(单词翻译:单击)
听力文本
Our story today is called "The Law of Life." It was written by Jack London. Here is Shep O'Neal with the story. The old Indian was sitting on the snow. It was Koskoosh, former chief of his tribe. Now, all he could do was sit and listen to the others. His eyes were old. He could not see, but his ears were wide open to every sound. "Aha." That was the sound of his daughter, Sit-cum-to-ha. She was beating the dogs, trying to make them stand in front of the snow sleds. He was forgotten by her, and by the others, too. They had to look for new hunting grounds. The long, snowy ride waited. The days of the northlands were growing short. The tribe could not wait for death. Koskoosh was dying. The stiff, crackling noises of frozen animal skins told him that the chief's tent was being torn down. The chief was a mighty hunter. He was his son, the son of Koskoosh. Koskoosh was being left to die. As the women worked, old Koskoosh could hear his son's voice drive them to work faster. He listened harder. It was the last time he would hear that voice. A child cried, and a woman sang softly to quiet it. The child was Koo-tee, the old man thought, a sickly child. It would die soon, and they would burn a hole in the frozen ground to bury it. They would cover its small body with stones to keep the wolves away.
"Well, what of it? A few years, and in the end, death. Death waited ever hungry. Death had the hungriest stomach of all." Koskoosh listened to other sounds he would hear no more: the men tying strong leather rope around the sleds to hold their belongings; the sharp sounds of leather whips, ordering the dogs to move and pull the sleds. "Listen to the dogs cry. How they hated the work." They were off. Sled after sled moved slowly away into the silence. They had passed out of his life. He must meet his last hour alone. "But what was that?" The snow packed down hard under someone's shoes. A man stood beside him, and placed a hand gently on his old head. His son was good to do this. He remembered other old men whose sons had not done this, who had left without a goodbye. His mind traveled into the past until his son's voice brought him back. "It is well with you?" his son asked. And the old man answered, "It is well." "There is wood next to you and the fire burns bright," the son said. "The morning is gray and the cold is here. It will snow soon. Even now it is snowing. Ahh, even now it is snowing. "The tribesmen hurry. Their loads are heavy and their stomachs flat from little food. The way is long and they travel fast. I go now. All is well?"
"It is well. I am as last year's leaf that sticks to the tree. The first breath that blows will knock me to the ground. My voice is like an old woman's. My eyes no longer show me the way my feet go. I am tired and all is well." He lowered his head to his chest and listened to the snow as his son rode away. He felt the sticks of wood next to him again. One by one, the fire would eat them. And step by step, death would cover him. When the last stick was gone, the cold would come. First, his feet would freeze. Then, his hands. The cold would travel slowly from the outside to the inside of him, and he would rest. It was easy...all men must die. He felt sorrow, but he did not think of his sorrow. It was the way of life. He had lived close to the earth, and the law was not new to him. It was the law of the body. Nature was not kind to the body. She was not thoughtful of the person alone. She was interested only in the group, the race, the species. This was a deep thought for old Koskoosh. He had seen examples of it in all his life. The tree sap in early spring; the new-born green leaf, soft and fresh as skin; the fall of the yellowed, dry leaf. In this alone was all history.
He placed another stick on the fire and began to remember his past. He had been a great chief, too. He had seen days of much food and laughter; fat stomachs when food was left to rot and spoil; times when they left animals alone, unkilled; days when women had many children. And he had seen days of no food and empty stomachs, days when the fish did not come, and the animals were hard to find. For seven years the animals did not come. Then, he remembered when as a small boy how he watched the wolves kill a moose. He was with his friend Zing-ha, who was killed later in the Yukon River. Ah, but the moose. Zing-ha and he had gone out to play that day. Down by the river they saw fresh steps of a big, heavy moose. "He's an old one," Zing-ha had said. "He cannot run like the others. He has fallen behind. The wolves have separated him from the others. They will never leave him." And so it was. By day and night, never stopping, biting at his nose, biting at his feet, the wolves stayed with him until the end. Zing-ha and he had felt the blood quicken in their bodies. The end would be a sight to see.
They had followed the steps of the moose and the wolves. Each step told a different story. They could see the tragedy as it happened: here was the place the moose stopped to fight. The snow was packed down for many feet. One wolf had been caught by the heavy feet of the moose and kicked to death. Further on, they saw how the moose had struggled to escape up a hill. But the wolves had attacked from behind. The moose had fallen down and crushed two wolves. Yet, it was clear the end was near. The snow was red ahead of them. Then they heard the sounds of battle. He and Zing-ha moved closer, on their stomachs, so the wolves would not see them. They saw the end. The picture was so strong it had stayed with him all his life. His dull, blind eyes saw the end again as they had in the far off past. For long, his mind saw his past. The fire began to die out, and the cold entered his body. He placed two more sticks on it, just two more left. This would be how long he would live. It was very lonely. He placed one of the last pieces of wood on the fire. Listen, what a strange noise for wood to make in the fire. No, it wasn't wood. His body shook as he recognized the sound...wolves. The cry of a wolf brought the picture of the old moose back to him again. He saw the body torn to pieces, with fresh blood running on the snow. He saw the clean bones lying gray against the frozen blood. He saw the rushing forms of the gray wolves, their shinning eyes, their long wet tongues and sharp teeth. And he saw them form a circle and move ever slowly closer and closer.
A cold, wet nose touched his face. At the touch, his soul jumped forward to awaken him. His hand went to the fire and he pulled a burning stick from it. The wolf saw the fire, but was not afraid. It turned and howled into the air to his brother wolves. They answered with hunger in their throats, and came running. The old Indian listened to the hungry wolves. He heard them form a circle around him and his small fire. He waved his burning stick at them, but they did not move away. Now, one of them moved closer, slowly, as if to test the old man's strength. Another and another followed. The circle grew smaller and smaller. Not one wolf stayed behind. Why should he fight? Why cling to life? And he dropped his stick with the fire on the end of it. It fell in the snow and the light went out. The circle of wolves moved closer. Once again the old Indian saw the picture of the moose as it struggled before the end came. He dropped his head to his knees. What did it matter after all? Isn't this the law of life?
重点解析
1.look for 期待；找寻
We all need to look for ways to reduce our carbon footprint.
我们都需要寻求降低碳排放量的方法。
2.listen to 倾听；听从
Anne, you need to listen to me this time.
安妮，这次你得听我的。
3.next to 紧邻；在……近旁
Someone introduced us and I sat next to him.
有人给我们作了介绍，我挨着他坐下了。
4.think of 考虑；认为
I just can't think of his name.
我就是想不起来他叫什么了。
参考译文
我们今天的故事叫做《生命法则》，作者杰克·伦敦，讲述人夏普·奥尼尔。那位年迈的印第安人坐在雪地上，他是科斯库什，曾经是部落的首领。现在，他所能做的就是坐下来听别人说话。他的眼睛老了，看不见，但他对每种声音都认真倾听。“啊哈。”那是他女儿Sit-cum-to-ha的声音。她在打狗，想让它们站在雪撬前面。女人和其它人都把他遗忘了。他们不得不寻找新的狩猎场，等着他的是覆盖着积雪的漫漫长路，北方的天变得越来越短了。这个部落不能坐以待毙，但科斯库什快死了。冻僵的兽皮发出的嘎吱嘎吱的声告诉他，酋长的帐篷被拆掉了。酋长是一个强大的猎手，是科斯库什的儿子。科斯库什要留下来等死。女人们干活的时候，老科斯库什能听到儿子的声音，这驱使他们更快地工作。他听得更仔细了。这是他最后一次听到那个声音。一个孩子哭了，一个女人轻声唱歌使它安静下来。老人想，那孩子就是辜泰，一个多病的孩子。他很快就会死去，他们会在冰冻的土地上烧个洞，把他埋起来。他们会用石头盖住他那小小的身体，防止狼把它吃掉。
“好吧，那又怎么样？几年后，最后，就是死亡。死亡等待着饥饿，死亡会让人感到最为饥饿”。科斯库什听到了其它声音，再也听不到别的声音：男人们把结实的皮绳绑在雪橇上，固定住他们的物品；皮革鞭子的尖锐声音，命令狗移动，拉动雪橇。“听狗叫，它们多么讨厌这项工作。”他们离开了，雪橇一辆接一辆慢慢地驶向寂静。他们已经离开了他的生命，他必须独自面对最后一小时。“那是什么？”雪被谁的鞋踩得实实的，一个男人站在他旁边，用一只手轻轻地放在他那年老的头上。他儿子这么做很好，他想起了其他老人，他们的儿子没有这样做，他们没有道别就离开了。他的脑子一直回想着过去，直到他儿子的声音把他带回来。“你还好吗？”他的儿子问。
老人回答说：“很好。”“你旁边有木头，火烧得很旺，”儿子说，“早晨是灰蒙蒙的，这里很冷。”很快就要下雪了，不过现在还在下。啊，不过现在还在下。“部落里的人动作很快，他们的负荷很重，果腹的食物很少，肚子都平坦了。路很长，他们走得很快，我现在要走了，一切都好吗？”“很好，我就像粘在树上的去年的叶子。第一次大风会把我打倒在地，我的声音像一位老妇人。我的眼睛再也看不见我走的路了。我累了，一切都很好。”他低下头，听着他儿子骑马离开时，雪发出的声音。他又摸到了旁边的木棍，一根接一根，火会把木棍都烧光。一步一步地，死亡会把他掩盖。当最后一根棍子烧完后，寒冷就会来临。他的脚会先冻僵，然后是他的手。寒冷会从外面慢慢地传到他体内，他就会想要休息了。很简单……所有人都会死。他感到悲伤，但他没有想到他的悲伤。这是一种生存方式。他住在离地面很近的地方，这条法规对他来说并不新鲜。这是身体的法则，大自然对我们的身体并不友好。她不体贴孤独的人，她只对群体、种族、物种感兴趣。这是老科斯库什在深思熟虑的事情，他一生中见过这样的例子。早春的树液；新生的绿叶，柔软而新鲜，像肌肤一样；枯黄的枯叶，脱落。仅是这点就足以载入历史。
他把另一根棍子放在火上，开始回忆起过去。他也曾是一位伟大的酋长。他经历过许多日子，那些日子中满是食物和欢笑；那时的食物会剩下来腐烂掉，人人都有一个肥肥的肚子；那时他们不会杀死动物；那时的女人会有很多孩子。他也看到过几天没有食物，肚子空的日子，那时没有鱼，也很难找到动物。七年来，动物们都没来过。他后来想起小时候，他是如何看着狼杀死驼鹿。他当时和朋友曾哈在一起，曾哈后来死在了育空河中。啊，但是驼鹿。那天，他和曾哈出去玩。在河边，他们看到了一只又大又重的驼鹿刚留下的足迹。“他是个老家伙，”曾哈说，“它不能像其他驼鹿一样跑，他落后了。狼把它和其他驼鹿分开，它们永远不会离开它了。”事情就是这样，狼群日以继夜从不停歇，咬它的鼻子、脚，一直跟到最后。他和曾哈感到他们体内的血液在加速，结局将是一道风景线。他们跟着驼鹿和狼的脚印走，每一步都讲述着不同的故事。他们可以看到悲剧在发生：这是驼鹿停下来与狼搏斗的地方，雪被压实了好几英尺。
狼被一只驼鹿沉重的蹄子踢死了，再往前走，他们看到驼鹿是如何挣扎着爬上山的。但是，狼群从后面发起进攻。驼鹿摔倒了，把两只狼压死了。然而，很明显，一切都要终结了。他们前面的雪是红色的，然后，他们听到了战斗的声音。他和曾哈靠得更近了，靠在肚子上，这样狼就看不见他们了。他们看到了结局。这幅画如此强烈，使他终生难忘。他那迟钝的、瞎了的眼睛又看到了结局。很长一段时间，他的脑海里浮现出过往。火开始熄灭，寒冷进入他的身体。他又放了两根棍子，只剩下两根，它就能活这么久了。他感到很寂寞，把最后一块木头放在火上。听着，木头在火里发出多奇怪的声音。不，不是木头。当他认出那是狼的声音时，他的身体在颤抖。狼的叫声又使他想起了那只老驼鹿，他看到驼鹿的尸体被撕成碎片，鲜血在雪地上流淌。他看见干净的骨头躺在冰冷的血泊中，他看到了灰狼匆忙奔跑的样子，它们闪闪发光的眼睛，长长的湿舌头和锋利的牙齿。他看到他们围成一个圈，慢慢地越来越近。
一个又冷又湿的鼻子碰到了他的脸。这一碰，他的灵魂跳起来把他唤醒。他的手伸向那堆火，从火里拔出一根燃烧的棍子。狼看见了火，但并不害怕。它转向天空，向其它狼嚎叫。它们饥肠辘辘地回应着，然后跑了过来。老印第安人听着饥饿的狼的叫声，他听到它们在他和小火堆周围围起一个圈。他向他们挥舞着燃烧的棍子，但它们没有走开。现在，它们中的一个慢慢靠近，好像在考验老人的力气。一只接着一只，圆圈越来越小，没有一只狼留在后面。他为什么要抗争？为什么执着于活着？他扔掉了燃烧的木棍，木棍掉在雪里，光就熄灭了。狼群走近了，老印第安人又一次看到了驼鹿在最后一刻挣扎的画面。他的头低到了膝盖，这到底有什么关系呢？这不就是生命的法则吗？
