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When I was eight or nine years old, I wrote my first poem.
我在八九岁时，第一次写了一首诗。
At that time my father was head of Paramount Studios.
那时我父亲是好莱坞的大亨，派拉蒙制片公司的经理。
My mother was involved in various intellectual projects.
母亲在各种学术活动中是个领袖人物，帮助把“文化”介绍给二十年代充满活力的好莱坞。
My mother read the little poem and began to cry.
母亲读了我的哪首小诗，哭起来了。
“Buddy, you didn't really write this beautiful, beautiful poem!”
“帕迪，这首妙不可言的诗不会真是你写的吧。"
I stammered that I had. She poured out her praise.
我既难为情，又得意的不得了，期期艾艾的说，是我写的。
Why, this poem was nothing short of genius!
她对我赞不绝口，说只有天才才能写出这样的好诗！
I glowed. “What time will Father be home?”I asked. I could hardly wait to show him.
我心花怒放：“爸爸什么时候回家？”我问了一声，迫不及待地想把那首诗拿给他看。
I spent the best part of that afternoon preparing for his arrival.
那天下午，我大部分时间都在做父亲回来时的准备。
First, I wrote the poem out in my finest flourish.
首先，我用最华丽的字体，把那首诗腾清。
Then I crayoned an elaborate border around it that would so justice to its brilliant content.
然后用蜡笔在四周加了一个精致的花边，来配上那辉煌的文字。
As seven o'clock drew near, I confidently placed it on my father's plate on the dining-room table.
快到七点钟的时候，我满怀信心地把它房子餐桌上父亲的盘子里。
I admired my father. He had begun his motion-picture career as a writer.
我极羡慕父亲。我喜欢到制片厂去，在他那间宽大的放映室看新电影的初次剪接。
He would be able to appreciate this wonderful poem of mine even more than my mother.
自然会比母亲更加能够心上我这首绝妙好诗。
