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A poor young man came to New York to make his fortune. He dreamed, in the American way, of becoming a millionaire. He tried his luck on Wall Street. He was diligent and shrewd  and, when he had to be, devious. He put together a business deal, which succeeded beyond his wildest dreams: he made twelve million dollars.

At first he thought everything was going well. “Isn’t it grand?” He said to his wife, once it was apparent that he had made twelve million dollars.

“No, it isn’t,” his wife said. “Nobody knows you.”

“But that’s impossible,” the young man said. “I’m a rich person. Rich people are shown in the newspapers in the company of movie stars and famous novelists and distinguished dress designers. Pictures of the rich can be found on the front covers of newspapers and magazines.”

“Yours won’t,” his wife said. “You’re a nobody.”

“But I have twelve million dollars,” the young man said.

“So do a lot of people,” his wife said. “They are nobodies, too.” 

“But I own a co-op apartment on Fifth Avenue  that’s worth two million dollars,” the young man said.

“Two million-dollar co-ops are a dime a dozen ,” his wife said. “So to speak.”

“I have a stretch limousine,” the young man said. “It’s twenty-one and a half feet long.”

“Nobody famous has ever ridden in it,” his wife said. “Henry Kissinger and Calvin Klein have never heard of you. You’re nobody.”

The young man was silent for a while. “Are you disappointed in me?” he finally said to his wife.

“Of course I’m disappointed in you,” she said. “When you asked me to marry you, you said you would be rich and famous. How was I to know that you’d turn out to be a nobody?”

For a moment the young man looked defeated. Then he said, “I’ll make them pay attention,” he said. “I’ll buy a professional football team. Important people will join me to watch games from the owner’s private viewing room.”

“You can’t buy a professional football team for twelve million dollars,” his wife said. “Professional football teams cost a lot of money.”

“Then I’ll buy a magazine and appoint myself chief columnist ,” the young man said. “A small but handsome picture of me will be placed against my article each week. The owners of professional football teams will invite me to watch big games from the owner’s box.”

“You might be able to buy a small, cheap magazine, but not a real magazine,” his wife said. “You can’t buy a well known magazine with such a small amount of money.”

“Is that what you call what we have?” the young man asked. “Are twelve million dollars chicken feed ?”

“It’s not big bucks,” his wife said. “What can I tell you?”

“But that’s not fair,” the young man said.  “I’m a young man of humble origins who made twelve million dollars. I succeeded even beyond my dream.”

“Some of those things you did with the electronics acquisition probably weren’t fair either,” his wife said. “ Nobody cares about unfair business dealings, just how much money you can make.”

“Then I’ll get more money,” the young man said. “I’m going to go back to Wall Street and make fifty million dollars.”

But before the young man could make fifty million dollars a man from the Securities and Exchange Commission came and arrested him for having committed insider-trading violations in the electronics acquisition.

The young man was taken away from his office in handcuffs. A picture on the front page of the afternoon paper showed him leaving his arraignment, trying to hide his face behind an $850 Italian overcoat. A long article in the morning newspaper used him as an example to show what the young, new Wall Street traders who make quick money illegally, probably because of their humble origins are like. His friends and associates avoided him.

Only his wife stuck by him. She tried to see the bright side. “For someone with only twelve million dollars,” she said to the young man, “You’re getting to be pretty well known.”  

The Second Day

    The next day-the second day of sight, I should arise with the dawn and see the thrilling miracle by which night is transformed into day. I should behold with awe the magnificent panorama of light with which the sun awakens the sleeping earth.    This day I should devote to a hasty glimpse of the world, past and present. I should want to see the pageant of man’s progress, the kaleidoscope of the ages. How can so much be compressed into one day? Through the museums, of course. Often I have visited the New York Museum of Natural History to touch with my hands many of the objects there exhibited, but I have longed to see with my eyes the condensed history of the earth and its inhabitants displayed there-animals and the races of men pictured in their native environment; gigantic carcasses of dinosaurs and mastodons which roamed the earth long before man appeared, with his tiny stature and powerful brain, to conquer the animal kingdom; realistic presentations of the processes of development in animals, in man, and in the implements which man has used to fashion and one other aspects of natural history.    I wonder how many readers of this article have viewed this panorama of the face of living things as pictured in that inspiring museum. Many, of course, have not had the opportunity, but I am sure that many who have had the opportunity have not made use of it. There, indeed, is a place to use your eyes. You who see can spend many fruitful days there, but I with my imaginary three days of sight, could only take a hasty glimpse, and pass on.    My next stop would be the Metropolitan Museum of Art, for just as the

    My hands have lingered upon the living marble of roman sculpture as well as that of later generations I have passed my hands over a plaster cast of Michelangelo’s inspiring and heroic Moses; I have sensed the power of Rodin; I have been awed by the devoted spirit of Gothic wood carving. These arts which can be touched have meaning for me, and I can only guess at the beauty remains hidden from me. I can admire the simple lines of Greek vase, but its figured decorations are lost to me.    So on this, my second day of sight, I should try to probe into the soul of man through this art. The things I knew through touch I should now wee. More splendid still, the whole magnificent world of painting would be opened to me, from the Italian Primitives, with their serene religious devotion, to the Moderns, with their feverish visions. I should look deep into the canvases of Raphael, Leonardo da Vinci, Titian, Rembrandt. I should want to feast my eyes upon the warm colors of Veronese, study the mysteries of E1 Greco, catch a new vision of Nature from Corot. Oh, there is so much rich meaning and beauty in the art of the ages for you who have eyes to see!    Upon my short visit to this temple of art I should not be able to review a fraction of that great world of art which is open to you. I should be able to get only a superficial impression. Artists tell me that for deep and true appreciation of art one much educated the eye. One must learn through experience to weight the merits of line, of composition, of form and color. If I had eyes, How happily would I embark upon so fascinating a study! Yet I am told that, to may of you who have eyes to see, the world of art is a dark night, unexplored and unilluminated.    It would be with extreme reluctance that I should leave the

On the first day, I should want to see the people whose kindness and gentleness and companionship have made my life worth living. First I should like to gaze long upon the face of my dear teacher, Mrs. Anne Sullivan Macy, who came to me when I was a child and opened the outer world to me. I should want not merely to see the outline of her face, so that I could cherish it in my memory, but to study that face and find in it the living evidence of the sympathetic tenderness and patience with which she accomplished the difficult task of my education. I should like to see in her eyes that strength of character which has enabled her to stand firm in the face of difficulties, and that compassion for all humanity which she has revealed to me so often.

I do not know what it is to see into the heart of a friend through that “Window of the soul”, the eye. I can only “see” through that “Window of the soul”, the eye. I can only “see through my finger tips the outline of a face. I can detect laughter, sorrow, and many other obvious emotions. I know my friends from the feel of their faces. But I cannot really picture their personalities by touch. I know their personalities, of course, through other means, through the thoughts they express to me, through whatever of their actions are revealed to me. But I am denied that deeper understanding of them which I am sure would come through sight of them, through watching their reactions to various expressed thoughts and circumstances, through noting the immediate and fleeting reactions of their eyes and countenance.

Friends who are near to me I know well, because through the months and years they reveal themselves to me in all their phases; but of casual friends I have only an incomplete impression, an impression gained from a hand clasp, from spoken words which they tap into the palm of my hand.

How much easier, how much more satisfying it is for you who can see to grasp quickly the essential qualities of another person by watching the subtleties of expression, the quiver of a muscle, the flutter of a hand. But does it ever occur to you to use your sight to see into the inner nature of a friend or acquaintance? Do not most of you seeing people grasp casually the outward features of a face and let it go at that?

For instance can you describe accurately the faces of five good friends? Some of you can, but many cannot. As an experiment, I have questioned husbands of long standing about the color of their wives’ eyes, and often they express embarrassed confusion and admit that they do not know. And, incidentally, it is a chronic complaint of wives that their husbands do not notice new dresses, new hats, and changes in household arrangements.

They eyes of seeing persons soon become accustomed to the routine of their surroundings, and they actually see only the startling and spectacular. But even in viewing the most spectacular sights the eyes are lazy. Court records reveal every day how inaccurately “eyewitnesses” see. A given event will be “seen” in several different ways by as many witnesses. Some see more than others but few see everything that is within the range of their vision.

Oh, the things that I should see if I had the power of sight for just three days!

The first day would be a busy one. I should call to me all my dear friends and look long into their faces, imprinting upon my mind the outward evidences of the beauty that is within them. I should let my eyes rest, too, on the face of a baby, so that I could catch a vision of the eager, innocent beauty which precedes the individual’s consciousness of the conflicts which life develops.

And I should like to look into the loyal, trusting eyes of my dogs-the grave, canny little Scottie, Darkie, and the stalwart, understanding Great Dane, Helga, whose warm, tender, and playful friendships are so comforting to me.

On that busy first day I should also view the small simple things of my home. I want to see the warm colors in the rugs under my feet, the pictures on the walls, the intimate trifles that transform a house into home. My eyes would rest respectfully on the books in raised type which have read, but they would be more eagerly interested in the printed books which seeing people can read, for during the long night of my life the books I have read and those which have been read to me have built themselves into a great shining lighthouse, revealing to me the deepest channels of human life and the human spirit.

In the afternoon of that first seeing day. I should take a long walk in the woods and intoxicate my eyes on the beauties of the world of Nature trying desperately to absorb in a few hours the vast splendor which is constantly unfolding itself to those who can see. On the way home from my woodland jaunt my path would lie near a farm so that I might see the patient horses ploughing in the field and the serene content of men living close to the soil. And I should pray for the glory of a colorful sunset.

When dusk had fallen, I should experience the double delight of being able to see by artificial light which the genius of man has created to extend the power of his sight when Nature decrees darkness.

In the night of that first day of sight, I should not be able to sleep, so full would be my mind of the memories of the day.

All of us have read thrilling stories in which the hero had only a limited and specified time to live. Some times it was as long as a year; sometimes as short as twenty-four hours. But always we were interested in discovering just how the doomed man chose to spend his last days or his last hours. I speak, of course, of free men who have a choice, not condemned criminals whose sphere of activities is strictly delimited.

Such stories set us thinking, wondering what we should do under similar circumstances. What events, what experiences, what associations should we crowd into those last hours as mortal beings? What happiness should we find in reviewing the past, what regrets?

Sometimes I have thought it would be an excellent rule to live each day with a gentleness, a vigor, and a stretches before us in the constant panorama of more days and months and years to come. There are those, of course, who would adopt the Epicurean motto of “Eat, drink, and certainty of impending death.

In stories the doomed hero is usually saved at the last minute by some stroke of fortune, but almost always his sense of values is changed. He becomes more appreciative of the meaning of life and its permanent spiritual values. It has often been noted that those who live, or have lived, in the shadow of death bring a mellow sweetness to every thing they do.

Most of us, however, take life for granted. We know that one day we must die, but usually we picture that day as far in the future. When we are in buoyant health, death is all but unimaginable. We seldom think of it. The days stretch out in an endless vista. So we go about our petty tasks, hardly aware of our listless attitude toward life.

The same lethargy, I am afraid, characterizes the use of all our faculties and senses. Only the deaf appreciate hearing, only the blind realize the manifold blessing that lie in sight. Particularly does this observation apply to those who have lost sight and hearing in adult life. But those who have never suffered impairment of sight or hearing seldom make the fullest use of these blessed faculties. Their eyes and ears take in all sights and sounds hazily, without concentration and with little appreciation It is the same old story of not being grateful for what we have until we lose it, of not being conscious of health until we are ill.

I have often thought it would be a blessing if each human being were stricken blind and deaf for a few days at some time during his early adult life. Darkness would make him more appreciative of sight; silence would teach him the joys of sound.

Now and then I have tasted my seeing friends to discover what they see. Recently I was visited by very good friends who had just returned from a long walk in the woods, and I asked her what she had observed. “Nothing in particular,” she replied. I might have been incredulous had I not been accustomed to such reposes, for long ago I became convinced that the seeing see little.

How was it possible, I asked myself, to walk for an hour through the woods and see nothing worthy of note? I who cannot see find hundreds of things to interest me through mere touch. I feel the delicate symmetry of a leaf. I pass my hands lovingly about the smooth skin of a silver birch, or the rough, shaggy bark of a pine. In the spring I touch the branches of trees hopefully in search of a bud the first sigh of awakening Nature after her winter’s sleep. I feel the delightful, velvety texture of a flower, and discover its remarkable convolutions; and something of the miracle of Nature is revealed to me. Occasionally, if I am very fortunate, I place my hand gently on a small tree and feel the happy quiver of a bird in full song. I am delighted to have the cool waters of a brook rush through my open finger. To me a lush carpet of pine needles or spongy grass is more welcome than the most luxurious Persian rug. To me the pageant of seasons is thrilling and unending drama, the action of which streams through my finger tips.

At times my heart cries out with longing to see all these things. If I can get so much pleasure form mere touch, how much more beauty must be revealed by sight. Yet, those who have eyes apparently see little. The panorama of color and action which fills the world is taken for granted. It is human, perhaps, to appreciate little that which we have and to long for that which we have not, but it is a great pity that in the world of light the gift of sight is used only as a mere convenience rather than as a means of adding fullness to life.

If I were the president of a university I should establish a compulsory course in “How to Use Your Eyes”. The professor would try to show his pupils how they could add joy to their lives by really seeing what passes unnoticed before them. He would try to awake their dormant and sluggish faculties.

Perhaps I can best illustrate by imagining what I should most like to see if I were given the use of my eyes, say, for just three days. And while I am imagining, suppose you, too, set your mind to work on the problem of how you would use your own eyes if you had only three more days to see. If with the on-coming darkness of the third night you knew that the sun would never rise for you again, how would you spend those three precious intervening days? What would you most want to let your gaze rest upon?

I, naturally, should want most to see the things which have become dear to me through my years of darken. You, too, would want to let your eyes rest on the things that have become dear to your so that you could take the memory of the, with you into the night that loomed before you.

If, by some miracle, I were granted three seeing days, to be followed by a relapse into darkness, I should divide the precious into three parts.

Most of what we call nightmares are simply extreme reactions and fear that accompany uncomfortable dreams. Often we are awakened by a nightmare and there can be strong feelings of sadness, anger or guilt, but usually fear and anxiety.Nightmares may have several causes, including drugs, medications, illness, trauma or they may have no related cause and be spontaneous. Often they occur when there is stress in one’s waking life, and when major life changes are occurring.The Association for the Study of Dreams notes, “It really depends on the source of the nightmare. To rule out drugs, medications or illness as a cause, discussion with a physician is recommended. It is useful to encourage children to discuss their nightmares with their parents or other adults, but they generally do not need treatment. If a child is suffering from recurrent or very disturbing nightmares, the aid of therapist may be required. The therapist may have the child draw the nightmare, talk with the frightening characters, or fantasize changes in the nightmare, in order to help the child feel safer and less frightened.”Nightmares also offer the same opportunity that other dreams do, to investigate the symbols and imagery for life enhancement. In some American schools, children are taught coping mechanisms that allow the child to come into relationship with the dream monsters and fears in a novel. Researchers find that those who have “thin” personalities, or sensitive, receptive individuals, are more likely to have nightmare than “thick” personalities. They are teaching people to take control of their dreams and have the outcomes they wish rather than becoming the dream’s victim.

一位名叫薛瓦勒的鄉村郵差每天徙步奔走在鄉村之間。有一天，他在崎嶇的山路上被一塊石頭絆倒了。

他起身，拍拍身上的塵土，準備再走。可是他突然發現絆倒他的那塊石頭的樣子十分奇異。他拾起那塊石頭，左看右看，便有些愛不釋手了。

於是，他把那塊石頭放在了自己的郵包裏。村子裏的人看到他的郵包裏除了信之外，還有一塊沉重的石頭，感到很奇怪，人們好意地勸他：“把它扔了吧，你每天要走那麽多路，這可是個不小的負擔。”

他卻取出那塊石頭，炫耀著說：“你們誰見過這樣美麗的石頭？”

人們都笑了，說：“這樣的石頭山上到和都是，夠你撿一輩子的。”

他回家後疲憊地睡在床上，突然産生了一個念頭，如果用這樣美麗的石頭建造一座城堡那將會多麽迷人。於是，他每天在送信的途中尋找石頭，每天總是帶回一塊，不久，他便收集了一大堆奇形怪狀的石頭，但建造城堡還遠遠不夠。

於是，他開始推獨輪車送信，只要發現他中意的石頭都會往獨輪車上裝。

從此以後，他再也沒有過上一天安樂的日子，白天他是一個郵差和一個運送石頭的苦力，晚上他又是一人建築師，他按照自己天馬行空的思維來壘造自己的城堡。

對於他的行為，所有人都感到不可思議，認為他的精神出了問題。

20多年的時間裏，他不停地尋找石頭，運輸石頭，堆積石頭。在他的偏僻住處，出現了許多錯落有致的城堡。當地人都知道有這樣一個性格偏執沉默不語的郵差，在幹一些如同小孩子的築沙堡的遊戲。

有一天，一名法國記者偶然發現了這群低矮的城堡，這裏的風景和城堡令他歎為觀止。他為此寫了一篇介紹薛瓦勒的文章，文章刊出後，薛瓦勒迅速成為新聞人物。許多人都慕名而來參觀城堡。

如今，這個城堡成為法國最著名的風景旅遊點，它的名字就叫做“郵差薛瓦勒的理想宮殿”。在城堡的石塊上，薛瓦勒當年的許多刻痕還清晰可見，有一句話就刻在入口處的一塊石頭上：“我想知道一塊有了願望的石頭能走多遠。”據說，這就是那塊當年絆倒薛互讓勒的石頭。

When the great library of

The book wasn’t very interesting, but between its pages there was something very interesting indeed. It was a thin strip of vellum on which was written the secret of the “Touchstone”!

The Touchstone was a small pebble that could turn any common metal into pure gold. The writing explained that it was lying among thousands and thousands of other pebbles that looked exactly like it. But the secret was this; the real stone would feel warm, while ordinary pebbles are cold.

So the man sold his few belongings, bought some simple supplies, camped on the seashore, and began testing pebbles.

He knew that if he picked up ordinary pebbles and threw them down again because they were cold, he might pick up the same pebble hundreds of times. So, when he felt one that was cold, he threw it into the sea. He spent a whole day doing this, but none of the stones he examined was the Touchstone. Yet he went on and on this way. He picked up a pebble. It was cold, so he threw it into the sea. He picked up another. He threw it into the sea.

The days stretched into weeks and the weeks into months. One day, however, about mid-afternoon, he picked up a pebble and it was warm. He threw it into the sea before he realized what he had done. He had formed such a strong habit of throwing each pebble into the sea that when the one he wanted came along he still threw it away.

So it is with opportunity. Unless we are careful, it’s easy to fail to recognize an opportunity when it is in hand, and it’s just as easy to throw it away.

鮑勃回到家裏的時候，被眼前的景象驚住了：母親雙手掩著臉埋在沙發裏—她在哭泣。他還從未見她流過淚。

“媽媽，”鮑勃問道，“出什麽事了？”

她深深吸了口氣，勉強露出一絲笑容。“沒有，真的。沒什麽大不了的事。只是，我那個剛到手的工作就要丟掉了。我的打字速度跟不上。”

“可您才幹了三天啊，”鮑勃說，“您會成功的。”他不由得重復起她的話來。在他學習上遇到困難，或者面臨著某件大事時，她曾經上百次地這樣鼓勵他。

“不，”她傷心地說，“沒有時間了，很簡單，我不能勝任。因為我，辦公室裏的其他人不得不做雙倍的工作。”

“一定是他們讓您幹得太多了。”鮑勃不服氣，她只看到自己的無能，他卻希望發現其中有不公。然而，她太正直，他無可奈何。

“我總是對自己說，我要學什麽，沒有不成功的，而且，大多數時候，這話也都兌現了。可這回我辦不到了。”她沮喪地說道。

鮑勃說不出話。

幾天後，母親平靜了些。她站起身，擦去眼淚說；“好了，我的孩子，就這樣了。我可以是個差勁的打字員，但我不是個寄生蟲，我不願做我不能勝任的工作，我可以幹些別的。”

時隔八天，她接受了一個紡織成品售貨員的職業。

然而，此後，媽媽每晚仍堅持練習打字。