初級(jí)英語文章
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初級(jí)英語文章：Is there a violin in Heaven
I am a violin. Plain looking as I am, I have a wonderful sound. I used to play soft, sweet rhythm in the hand of my young master. But now, lying in the complete darkness, I'm totally discarded, forgotten, waiting for my end in this dead silence. The flown time appeared like dream in my declining memory. Those bitter and sweet days made an imprint on my vision that is all I still get. So here comes the story about beauty, music, friendship and loneliness.
My father was an intelligent master craftsman. Though his gift didn't bring him any fame or fortune, his zest for the violin making had never been worn away. One day in an odorous, dirty sty he discovered a wedge of spruce, which is light and strong---perfect for the violin. Joyfully, he trade a packed of food for it with the puzzled countryman. After three weeks' hard work, my sister and I were born into this world. My father couldn't afford the expensive varnish for us. But I can assure you, plain as we are, we are the first-class violins with the hypnotic sound you've never heard!
How long did I take in the shelf to wait for my master coming up? Two years, three years? Memory puzzles herself to reply this question. Besides, I always fell confused about the time in human's world. But it's definitely a long, long time. All I can recall about that is many, many people have passed by without even offering me a glance. How helpless unattractive I am! Finally I got a terrible feeling that my master perhaps would never show up, and my beautiful voice would be buried forever without even a chance to be heard.
It was a day like usual, colourless and gloomy. Like a dream a little girl, probably 6 years old, suddenly came up to me. For some reason, her beautiful eyes looked so empty and sad. But she was actually looking at me! Excited, my long lost hope rose up. I hold my breath, dreading to freight her away. Her mother came up and asked softly: Are you sure? The little girl cast her eyes down to the floor, she answered in an almost unread voice: Yeah. I cried for this single word. It sounded like a word from the heaven. At last, I found my master! Thousands words I tried to say, thousands questions I'd like to ask: Is she a good player? What kind of music is her favourite? She reached her hands for me. Her fingered felt so cold! Oddly, she didn't give a try on me like most other masters would do. Lowering her head, she followed her mother out of store and down to the street. Few minutes later, with my excitement for the future calming down, I soon realized there was something wrong. My little master was obviously deeply troubled and upset. She grasped me tighter and tighter with her little fingers. She was fighting hardly a urge to cry but failed. Tears swelled up to her eyes.
One drop of her tears fell apart on my skin. It was hot, and …hurt. She grasped me tighter and tighter with her little fingers as if I was the only thing left in the world she could hold on. I got a strange feeling that this little girl was frightened, frightened to death. The mother finally sensed her daughter's unusual emotions. She stopped with doubts, and pulled her daughter.
"What's wrong, honey, you are trembling."
The little girl raised up her tearful eyes towards her mother. For a while, she tried to regain command of herself and behaved well, but she failed and wept a deep, abandoned sobbing.
"Oh, mum, please, please don't send me away. I promise I would be good. I know Papa hates me because I were not a boy. But I will try, try to be good…" she suddenly couldn't continue her desperate appeal. Overwhelmed by a mixture of sorrows interlarded with great fears, she gave away to uncontrollable weeping.
The mother was obviously taken back by her daughter's imploration. She frowned, as if she was labouring at the efforts to organize her thoughts into the soothing words. Then she held her daughter's little trembling body into her arms.
" Honey, your daddy and I have a rough time. We fight a lot, you know. We are trying to figure some way out, but both of us hate to get you involved. So we decided to send you to Star, it's a very good boarding school. Auntie Liu is my best friend, and I am sure she will take care of you. Mum hates to leave you, but I have no other choice, honey, when you grow up, you will understand." Though the reassurance of her tone did hold some quality of comfort, it surely is not strong enough to sweep all my master's worries away. She wept, tried to absorb in every word her mother just said. Try to grow up soon, so she could get a better understanding, but now she just found herself caught up in a strong sense of helplessness. She murmured in a stammered voice: " But, but Cousin he told me Star is a terrible place, a charity school. He said only children from poor family or unwanted children would be sent to charity school. He said I am a great trouble, and you fight a lot because of me. Now, you and dad don't want me any more…." She broke off, her breath came in short, hot gasps as if the courage she gathered to speak aloud those painful words suddenly collapsed.
初級(jí)英語文章：The Sea Journey
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...
I grunted with effort as I pulled myself into an abandoned raft. I looked around me in the raft, I see nothing but canned food and mold. "Oh well," I sigh, "at least there's food." I quickly change my mind when I open a can. It was filled with nothing but mold. I take a look at my surroundings, nothing but endless water, endless oceans, endless nightmares. I just can't place Steve's death out of my mind. It just doesn't seem fair, that he had to die at such a young age. I don't even know how I'm surviving. I don't even know how I'm going to survive.
During evening the next day, there was a violent rumble, and a big swooshing sound. I turned and looked through my binoculars. There, in the distance, was a humongous tsunami headed my way. Boom! I jumped. I looked up to see the clouds darkening and the lightning illuminating the endless sky. "Great," I said, "just like salt can't go without pepper, tsunamis can't go without a storm." I returned my glance to the tsunami, and even though it was still far away, I was terrified of it. I took my paddle and started to move out of the tsunami's path. There it was again, the swooshing noise. I turned my glance towards to where the sound came from. There, dead ahead, was a monster wave taller than Harbor Center, and longer than a train, rushing in my direction. I just watched it, terrified of its massive size, its thundering noise, and, its rushing speed. Fortunately for me, the tsunami didn't crash until about 400 metres away from me. Unfortunately for me, the wave was so powerful that it created an abundance of smaller tsunamis. I was terrified as a tiny tsunami demolished my raft and sent me flying through the air. Splash! I landed in the freezing water, and saw nothing but tsunamis crashing and clashing together. I couldn't move, not because I was numb, but because I was too scared. I couldn't even feel my body anymore. "Oh no," I thought, "I'm getting hypothermia. I'm going to die." I watched the tsunami thunder in my path, "Oh well," I thought, "at least I'll all my problems will go away when I die." Now the tsunami was only a kilometre away, and was coming closer with each passing second. "Good-bye world, good-bye life, good-bye Steve," I said as the tsunami was only a few seconds from tearing me apart.
初級(jí)英語文章：Away in a Manger
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?"
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.
Catherine, our daughter Melanie and I sat with the congregation in darkness as a spotlight found my son, standing alone at the microphone. He was dressed in white, with a pair of angel wings.
Slowly, confidently, Patrick hit every note. As his voice washed over the people, he seemed a true angel, a true bestower of Christmas miracles.
There was eternity in Patrick"s voice that night, a beauty rich enough to penetrate any reserve. At the sound of my son, heavy tears welled at the corners of my eyes.
His song was soon over, and the congregation applauded. Catherine brushed away tears. Melanie sobbed next to me.
After the service, I moved to congratulate Patrick, but he had more urgent priorities. "Mom," he said as his costume was stripped away, "I have to go to the bathroom."
As Patrick disappeared, the pastor wished me a Merry Christmas, but emotion choked off my reply. Outside the sanctuary I received congratulations from fellow church members.
I found my son as he emerged from the bathroom. "Patrick, I need to talk to you about something," I said, smiling. I took him by the hand and led him into a room where we could be alone. I knelt to his height and admired his young face, the large blue eyes, the dusting of freckles on his nose and cheeks, the dimple on one side.
He looked at my moist eyes quizzically.
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