转眼菜园里该采收了，蔬菜被装罐腌制后储藏，学校也开学了。再不久， 树叶飘零，海湾吹起阵阵寒风。鲁本在街头徘徊，努力寻找着被他视为宝物的麻袋。
他经常是饥寒交迫，疲惫不堪，但是一想到商店橱窗里的那样东西，他就又有劲儿坚持下去了。有时妈妈会问 ：“鲁本，你上哪儿啦？我们等你吃饭呢！”
“玩去啦，妈妈。对不起。”
这时候，多拉总会瞧着他的脸，无奈地摇摇头，心想：男孩就是男孩。
春天终于来了，带来片片绿意，鲁本的精神也随之振奋。是时候了！他跑到谷仓，爬上草垛，打开铁罐，倒出所有硬币清点起来。
他又数一遍，还差20美分。镇上哪儿还会有丢弃的麻袋吗？他必须在今天结束之前再找4条去卖掉。
鲁本沿着沃特街走着。
鲁本赶到工厂，厂房的影子已被夕阳拉得很长了。收购麻袋的人正要锁门。
“先生！请先不要关门。”
那人转过身来，看到了脏兮兮、汗涔涔的鲁本。
“明天再来吧，孩子。”
“求您了，先生，我必须现在把麻袋卖掉——求您啦。”那人感觉到鲁本的声音在颤抖，知道他快要哭了。
“你为什么这么急着要这点儿钱？”
“这是秘密。”
接着，他紧紧搂着铁罐，直奔那家商店。
“我有钱啦！”他一本正经地告诉店主。
店主走向橱窗，取出鲁本梦寐以求的东西。
他掸去灰尘，用牛皮纸把它小心包好，然后把这个小包放到鲁本手上。
鲁本一路狂奔到家，冲进前门。妈妈正在厨房擦洗灶台。“瞧，妈妈！瞧！”鲁本一边跑向她一边大叫着。他把一个小盒子放在她因劳作而变得粗糙的手上。
为了不损坏包装纸，她小心翼翼地把它拆开，一个蓝色天鹅绒的首饰盒映入眼帘。多拉打开盒盖，泪水顿时模糊了她的双眼。
在一个小巧的心状胸针上刻着金字：母亲。
那是1946年的母亲节。
多拉从未收到过这样的礼物；除了结婚戒指外，她没有别的饰物。哽咽无语，她把儿子一把揽入怀中，脸上洋溢着动人的光彩。
No Charge
分文不收
Our little boy came up to his mother in the kitchen one evening while she was fixing supper，and handed her a piece of paper that he had been writing on. After his mom dried her hands on an apron，she read it，and this is what it said：
For cutting the grass $5.00
For cleaning up my room this week $1. 00
For going to the store for you $0. 50
Baby－sitting my kid brother while you went shopping $0. 25
Taking out the garbage $1. 00
For getting a good report card $5. 00
For cleaning up and raking the yard $2. 00
Total owed： $14.75
Well，I’ll tell you，his mother looked at him standing there expectantly，and boy，could I see the memories flashing through her mind. So she picked up the pen，turned over the paper he’d written on，and this is what she wrote：
For the nine months I carried you while you were growing inside me，No Charge.
For all the nights that I’ve sat up with you，doctored and prayed for you，No Charge.
For all the trying times，and all the tears that you’ve caused through the years，there’s No Charge.
For all the nights that were filled with dread，and for the worries I knew were ahead，No Charge.
For the toys，food，clothes，and even wiping your nose，there’s No Charge，Son.
When you add it all up，the cost of my love is No Charge.
Well，friends，when our son finished reading what his mother had written，there were great big old tears in his eyes，and he looked straight up at his mother and said：“Mom，I sure do love you. ”And then he took the pen and in great big letters he wrote：“PAID IN FULL”.
一天晚上我们的小儿子来到厨房，他妈妈正在那儿做晚饭。他递给妈妈一张已经写好字的纸。妈妈在围裙上擦干手后，看到上面写着：
割草 ５美元
本周打扫自己的房间 １美元
替你跑商店 ５0美分
当你购物时看护小弟弟 ２５美分
倒垃圾 １美元
拿到优异的成绩单 ５美元
清理庭园并耙草、叶 ２美元
总计：１４. ７５美元
好的，我告诉你，他妈妈看到他期待地站在边上，孩子，我怎么能想到她灵光一闪。拿起笔，把那张纸翻过来，她写道：
在我肚子里怀你９个月，让你慢慢长大，一分都不收。
为你熬的每个夜晚，照料呵护你，一分都不收。
多年来由你引起的难熬时光以及为你流的泪，一分都不收。
为充满恐惧和担心的日日夜夜，一分都不收。
玩具、食物、衣服，还有给你擦鼻子，一分都没收，孩子。
当你把所有这些全部加起时，我全部的真爱，一分都不收。
朋友，当我们的儿子读完他妈妈写的这些，在他的眼睛中闪烁着晶莹的泪花，他抬头看着他妈妈说：“妈妈，我真的爱你。”然后，他拿起笔写了几个大大的字：“全部偿付”。
Mother"s cookie
妈妈的小甜饼
As I sat perched in the second-floor window of our brick schoolhouse that afternoon， my heart began to sink further with each passing car. This was a day I"d looked forward to for weeks： Miss Pace"s fourth-grade， end-of-the-year party. Miss Pace had kept a running countdown on the blackboard all that week， and our class of nine-year-olds had bordered on insurrection by the time the much-anticipated "party Friday" had arrived.
I had happily volunteered my mother when Miss Pace requested cookie volunteers. Mom"s chocolate chips reigned supreme on our block， and I knew they"d be a hit with my classmates. But two o"clock passed， and there was no sign of her. Most of the other mothers had already come and gone， dropping off their offerings of punch and crackers， chips， cupcakes and brownies. My mother was missing in action.
"Don"t worry， Robbie， she"ll be along soon，" Miss Pace said as I gazed forlornly down at the street. I looked at the wall clock just in time to see its black minute hand shift to half-past.
Around me， the noisy party raged on， but I wouldn"t budge from my window watch post. Miss Pace did her best to coax me away， but I stayed put， holding out hope that the familiar family car would round the corner， carrying my rightfully embarrassed mother with a tin of her famous cookies tucked under her arm.
The three o"clock bell soon jolted me from my thoughts and I dejectedly grabbed my book bag from my desk and shuffled out the door for home.
On the four-block walk to our house， I plotted my revenge. I would slam the front door upon entering， refuse to return her hug when she rushed over to me， and vow never to speak to her again.
The house was empty when I arrived and I looked for a note on the refrigerator that might explain my mother"s absence， but found none. My chin quivered with a mixture of heartbreak and rage. For the first time in my life， my mother had let me down.
I was lying face-down on my bed upstairs when I heard her come through the front door.
"Robbie，" she called out a bit urgently. "Where are you？"
I could then hear her darting frantically from room to room， wondering where I could be. I remained silent. In a moment， she mounted the steps—the sounds of her footsteps quickening as she ascended the staircase.
When she entered my room and sat beside me on my bed， I didn"t move but instead stared blankly into my pillow refusing to acknowledge her presence.
"I"m so sorry， honey，" she said. "I just forgot. I got busy and forgot—plain and simple."
I still didn"t move. "Don"t forgive her，" I told myself. "She humiliated you. She forgot you. Make her pay."
Then my mother did something completely unexpected. She began to laugh. I could feel her shudder as the laughter shook her. It began quietly at first and then increased in its velocity and volume.
I was incredulous. How could she laugh at a time like this？ I rolled over and faced her， ready to let her see the rage and disappointment in my eyes.
But my mother wasn"t laughing at all. She was crying. "I"m so sorry，" she sobbed softly. "I let you down. I let my little boy down."
She sank down on the bed and began to weep like a little girl. I was dumbstruck. I had never seen my mother cry. To my understanding， mothers weren"t supposed to. I wondered if this was how I looked to her when I cried.
I desperately tried to recall her own soothing words from times past when I"d skinned knees or stubbed toes， times when she knew just the right thing to say. But in that moment of tearful plight， words of profundity abandoned me like a worn-out shoe.
