安徒生童话故事第40篇：城堡上的一幅画The Sunbeam and the Capt
引导语：关于城堡上的一幅画的安徒生童话故事，与大家分享阅读学习。
这是秋天，我们站在城堡上，望着海上的许多船只和对面远处在晚霞中隆起的瑞典的海岸线。在我们后面，城垒陡峭地向下倾斜。这儿有许多美丽的古树，它们枯黄的叶子正在从枝子上萧萧往下落。再下面就是木栅栏围着的凄凉的房子。这些房子的内部——哨兵在这儿巡逻——是既狭窄而又阴惨。不过最阴惨的是铁栏杆后面的'那个黑洞，因为在这儿坐着许多囚徒——罪行最重的犯人。
落日的一丝光线射进一个囚犯的小室里来。太阳是不分善恶，什么东西都照的!那个阴沉的、凶恶的囚犯对这丝寒冷的光线狠狠地看了一眼。一只小鸟向铁窗飞来。鸟儿向恶人歌唱，也向好人歌唱!它唱出简单的调子：“滴丽!滴丽!”不过它停下来，拍着翅膀，啄下一根羽毛，使它脖子上的羽毛都直立起来。这个戴着脚镣的坏人望着它，于是他凶恶的脸上露出一种温柔的表情。一个思想——一个他自己还不能正确地加以分析的思想——在他的心里浮起来了。这思想跟从铁窗里射进来的太阳光有关，跟外面盛开的那几棵春天的紫罗兰的香气有关。这时猎人吹起一阵轻快而柔和的号角声。那只小鸟从这囚徒的铁窗飞走了;太阳光也消逝了;小室里又是一片漆黑;这个坏人的心里也是一片漆黑。但是太阳光曾经射进他的心里，小鸟的歌声也曾经透进去。
美丽的狩猎号角声呵，继续吹吧!黄昏是温柔的，海水是干静的，一点风也没有。
城堡上的一幅画英文版：
The Sunbeam and the Captive
IT is autumn. We stand on the ramparts, and look out over the sea. We look at the numerous ships, and at the Swedish coast on the opposite side of the sound, rising far above the surface of the waters which mirror the glow of the evening sky. Behind us the wood is sharply defined; mighty trees surround us, and the yellow leaves flutter down from the branches. Below, at the foot of the wall, stands a gloomy looking building enclosed in palisades. The space between is dark and narrow, but still more dismal must it be behind the iron gratings in the wall which cover the narrow loopholes or windows, for in these dungeons the most depraved of the criminals are confined. A ray of the setting sun shoots into the bare cells of one of the captives, for God’s sun shines upon the evil and the good. The hardened criminal casts an impatient look at the bright ray. Then a little bird flies towards the grating, for birds twitter to the just as well as to the unjust. He only cries, “Tweet, tweet,” and then perches himself near the grating, flutters his wings, pecks a feather from one of them, puffs himself out, and sets his feathers on end round his breast and throat. The bad, chained man looks at him, and a more gentle expression comes into his hard face. In his breast there rises a thought which he himself cannot rightly analyze, but the thought has some connection with the sunbeam, with the bird, and with the scent of violets, which grow luxuriantly in spring at the foot of the wall. Then there comes the sound of the hunter’s horn, merry and full. The little bird starts, and flies away, the sunbeam gradually vanishes, and again there is darkness in the room and in the heart of that bad man. Still the sun has shone into that heart, and the twittering of the bird has touched it.
Sound on, ye glorious strains of the hunter’s horn; continue your stirring tones, for the evening is mild, and the surface of the sea, heaving slowly and calmly, is smooth as a mirror.