一个人在他不同的职业生涯中可能会有很多帽子，有些帽子一文不值，有些帽子却贵得离谱;但当我独自坐在火炉旁时，有一顶帽子我永远记得。在北方十一月的深处，因为它满足了我的愿望。它是旧的，破烂的，腐烂的，多年不流行，像一个流浪汉遗忘的东西，留在路边。mulga的枝干把它撕破了，它的缎带只有花边，老家伙不会戴它，脸上没有悲伤的微笑。当我向女士们脱下帽子时，与其说是炫耀，不如说是悲伤，我常常希望它在地狱里，而这一举动只得到一片空白;除了在衣襟上拍一只苍蝇，或者从火中捡起一夸脱，或者用皮带捆住一只鹿的肋骨，这就是一个人所能渴望的一切。当它应该送到洗衣店去的时候(就像有人说的那样，呆在那里!)把断奶的小牛从牵引场鞭打到棚子里去，这是很方便的。又作了饥饿的海怪的盘子。 It was all that a fellow could wish for In many more ways than you'd think. It was spotted and stained by the weather, There was more than one hole in the crown, And it made little difference whether The rim was turned up or turned down. It kept out the rain (in a fashion) And kept off the sun (more or less), Bt it merely comanded compassion Considered as part of one's dress. Though it wasn't a hat you would bolt with Or be anxious to borrow or hire, It was useful to blindfold a colt with Or handle a bit of barbed wire. Though the world may have thought it improper To wear such old rubbish as that, I'd have scorned the best London-made topper In exchange for my old battered hat.