sucai5.txt

一个用c语言写的指法练习小软件的源代码。是直接用c语言在控制台编程上编写的。

　The Newcombes had five daughters, then one son. The girls' names were April, Corinne, Gloria,Susannah, and Dahlia. I thought these names fanciful and lovely, and I would have liked the daughters'looks to match them—as if they were the beautiful children of an ogre in a fairy tale. April and Corinnehad been gone from home for some time, so I had no way of knowing what they looked like. Gloria wasmarried and had dropped from view, as married girls did. Susannah worked in the hardware store, andshe was a stout girl, not at all pretty, but quite normal-looking—not cowed like her mother or brutal likeher father. 
　　Dahlia was a couple of years older than I was. She was the first member of the family to go to highschool. She was sturdy and handsome, though not my idea of an ogre's daughter, with rippling yellowhair and a sweetly pining expression. Her hair was brown, her shoulders square, her breasts firm andhigh. She got quite respectable marks and was notably good at games, particularly basketball.
　　During my first few months of high school, I found myself walking part of the way to school with her.We had lived our lives within shouting distance of each other, you might say, but the school districtswere divided in such a way that I had always gone to the town elementary school while the Newcombeshad gone to a country school, farther out along the highway. But now that we were both going to the highschool we would usually meet where our roads joined, and if either of us saw the other coming we wouldwait. Walking together did not mean that we became particular friends. It was just that it would haveseemed odd to walk singly when we were going the same way and to the same place. I don't know whatwe talked about. I have an idea that there were long periods of silence, which were not disagreeable.
　　One morning Dahlia didn't appear, and I went on alone. In the cloakroom at school, she said to me, "Iwon't be coming in that way from now on, because I'm staying in town now. I'm staying at Gloria's."
　　And we hardly spoke again until one day in early spring—that time I was talking about, with the treesbare but reddening, and the crows and the seagulls busy, and the farmers hollering to their horses. Shecaught up to me as we were leaving school. She said, "You going right home?" I said yes, and she startedto walk beside me.
　　I asked her if she was living at home again, and she said, "Nope. Still at Gloria's."
　　When we had walked a bit farther, she said, "I'm just going along out there to see what's what."
　　Over the winter, she had shone as the best player on the basketball team, and the team had nearly won thecounty championship. It gave me a feeling of distinction to be walking with her. She must have startedhigh school with all the business of her family dragging behind her, but now she had been allowed, to anextent, to slip free of that. The independence of spirit, the faith you had to have in your body, to becomean athlete won respect and discouraged anybody who would think of tormenting you. She was welldressed, too—she had very few clothes but they were quite all right, not like the matronly hand-medownsthat country girls often wore, or the homemade outfits my mother labored at for me. I remember ared turtleneck sweater she often wore, and a pleated Royal Stewart skirt. Maybe Gloria and Susannahthought of her as the representative and pride of the family and had pooled some of their slight resourcesto dress her handsomely.
　　We were out of town before she spoke again.
　　"I got to keep track of what my old man is up to," she said. "He better not be beating up on Raymond."Raymond. That was the brother.
　　"Does he beat up on him?" I said. I felt as if I had to pretend to know less about her family than I—andeverybody—actually did.
　　"Yeah. Some," she said. "Raymond used to get off better than the rest of us, but now he's the only oneleft, I wonder."
　　I said, "Did he beat you?" I tried to sound as if I felt this was an everyday and not even very interestingmatter.
　　"Are you kidding?" she said. "Before I got away the last time, it looked like he was going to brain mewith the shovel. And I was yelling at him, 'Come on. Come on, let's see you kill me. Then you'll gethung.' Yeah. But then I thought, O.K., but I wouldn't get the satisfaction of seeing him. Hung. I hatehim," she said, in the same breezy but formidable tone. "If somebody told me he was drowning in theriver, I would go and stand on the bank and cheer."
　　"What if he takes after you now?"
　　"I don't mean him to see me. I just mean to spy on him."
　　When we came to the division of our roads, she said, "Come on with me. I'll show you how I spy."
　　We walked across the bridge and looked through the cracks between the planks at the high-flowing river.
　　"In the wintertime, I used to come out after dark and get right up at the kitchen windows, but it stays lighttoo late now to do that," she said. "What I wanted was for him to see the boot marks in the snow andknow there was somebody had been spying on him and go out of his mind."
　　I asked whether he had a shotgun.
"Sure," she said. "Same story. Shoots me and gets hung and goes to Hell. Don't worry—he's not going tosee us."
　　Before we were in sight of the Newcombes' buildings, we climbed a bank on the opposite side of the road, where there was a thick growth of sumac bordering a planted windbreak of spruce.