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时间:2020-11-13 13:34:35 英语阅读 我要投稿

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  英语阅读:AwayinaManger

  One afternoon about a week before Christmas, my family of four piled into our minivan to run an errand, and this question came from a small voice in the back seat: "Dad," began my five-year-old son, Patrick, "how come I"ve never seen you cry?"

有关于英语阅读大全

  Just like that. No preamble. No warning. Surprised, I mumbled something about crying when he wasn"t around, but I knew that Patrick had put his young finger on the largest obstacle to my own peace and contentment -- the dragon-filled moat separating me from the fullest human expression of joy, sadness and anger. Simply put, I could not cry.

  I am scarcely the only man for whom this is true. We men have been conditioned to believe that stoicism is the embodiment of strength. We have traveled through life with stiff upper lips, secretly dying within.

  For most of my adult life I have battled depression. Doctors have said much of my problem is physiological, and they have treated it with medication. But I know that my illness is also attributable to years of swallowing rage, sadness, even joy.

  Strange as it seems, in this world where macho is everything, drunkenness and depression are safer ways for men to deal with feelings than tears. I could only hope the same debilitating handicap would not be passed to the next generation.

  So the following day when Patrick and I were in the van after playing at a park, I thanked him for his curiosity. Tears are a good thing, I told him, for boys and girls alike. Crying is God"s way of healing people when they"re sad. "I"m glad you can cry whenever you"re sad," I said. "Sometimes daddies have a harder time showing how they feel. Someday I hope to do better."

  Patrick nodded. In truth, I held out little hope. But in the days before Christmas I prayed that somehow I could connect with the dusty core of my own emotions.

  "I was wondering if Patrick would sing a verse of "Away in a Manger" during the service on Christmas Eve," the church youth director asked in a message left on our answering machine.

  My wife, Catherine, and I struggled to contain our excitement. Our son"s first solo.

  Catherine delicately broached the possibility, reminding Patrick how beautifully he sang, telling him how much fun it would be. Patrick himself seemed less convinced and frowned. "You know, Mom," he said, "sometimes when I have to do something important, I get kind of scared."

  Grownups feel that way too, he was assured, but the decision was left to him. His deliberations took only a few minutes.

  "Okay," Patrick said. "I"ll do it."

  From the time he was an infant, Patrick has enjoyed an unusual passion for music. By age four he could pound out several bars of Wagner"s Ride of the Valkyries on the piano.

  For the next week Patrick practiced his stanza several times with his mother. A rehearsal at the church went well. Still, I could only envision myself at age five, singing into a microphone before hundreds of people. When Christmas Eve arrived, my expectations were limited.

  英语阅读:LoveYourLife

  However mean your life is, meet it and live it,do not shun it and call it hard names. It is not so bad as you are. It looks poorest when you are richest. The fault-finder will find faults in paradise. Love your life, poor as it is. You may perhaps have some pleasant, thrilling, glorious hours, even in a poor-house. The setting sun is reflected from the windows of the alms-house as brightly as from the rich man's abode; the snow melts before its door as early in the spring. I do not see but a quiet mind may live as contentedly there, and have as cheering thoughts, as in a palace. The town's poor seem to me often to live the most independent lives of any. May be they are simply great enough to receive without misgiving. Most think that they are above being supported by the town; but it often happens that they are not above supporting themselves by dishonest means, which should be more disreputable. Cultivate poverty like a garden herb, like sage. Do not trouble yourself much to get new things, whether clothes or friends, Turn the old, return to them. Things do not change; we change. Sell your clothes and keep your thoughts.

  英语阅读:Butterflies

  There was a time in my life when beauty meant something special to me. I guess that would have been when I was about six or seven years old, just several weeks or maybe a month before the orphanage turned me into an old man.

  I would get up every morning at the orphanage, make my bed just like the little soldier that I had become and then I would get into one of the two straight lines and march to breakfast with the other twenty or thirty boys who also lived in my dormitory.

  After breakfast one Saturday morning I returned to the dormitory and saw the house parent chasing the beautiful monarch butterflies who lived by the hundreds in the azalea bushes strewn around the orphanage.

  I carefully watched as he caught these beautiful creatures, one after the other, and then took them from the net and then stuck straight pins through their head and wings, pinning them onto a heavy cardboard sheet.

  How cruel it was to kill something of such beauty. I had walked many times out into the bushes, all by myself, just so the butterflies could land on my head, face and hands so I could look at them up close.

  When the telephone rang the house parent laid the large cardboard paper down on the back cement step and went inside to answer the phone. I walked up to the cardboard and looked at the one butterfly who he had just pinned to the large paper. It was still moving about so I reached down and touched it on the wing causing one of the pins to fall out. It started flying around and around trying to get away but it was still pinned by the one wing with the other straight pin. Finally it's wing broke off and the butterfly fell to the ground and just quivered.

  I picked up the torn wing and the butterfly and I spat on it's wing and tried to get it to stick back on so it could fly away and be free before the house parent came back. But it would not stay on him.

  The next thing I knew the house parent came walking back out of the back door by the garbage room and started yelling at me. I told him that I did not do anything but he did not believe me. He picked up the cardboard paper and started hitting me on the top of the head. There were all kinds of butterfly pieces going everywhere. He threw the cardboard down on the ground and told me to pick it up and put it in the garbage can inside the back room of the dormitory and then he left.

  ( 2 )

  I sat there in the dirt, by that big old tree, for the longest time trying to fit all the butterfly pieces back together so I could bury them whole, but it was too hard to do. So I prayed for them and then I put them in an old torn up shoe box and I buried them in the bottom of the fort that I had built in the ground, out by the large bamboos, near the blackberry bushes.

  Every year when the butterflies would return to the orphanage and try to land on me I would try and shoo them away because they did not know that the orphanage was a bad place to live and a very bad place to die.

  英语阅读:TheMostBeautifulHeart

  One day a young man was standing in the middle of the town proclaiming that he had the most beautiful heart in the whole valley. A large crowd gathered and they all admired his heart for it was perfect. There was not a mark or a flaw in it. Yes, they all agreed it truly was the most beautiful heart they had ever seen. The young man was very proud and boasted more loudly about his beautiful heart.

  Suddenly, an old man appeared at the front of the crowd and said, “Why your heart is not nearly as beautiful as mine.” The crowd and the young man looked at the old man’s heart. It was beating strongly, but full of scars, it had places where pieces had been removed and other pieces put in, but they didn’t fit quite right and there were several jagged edges. In fact, in some places there were deep gouges where whole pieces were missing.

  The people stared — how can he say his heart is more beautiful, they thought? The young man looked at the old man’s heart and saw its state and laughed. “You must be joking,” he said. “Compare your heart with mine, mine is perfect and yours is a mess of scars and tears.”

  “Yes,” said the old man, “Yours is perfect looking but I would never trade with you. You see, every scar represents a person to whom I have given my love — I tear out a piece of my heart and give it to them, and often they give me a piece of their heart which fits into the empty place in my heart, but because the pieces aren’t exact, I have some rough edges, which I cherish, because they remind me of the love we shared. Sometimes I have given pieces of my heart away, and the other person hasn’t returned a piece of his heart to me. These are the empty gouges — giving love is taking a chance.

  Although these gouges are painful, they stay open, reminding me of the love I have for these people too, and I hope someday they may return and fill the space in my heart. So now do you see what true beauty is? ”

  The young man stood silently with tears running down his cheeks. He walked up to the old man, reached into his perfect young and beautiful heart, and ripped a piece out. He offered it to the old man with trembling hands.

  The old man took his offering, placed it in his heart and then took a piece from his old scarred heart and placed it in the wound in the young man’s heart. It fit, but not perfectly, as there were some jagged edges. The young man looked at his heart, not perfect anymore but more beautiful than ever, since love from the old man’s heart flowed into his. They embraced and walked away side by side.

  英语阅读:ATrueGiftofLove

  “Can I see my baby?” the happy new mother asked.

  When the bundle was nestled in her arms and she moved the fold of cloth to look upon his tiny face, she gasped. The doctor turned quickly and looked out the tall hospital window. The baby had been born without ears.

  Time proved that the baby’s hearing was perfect. It was only his appearance that was marred. When he rushed home from school one day and flung himself into his mother’s arms, she sighed, knowing that his life was to be a succession of heartbreaks.

  He blurted out the tragedy. “A boy, a big boy...called me a freak.”

  He grew up, handsome for his misfortune. A favorite with his fellow students, he might have been class president, but for that. He developed a gift, a talent for literature and music.

  “But you might mingle with other young people,” his mother reproved him, but felt a kindness in her heart.

  The boy’s father had a session with the family physician... “Could nothing be done?”

  “I believe I could graft on a pair of outer ears, if they could be procured,” the doctor decided. Whereupon the search began for a person who would make such a sacrifice for a young man.

  Two years went by. One day, his father said to the son, “You’re going to the hospital, son. Mother and I have someone who will donate the ears you need. But it’s a secret.”

  The operation was a brilliant success, and a new person emerged. His talents blossomed into genius, and school and college became a series of triumphs.

  Later he married and entered the diplomatic service. One day, he asked his father, “Who gave me the ears? Who gave me so much? I could never do enough for him or her.”

  “I do not believe you could,” said the father, “but the agreement was that you are not to know...not yet.”

  The years kept their profound secret, but the day did come. One of the darkest days that ever pass through a son. He stood with his father over his mother’s casket. Slowly, tenderly, the father stretched forth a hand and raised the thick, reddish brown hair to reveal the mother had no outer ears.

  “Mother said she was glad she never let her hair be cut,” his father whispered gently, “and nobody ever thought mother less beautiful, did they?”

  REMEMBER...

  Real beauty lies not in the physical appearance,

  but in the heart.

  Real treasure lies not in what can be seen,

  but what cannot be seen.

  Real love lies not in what is done and known,

  but in what that is done but not known.

  英语阅读:TheSeaJourney

  The man cocked his rifle and directed it at my chest. I was just about to pull out my gun when I felt a sharp pain in my torso. I was trying to see where the man was, but ended up seeing nothing but my own blood...

  "Joey, Joey," said a mysterious voice. I opened my eyes with a struggle.

  "What happened?" I asked.

  "You were shaking and sweating like crazy. And saying something like, 'No, please don't shoot me!' and stuff like that," said Steve.

  "Uh," I groaned as I turned over and belched on Steve's shoes.

  "Hey!" screamed Steve, "Those are my new Nike Air shoes!"

  "where are we anyways?" I asked.

  "We're waiting for our ship to get ready, duh!"

  I nearly forgot. Both Steve and I were taking a cruise to Iceland.

  "The Great White is to departure to Iceland!" shouted the P.A.

  "That's our cue!" I shouted in excitement, "Iceland, here we come!"

  "Toilet, here I come..." I groaned as I fumbled my way down the aisles of the ship.

  "I told you not to eat too much food and then run around like a lunatic!" shouted Steve. "People these days," he mumbled, "what they do for attention."

  "Passengers, we are just 1 hour away from reaching Iceland," said the P.A, "would all passengers please stay seated for the next hour."

  "I hope they have a built in toilet in each seat," I said nervously, "because I feel another load coming on."

  "Don't worry Joey, just keep thinking about-," he was cut short by a violent shake.

  "What was that?" I asked.

  "Evacuate! Evacuate! We've just hit an iceberg! Evacuate! Evacuate!" shouted the P.A. And in the blink of an eye, everyone was up on their feet and running towards the lifeboats at the sides of the ship.

  "Come on Joey! Let's get out of here!" shouted Steve. I ran as fast as I could, while dodging all of the flying furniture coming towards me. I huffed and puffed as I ran up the platform of the ship, which was becoming more and more vertical with each passing second. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw several tables tumbling towards Steve.

  "Steve!" I shouted, "Watch out!" But it was too late. By the time Steve had turned around and faced me, the tables had already collided into him and sent him rolling down the platform. "Steve! No!" I shouted as I watched him being sucked down into the water. I stood there, helplessly, just staring after him. And then I remembered that I had to get out of this ship, or else I'd end up like Steve. So I jumped for my last chance at life. I grabbed a pole and held on fast. And then in a flash, my legs pushed me off of the pole and I splashed in the water. I surfaced, and watched as The Great White slowly sank into the unknown secrets of the Waterworld...

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