lap, had failed to repulse the cold as he slept on his bench near the spurting fountain in the ancient square.So the Island loomed large and timely in Soapy’s mind.He scorned the provisions made in the name of charity for the city’s dependents.In Soapy’s opinion the Law was more benign than Philanthropy.There was an endless round of institutions, municipal and eleemosynary, on which he might set out and receive lodging and food accordant with the simple life.But to one of Soapy’s proud spirit the gifts of charity are encumbered.If not in coin you must pay in humiliation of spirit for every benefit received at the its toll of a bath, every loaf of bread its compensation of a private and personal inquisition.Wherefore it is better to be a guest of the law, which though conducted by rules, does not meddle unduly with a gentleman’s private affairs.Soapy, having decided to go to the Island, at once set about accomplishing his desire.There were many easy ways of doing this.The pleasantest was to dine luxuriously at some expensive restaurant;and then, after declaring insolvency, be handed over quietly and without uproar to a policeman.An accommodating

magistrate would do the rest.Soapy left his bench and strolled out of the square and across the level sea of asphalt, where Broadway and Fifth Avenue flow together.Up Broadway he turned, and halted at a glittering café, where are gathered together nightlySoapy had confidence in himself from the lowest button of his vest upward.He was shaven, and his coat was decent and his neat black, ready-tied four-in-hand had been presented to him by a lady missionary on Thanksgiving Day.If he could reach a table in the restaurant unsuspected, success would be his.The portion of him that would show above the table would raise no doubt in the waiter’s mind.A roasted mallard duck, thought Soapy, would be about the thing—with a bottle of Chablis, and then Camembert, a demi-tasse and a cigar.One dollar for the cigar would be enough.The total would not be so high as to call forth any supreme manifestation of revenge from the café management;and yet the meat would leave him filled and happy for the journey to his winter refuge.9 But as Soapy set foot inside the restaurant door the head waiter’s eye fell upon his frayed trousers and decadent shoes.Strong and ready hands turned him about and conveyed him in silence and haste to the sidewalk and averted the ignoble fate of the menaced mallard.Soapy turned off Broadway.It seemed that his route to the coveted island was not to be an epicurean one.Some other way of entering limbo must be thought of.At a corner of Sixth Avenue electric lights and cunningly displayed wares behind plate-glass made a shop window conspicuous.Soapy took a cobble-stone and dashed it through the glass.People came running round the corner, a policeman in the lead.Soapy stood still, with his hands in his pockets, and smiled12“Where’s the man that done that?” inquired the officer excitedly.“Don’t you figure out that I might have had something to do with it?” said Soapy, not without sarcasm, but friendly, as one greets good fortune.The policeman’s mind refused to accept Soapy even as a clue.Men who smash windows do not remain to parley with the law’s minions.They take to their heels.The policeman saw a man halfway down the block running to catch a car.With drawn club he joined in the pursuit.Soapy, with disgust in his heart, loafed along, twice unsuccessful.On the opposite side of the street was a restaurant of no great pretensions.It catered to large appetites and modest purses.Its crockery and atmosphere were thick;its soup and napery thin.Into this place Soapy took his accusive shoes and tell-tale trousers without challenge.At a table he sat and consumed beefsteak, flap-jacks, doughnuts, and pie.And then to the waiter he betrayed the fact that the minutest coin and himself were strangers.“Now, get busy and call a cop,” said Soapy.“And don’t keep a gentleman

waiting.”“No cop for youse,” said the waiter, with a voice like butter cakes and an eye like the cherry in a Manhattan cocktail.“Hey, Con!”Neatly upon his left ear on the callous pavement two waiters pitched Soapy.He arose, joint by joint, as a carpenter’s rule opens, and beat the dust from his clothes.Arrest seemed but a rosy dream.The Island seemed very far away.A policeman who stood before a drug store two doors away laughed and walked down the street.Five blocks Soapy travelled before his courage permitted him to woo capture again.This time the opportunity presented what he fatuously termed to himself a “cinch.” A young woman of a modest and pleasing guise was standing before a show window gazing with sprightly interest at its display of shaving mugs and inkstands, and two yards from the window a large policeman of severe demeanour leaned against a water-plug.It was Soapy’s design to assume the rule of the despicable and execrated “masher.” The refined and elegant appearance of his victim and the contiguity of the conscientious cop encouraged him to believe that he would soon feel the pleasant official clutch upon his arm that would ensure his winter quarters of the right little, tight little isle.Soapy straightened the lady missionary’s ready-made tie, dragged his shrinking cuffs into the open, set his hat at a killing cant and sidled toward the young women.He made eyes at her, was taken with sudden coughs and “hems,” smiled, smirked, and went brazenly through the impudent and contemptible litany of the “masher.” With half an eye Soapy saw that the policeman was watching him fixedly.The young woman moved away a few steps, and again bestowed her absorbed attention upon the shaving mugs.Soapy followed, boldly stepping to her side, raised his hat and said: “Ah there, Bedelia!Don’t you want to come and play in my yard?”The policeman was still looking.The persecuted young woman had but to beckon a finger and Soapy would be practically en route for his insular haven.Already he imagined he could feel the cosy warmth of the station-house.The young woman faced him and, stretching out a hand, caught Soapy’s coat sleeve.“Sure, Mike,” she said joyfully, “if you’ll blow me to a pail of suds.I’d have spoke to you sooner, but the cop was watching.”

With the young woman playing the clinging ivy to his oak Soapy walked past the policeman overcome with gloom.He seemed doomed to liberty.At the next corner he shook off his companion and ran.He halted in the district where by night are found the lightest streets, hearts, vows, and librettos.Women in furs and men in greatcoats moved gaily in the wintry air.A sudden fear seized Soapy that some dreadful enchantment had rendered him immune to arrest.The thought brought a little of panic upon it, and when he came upon another

policeman lounging grandly in front of a transplendent theatre he caught at the immediate straw of “disorderly conduct.”On the sidewalk Soapy began to yell drunken gibberish at the top of his harsh voice.He danced, howled, raved, and otherwise disturbed the welkin.The policeman twirled his club, turned his back to Soapy and remarked to a citizen: “Tis one of them Yale lads celebratin’ the goose egg they give to the Hartford College.Noisy;but no harm.We’ve instructions to lave them be.”Disconsolate, Soapy ceased his unavailing racket.Would never a policeman lay hands on him? In his fancy the Island seemed an unattainable Arcadia.He buttoned his thin coat against the chilling wind.In a cigar store he saw a well-dressed man lighting a cigar at a swinging light.His silk umbrella he had set by the door on entering.Soapy stepped inside, secured the umbrella and sauntered off with it slowly.The man at the cigar light followed hastily.“My umbrella,” he said sternly.“Oh, is it?” sneered Soapy, adding insult to petit larceny.“Well, why don’t you call a policeman? I took it.Your umbrella!Why don’t you call a cop? There stands one on the corner.”The umbrella owner slowed his steps.Soapy did likewise, with a presentiment that luck would run against him.The policeman looked at the two curiously.31“Of course,” said the umbrella man—“that is—well, you know how these mistakes occur—I—if it’s your umbrella I hope you’ll excuse me—I picked it up this morning in a restaurant—If you recognise it as yours, why—I hope you’ll—“32 “Of course it’s mine,” said Soapy viciously.33 The ex-umbrella man retreated.The policeman hurried to assist a tall blonde in an opera cloak across the street in front of a street car that was approaching two blocks away.34 Soapy walked eastward through a street damaged by improvements.He hurled the umbrella wrathfully into an excavation.He muttered against the men who wear helmets and carry clubs.Because he wanted to fall into their clutches, they seemed to regard him as a king who could do no wrong.35 At length Soapy reached one of the avenues to the east where the glitter and turmoil was but faint.He set his face down this toward Madison Square, for the homing instinct survives even when the home is a park bench.36 But on an unusually quiet corner Soapy came to a standstill.Here was an old church, quaint and rambling and gabled.Through one violet-stained window a soft light glowed, where, no doubt, the organist loitered over the keys, making sure of his mastery of the coming Sabbath anthem.For there drifted out to Soapy’s ears sweet music that caught and held him transfixed against the convolutions of the iron fence.37 The moon was above, lustrous and serene;vehicles and pedestrains were few;sparrows twittered sleepily in the eaves—for a little while the scene might

have been a country churchyard.And the anthem that the organist played cemented Soapy to the iron fence, for he had known it well in the days when his life contained such things as mothers and roses and ambitions and friends and immaculate thoughts and collars.38 The conjunction of Soapy’s receptive state of mind and the influences about the old church wrought a sudden and wonderful change in his soul.He viewed with swift horror the pit into which he had tumbled, the degraded days, unworthy desires, dead hopes, wrecked faculties, and base motives that made up his existence.39 And also in a moment his heart responded thrillingly to this novel mood.An instantaneous and strong impulse moved him to battle with his desperate fate.He would pull himself out of the mire;he would make a man of himself again;he would conquer the evil that had taken possession of him.There was time;he was comparatively young yet;he would resurrect his old eager ambitions and pursue them without faltering.Those solemn but sweet organ notes had set up a revolution in him.Tomorrow he would go into the roaring down-town district and find work.A fur importer had once offered him a place as driver.He would find him to-morrow and ask for the position.He would be somebody in the world.He would—

Soapy felt a hand laid on his arm.He looked quickly round into the broad face of a policeman.41 “What are you doin’ here?” asked the officer.42 “Nothing’,” said Soapy.43“Then come along,” said the policeman.44“Three months on the Island,” said the Magistrate in the Police Court the next morning.

第二篇：警察与赞美诗英语原文[推荐]

英语原文

The Cop and the Anthemby O。Henry

On his bench in Madison Square Soapy moved uneasily.When wild goose honk high of nights, and when women without sealskin coats grow kind to their husbands, and when Soapy moves uneasily on his bench in the park, you may know that winter is near at hand.A dead leaf fell in Soapy’s lap.That was Jack Frost’s card.Jack is kind to the regular denizens of Madison Square, and gives fair warning of his annual call.At the corners of four streets he hands his pasteboard to the North Wind, footman of the mansion of All Outdoors, so that the inhabitants thereof may make ready.Soapy’s mind became cognisant of the fact that the time had come for him to resolve himself into a singular Committee of Ways and Means to provide against the coming rigour.And therefore he moved uneasily on his bench.The hibernatorial ambitions of Soapy were not of the highest.In them were no considerations of Mediterranean cruises, of soporific Southern skies or drifting in the Vesuvian Bay.Three months on the Island was what his soul craved.Three months of assured board and bed and congenial company, safe from Boreas and bluecoats, seemed to Soapy the essence of things desirable.For years the hospitable Blackwell’s had been his winter quarters.Just as his more fortunate fellow New Yorkers had bought their tickets to Palm Beach and the Riviera each winter, so Soapy had made his humble arrangements for his annual hegira to the Island.And now the time was come.On the previous night three Sabbath newspapers, distributed beneath his coat, about his ankles and over his lap, had failed to repulse the cold as he slept on his bench near the spurting fountain in the ancient square.So the Island loomed large and timely in Soapy’s mind.He scorned the provisions made in the name of charity for the city’s dependents.In Soapy’s opinion the Law was more benign than Philanthropy.There was an endless round of institutions, municipal and eleemosynary, on which he might set out and receive lodging and food accordant with the simple life.But to one of Soapy’s proud spirit the gifts of charity are encumbered.If not in coin you must pay in humiliation of spirit for every benefit received at the hands of philanthropy.As Cesar had his Brutus, every bed of charity must have its toll of a bath, every loaf of bread its compensation of a private and personal inquisition.Wherefore it is better to be a guest of the law, which though conducted by rules, does not meddle unduly with a gentleman’s private affairs.Soapy, having decided to go to the Island, at once set about accomplishing his desire.There were many easy ways of doing this.The pleasantest was to dine luxuriously at some expensive restaurant;and then, after declaring insolvency, be handed over quietly and without uproar to a policeman.An accommodating magistrate would do the rest.Soapy left his bench and strolled out of the square and across the level sea of asphalt, where Broadway and Fifth Avenue flow together.Up Broadway he turned, and halted at a glittering café, where are gathered together nightly the choicest products of the grape, the silkworm and the protoplasm.Soapy had confidence in himself from the lowest button of his vest upward.He was shaven, and his coat was decent and his neat black, ready-tied four-in-hand had been presented to him by a lady missionary on Thanksgiving Day.If he could reach a table in the restaurant unsuspected, success would be his.The portion of him that would show above the table would raise no doubt in the waiter’s mind.A roasted mallard duck, thought Soapy, would be about the thing—with a bottle

of Chablis, and then Camembert, a demi-tasse and a cigar.One dollar for the cigar would be enough.The total would not be so high as to call forth any supreme manifestation of revenge from the café management;and yet the meat would leave him filled and happy for the journey to his winter refuge.But as Soapy set foot inside the restaurant door the head waiter’s eye fell upon his frayed trousers and decadent shoes.Strong and ready hands turned him about and conveyed him in silence and haste to the sidewalk and averted the ignoble fate of the menaced mallard.Soapy turned off Broadway.It seemed that his route to the coveted island was not to be an epicurean one.Some other way of entering limbo must be thought of.At a corner of Sixth Avenue electric lights and cunningly displayed wares behind plate-glass made a shop window conspicuous.Soapy took a cobble-stone and dashed it through the glass.People came running round the corner, a policeman in the lead.Soapy stood still, with his hands in his pockets, and smiled at the sight of brass buttons.“Where’s the man that done that?” inquired the officer excitedly.“Don’t you figure out that I might have had something to do with it?” said Soapy, not without sarcasm, but friendly, as one greets good fortune.The policeman’s mind refused to accept Soapy even as a clue.Men who smash windows do not remain to parley with the law’s minions.They take to their heels.The policeman saw a man halfway down the block running to catch a car.With drawn club he joined in the pursuit.Soapy, with disgust in his heart, loafed along, twice unsuccessful.On the opposite side of the street was a restaurant of no great pretensions.It catered to large appetites and modest purses.Its crockery and atmosphere were thick;its soup and napery thin.Into this place Soapy took his accusive shoes and tell-tale trousers without challenge.At a table he sat and consumed beefsteak, flap-jacks, doughnuts, and pie.And then to the waiter he betrayed the fact that the minutest coin and himself were strangers.“Now, get busy and call a cop,” said Soapy.“And don’t keep a gentleman waiting.”

“No cop for youse,” said the waiter, with a voice like butter cakes and an eye like the cherry in a Manhattan cocktail.“Hey, Con!”

Neatly upon his left ear on the callous pavement two waiters pitched Soapy.He arose, joint by joint, as a carpenter’s rule opens, and beat the dust from his clothes.Arrest seemed but a rosy dream.The Island seemed very far away.A policeman who stood before a drug store two doors away laughed and walked down the street.Five blocks Soapy travelled before his courage permitted him to woo capture again.This time the opportunity presented what he fatuously termed to himself a “cinch.” A young woman of a modest and pleasing guise was standing before a show window gazing with sprightly interest at its display of shaving mugs and inkstands, and two yards from the window a large policeman of severe demeanour leaned against a water-plug.It was Soapy’s design to assume the rule of the despicable and execrated “masher.” The refined and elegant appearance of his victim and the contiguity of the conscientious cop encouraged him to believe that he would soon feel the pleasant official clutch upon his arm that would ensure his winter quarters of the right little, tight little isle.Soapy straightened the lady missionary’s ready-made tie, dragged his shrinking cuffs into the open, set his hat at a killing cant and sidled toward the young women.He made eyes at her, was taken with sudden coughs and “hems,” smiled, smirked, and went brazenly through the impudent

and contemptible litany of the “masher.” With half an eye Soapy saw that the policeman was watching him fixedly.The young woman moved away a few steps, and again bestowed her absorbed attention upon the shaving mugs.Soapy followed, boldly stepping to her side, raised his hat and said: “Ah there, Bedelia!Don’t you want to come and play in my yard?”

The policeman was still looking.The persecuted young woman had but to beckon a finger and Soapy would be practically en route for his insular haven.Already he imagined he could feel the cosy warmth of the station-house.The young woman faced him and, stretching out a hand, caught Soapy’s coat sleeve.“Sure, Mike,” she said joyfully, “if you’ll blow me to a pail of suds.I’d have spoke to you sooner, but the cop was watching.”

With the young woman playing the clinging ivy to his oak Soapy walked past the policeman overcome with gloom.He seemed doomed to liberty.At the next corner he shook off his companion and ran.He halted in the district where by night are found the lightest streets, hearts, vows, and librettos.Women in furs and men in greatcoats moved gaily in the wintry air.A sudden fear seized Soapy that some dreadful enchantment had rendered him immune to arrest.The thought brought a little of panic upon it, and when he came upon another policeman lounging grandly in front of a transplendent theatre he caught at the immediate straw of “disorderly conduct.”

On the sidewalk Soapy began to yell drunken gibberish at the top of his harsh voice.He danced, howled, raved, and otherwise disturbed the welkin.The policeman twirled his club, turned his back to Soapy and remarked to a citizen: “’Tis one of them Yale lads celebratin’ the goose egg they give to the Hartford College.Noisy;but no harm.We’ve instructions to lave them be.”

Disconsolate, Soapy ceased his unavailing racket.Would never a policeman lay hands on him? In his fancy the Island seemed an unattainable Arcadia.He buttoned his thin coat against the chilling wind.In a cigar store he saw a well-dressed man lighting a cigar at a swinging light.His silk umbrella he had set by the door on entering.Soapy stepped inside, secured the umbrella and sauntered off with it slowly.The man at the cigar light followed hastily.“My umbrella,” he said sternly.“Oh, is it?” sneered Soapy, adding insult to petit larceny.“Well, why don’t you call a policeman? I took it.Your umbrella!Why don’t you call a cop? There stands one on the corner.”The umbrella owner slowed his steps.Soapy did likewise, with a presentiment that luck would run against him.The policeman looked at the two curiously.“Of course,” said the umbrella man—“that is—well, you know how these mistakes occur—I—if it’s your umbrella I hope you’ll excuse me—I picked it up this morning in a restaurant—If you recognise it as yours, why—I hope you’ll—“

“Of course it’s mine,” said Soapy viciously.The ex-umbrella man retreated.The policeman hurried to assist a tall blonde in an opera cloak across the street in front of a street car that was approaching two blocks away.Soapy walked eastward through a street damaged by improvements.He hurled the umbrella wrathfully into an excavation.He muttered against the men who wear helmets and carry clubs.Because he wanted to fall into their clutches, they seemed to regard him as a king who could do no wrong.At length Soapy reached one of the avenues to the east where the glitter and turmoil was but faint.He set his face down this toward Madison Square, for the homing instinct survives even when the home is a park bench.But on an unusually quiet corner Soapy came to a standstill.Here was an old church, quaint and rambling and gabled.Through one violet-stained window a soft light glowed, where, no doubt, the organist loitered over the keys, making sure of his mastery of the coming Sabbath anthem.For there drifted out to Soapy’s ears sweet music that caught and held him transfixed against the convolutions of the iron fence.The moon was above, lustrous and serene;vehicles and pedestrains were few;sparrows twittered sleepily in the eaves—for a little while the scene might have been a country churchyard.And the anthem that the organist played cemented Soapy to the iron fence, for he had known it well in the days when his life contained such things as mothers and roses and ambitions and friends and immaculate thoughts and collars.The conjunction of Soapy’s receptive state of mind and the influences about the old church wrought a sudden and wonderful change in his soul.He viewed with swift horror the pit into which he had tumbled, the degraded days, unworthy desires, dead hopes, wrecked faculties, and base motives that made up his existence.And also in a moment his heart responded thrillingly to this novel mood.An instantaneous and strong impulse moved him to battle with his desperate fate.He would pull himself out of the mire;he would make a man of himself again;he would conquer the evil that had taken possession of him.There was time;he was comparatively young yet;he would resurrect his old eager ambitions and pursue them without faltering.Those solemn but sweet organ notes had set up a revolution in him.Tomorrow he would go into the roaring down-town district and find work.A fur importer had once offered him a place as driver.He would find him to-morrow and ask for the position.He would be somebody in the world.He would—

Soapy felt a hand laid on his arm.He looked quickly round into the broad face of a policeman.“What are you doin’ here?” asked the officer.“Nothing’,” said Soapy.“Then come along,” said the policeman.“Three months on the Island,” said the Magistrate in the Police Court the next morning.

第三篇：警察与赞美诗 分析

小说的结构，一般按故事的几个阶段安排，分为开端、发展、高潮、结局几个部分

1)故事开端(苏比躺在麦迪生广场他那条长凳上——自有位识相的推事来料理)，苏比为逃脱严冬的威胁，筹划着怎样才能被捕入狱。

2)故事发展(苏比离开长凳——而我们偏偏认为他是个永远不会犯错误的国王)，苏比屡次惹是生非，都没有达到被捕入狱的目的。

3)故事高潮(最后，苏比来到通往东区的一条马路上——“那你跟我来。”警察说)。苏比伫立于教堂外良心发现，决心重新做人时，突然被捕。

4)故事结局(小说最后一自然段)，苏比被判入狱三个月。

苏比在绞尽脑汁，费尽心机后，做出了6次恶行，以求落入法网，每次的结果如何？

行为/打算/结果

1．走进豪华饭店/想白吃之后被关监狱/ 因裤子破被推到人行道上

2．用石头砸橱窗/想借此被捕/警察认为他不是肇事者

3．饱餐一顿不给钱 /想借此被捕 /侍者没喊警察把他推到人行道上。

4．扮演一个小流氓 /调戏年轻女子 /反被女子纠缠，他撒腿走开

5．在剧院门口大吵大闹 /想以“扰乱罪”被捕/警察没有理睬

6．苏比跨进烟店拿伞 /要被偷者喊警察 /捡者把伞让给了他

第四篇：警察与赞美诗英语读后感

When people really want to do it, God just happens to mean the beginning, and go back on, shameless the.

Undeniably, the opportunity is the wait for anyone, it is not passive, not waiting for you to analyze, analyze it, consider this, consider that a series of trivial events, and then decided to do it.Perhaps it is itself a fleeting Wizard, which is the test of courage and guts, wisdom and soul.It does not mean that all things should not be thoughtful, careful Clofibrate conduct, and if so, what we were in ancient times? Of course, opportunity and a need to treasure, you need to take advantage of, opportunities have come across are very difficult to fully and thoroughly to take advantage of, but it is difficult.How to better perfect it is a priority.The policeman, not a claim has been given many opportunities than it? The cable does not do this than to understand what, just keep endlessly kept in mind for his so-called target to continue to play a life, clown, never tired.And lucky him, the total in the stage has written slip, but in the end was as a joke, laughed.A drama in the end, which means another Drama begins.The police is concerned, only to routine;on the reader, but near the end;of life is concerned, only a small episode;of the writer is concerned, it is a good plot;on the audience, the only worthy of a ticket;on Soapy, it is a new idea of life close to, for he had the ignorance to pay, value is what he does not escape from his hand, he may be able to reverse the fate of the Opportunity and its contempt for the lessons learned in the final result.If he will blame anyone, so that he does deserve it;if he can only blame himself, then he can say to yourself out loud: Three months, not too long, I will cherish and seize the time each day.well, in fact, did not run away, but I ignored.wait for it

Well, in fact, did not go far.Yes, a lot of happiness to dominate, the opportunity is one of them.Do not wait until God impatient, after all, he has emotions, give you played rough, then, as if too lacking in human touch of the.But their suffering.Cherish the people or things around them, they change every day, but we are too busy, did not see.Opportunity is like a chance encounter, a good thing.Take advantage of, the benefits of it to play the extreme, it is a beauty thing.A person"s life will be all sorts of conditions, each of the significance of the situation is very different, very different.Select a different situation, a different life, a different fate, a different change So, we have to opportunity, transparent, fully see, so that would not go astray friends.If the contrary, the outcome would be like Soapy: horror, realize that they have plunged into the abyss, the fallen years, shameful desire, despair, only poor intellectual exhaustion, motivation despicable.Not grasp the opportunity to meet, are fools;not met but know how to grasp opportunities is talent;both opportunities and understanding of how the event is a genius.

第五篇：警察与赞美诗

启东市第二中等专业学校

语文（基础模块）

张东升

《警察与赞美诗》教学案

教学三维目标：

1、分析小说曲折、巧妙的情节安排，欣赏“欧·亨利手法”的艺术特色。

2、品味小说幽默、辛辣的语言风格。

3、了解资本主义社会中下层人民的生活贫困和精神痛苦，认识资本主义社会道德、法律是非混淆、善恶颠倒的虚伪本质。教学重点：学习这篇小说的情节艺术。教学难点：小说幽默、辛辣的语言风格。教学时数：2课时 教学准备： 教学过程：

第一课时

总第个教案

一、课前预习单：

1、字词：

转辗反侧

游弋

冬狩

素昧平生

近在咫尺

冬蛰

轻佻

啁啾

摇曳

醍醐灌顶

煊赫

娴静文雅

天翻地覆

2、作者简介：

作者欧亨利，19世纪美国批判形式主义作家，著名短篇小说家。与法国的莫泊桑、俄国的契诃夫被誉为“世界三大短篇小说之王”。他的小说常以“含泪的微笑”来抚慰生活失意的小人物的心灵创伤，善用夸张、嘲讽、双关等幽默手段。他有“曼哈顿的桂冠诗人”之称。作品被誉为“美国生活的幽默的百科全书”。尤其体现欧、亨利小说特色的，是他的小说常在故事末尾笔锋一转，让主人公的命运突然起意想不到的变化，在看似荒唐的结局中给读者以深层的思索和启迪。这一巧妙的构思方法被誉为“欧·亨利手法”。代表作有《麦琪的礼物》、《最后的一片叶子》。

二、课堂探究单： 活动

一、导入：

有一部电视连续剧叫《北京人在纽约》，电视剧开头有这么一段话：“如果你爱他，那么就把他送到纽约，因为那里是天堂；如果你恨他，那么也把送到纽约，因为那里是地狱。”这句话深刻地反映了纽约甚至是美国社会的那种巨大的贫富差距，对于有钱的人来说，那里是淘金的天堂，而对于穷人而言，那里则是人间的地狱。今天我们来学习《警察与赞美诗》来进一步地了解美国的社会现实。

活动

二、分析小说的情节结构

小说的三大要素是人物，环境和情节。小说的情节一般分为开端、发展、高潮和结局。那么这篇小说的开端、发展、高潮和结局各是什么？ 明确：

1．故事开端(苏比躺在麦迪生广场他那条长凳上——自有一位识相的推事来料理)，苏比为逃脱严冬的威胁，筹划着怎样才能被捕入狱。

2．故事发展(苏比离开长凳——而我们偏偏认为他是个永远不会犯错误的国王)，苏比屡次惹是生非，都没有达到被捕入狱的目的。

3．故事高潮(最后，苏比来到通往东区的一条马路上——“那你跟我来。”警察说)。苏比伫立于教堂外良心发现，决心重新做人时，突然被捕。启东市第二中等专业学校

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4．故事结局(小说最后一自然段)，苏比被判入狱三个月。

活动

三、分析开端部分

1、朗读课文的第一二，思考这两段是属于什么描写？作用是什么？

明确：这两段是环境描写。①暗示了季节——冬天将近。②交代了主人公的身份。③为主人公的出场渲染了一种凄清、寒冷的环境，为苏比营造了生活窘迫的氛围。④暗示了情节的发展：苏比的冬居计划刻不容缓了。同时从侧面刻画了人物，点明了苏比在后文中六次为非作歹的缘由。⑤展示了美国社会的世态炎凉和下层人们的苦难生活。(“思考与练习”4)

2、这里的环境描写点明了小说发生的季节是哪一个季节？ 明确：“每当雁群在夜空引亢高鸣，每当没有海豹皮大衣的女人跟丈夫亲热起来，每当苏比躺在街心公园长凳上辗转反侧，这时候，你就知道冬天迫在眉睫了。” 这句话用了排比的修辞手法，描写了当时的自然环境，为小说的发展奠定了基础。句中写到了“雁群”“高鸣”南飞，暗示了季节——冬天将近。

3、那为什么要写“海豹皮大衣”的女人？还写了苏比在长凳上“辗转反侧”，这两者有什么关系？ 明确：“海豹皮大衣”反衬苏比生活的窘迫，“长凳上辗转反侧”点明了主人公生活的贫困与无奈，这些描写不仅为主人公的出场渲染了凄清寒冷的自然环境，还为小说的情节发展提供了坚实的基础，揭示下文苏比6次为非作歹的原因，展示了美国社会的世态炎凉和下层人民的痛苦生活，显示了社会巨大的贫富差距。所以这句话不仅是点明季节和环境也点明了小说的社会环境。

4、那么苏比在冬季来临之际有什么打算呢？ 明确：希望能被警察抓住，能到监狱里过冬。

5、这个想法正常吗？他为什么会产生这个想法？ 明确：这个想法是相当荒谬的，是反常的。首先，苏比之所以想进监狱。是因为他在冬季生活无着，这正是美国社会的残酷，美国社会竞争激烈，富人只会越来越富，而穷人只能越来越穷。贫富差距不断加大。所以苏比的这种想法是社会最下层劳动大众无奈的选择。作者正是借助于人物的这种反常心理，揭露了社会的残酷和黑暗。所以，他的这种想法是当时社会的产物。

其次，像苏比这种人并没有失去劳动能力，同时也不是没有劳动就业的机会(小说结尾写到“有个皮货进口商曾经让他去赶车”)，但他平日却游手好闲，面临冬天威胁，认为最佳的选择是进监狱，那里既无挨冻之苦，又可免费食宿，为了达到这个目的，他不择手段，做出种种恶行，丑化自己的人格。由此可见，这种反常的行为还植根于资本主义好逸恶劳的社会心态，作者塑造这个人物，揭露了资本主义社会本质的一个侧面。

6、为什么苏比不愿去慈善机构去接受救济，而宁可去监狱过冬呢？ 明确：“真是凡事有利必有弊，要睡慈善单位的床铺，先得让人押去洗一个澡；要吃他一块面包，还得先一五一十交代个人的历史。”这句话撕开了慈善机构虚伪的面纱，表面上的施舍，附带的是对人性的践踏，也正是对所谓的自由和平等的有力驳斥，无情的批判。苏比虽然贫穷，但他严守着精神上的尊严，一直维护着他灵魂上的高傲，为了“床铺”“面包”而出卖个人的历史，和私事，他是不启东市第二中等专业学校

语文（基础模块）

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会去做的。

三、课堂检测单：

1、默写字词。

2、分析文章结构。

四、课后巩固单：思考与练习1

启东市第二中等专业学校

语文（基础模块）

张东升

第二课时

总第个教案

一、课前预习单：

讲讲苏比的6次犯罪经历。

二、课堂探究单： 活动

一、分析发展部分

1、为了实现自己的想法，苏比做了哪些努力？结果怎么样？ 明确：

苏比的行为

愿望或打算

结果 1 走进豪华饭店想饱餐一顿

想白吃让侍者把他交到警察手里

因裤子破被

推倒行人道 连门都没去 用石块砸窗玻璃

想让巡警抓住

警察追赶搭车 的人，连旁证 都算不上

3想进普通餐馆白吃一顿

想让店侍者叫警察

挨顿揍，被“叉”

在行人道上 装流氓调戏女子

想让女子找警察

被妓女纠缠，撒

腿就走 扮醉鬼大吵大闹

想以“扰乱治安”罪被捕

被误以为是大学

生，警察不管 偷雨伞

想让主人叫警察

被误以为是伞的主人

2、通过这些情节，我们可以发现有许多的巧合，怎样理解这些巧合？ 明确：小说情节上安排了许多巧合既推动了情节的发展，又充分地表现了小说的主题。“思考与练习”2

活动

二、分析高潮和结局部分

1、在苏比听到赞美诗，心灵发生转变时，作者也用了景物描写，请找出来，并说说它的作用。“思考与练习”4 明确：“明月悬在中天，光辉、静穆；车辆与行人都很稀少；檐下的冻雀睡梦中啁啾了几声——这境界一时之间使人想起乡村教堂边上的墓地”

看着皎洁的月光，宁静的街道，听着教堂悠扬的乐声，苏比感到一切显得古朴、亲切、可爱，在这宁静而空灵的气氛中，他回想起儿时得到母爱和纯真，唤醒了他的雄心和自尊，唤起了他对纯洁生活的回忆，他顿然醒悟，决心重新做人，通过景物描写，展示人物内心，紧扣小说的主题。也就是景物描写是为人物和小说的进一步发展而服务的。这与课文开头景物描写的作用是一致的。

2、苏比在听了教堂的赞美诗后，准备重新做人，却被莫名其妙地送进监狱，这个出人意料的结尾是为了达到什么目的？ 明确：“思考与练习”3

活动

三、分析小说的语言

1、极端的戏剧性。

2、运用对比、夸张、比喻、拟人、反语、戏谑等手法造成的幽默效果。启东市第二中等专业学校

语文（基础模块）

张东升

3、细节描写与心理描写。活动

四、归纳主题。

本文通过流浪汉苏比在冬天来临之际，想方设法到监狱过冬，他六次为非作歹，都没能如愿。而正当他听到赞美诗受感化想重新做人时，却莫名其妙的被捕的遭遇，全方位地展示了美国社会的真实现状，深刻地揭示了资本主义社会世态炎凉、是非混淆，黑白颠倒的本质。

三、课堂检测单：

四、课后巩固单：完成《指导用书》和《导学》

五、教学反思：