關(guān)于課外英語(yǔ)美文摘抄
關(guān)于課外英語(yǔ)美文摘抄
經(jīng)典美文可以陶冶情操,豐富想象,還可以培養(yǎng)學(xué)生對(duì)語(yǔ)言文字的興趣,有益于培養(yǎng)他們的語(yǔ)文素養(yǎng)。學(xué)習(xí)啦小編整理了關(guān)于課外英語(yǔ)美文，歡迎閱讀!
關(guān)于課外英語(yǔ)美文：Magical coat
My l4-year-old son, John, and I spotted the coat simultaneously. It was hanging on a rack at a secondhand clothing store in Northampton Mass, crammed in with shoddy trench coats and an assortment of sad, woolen overcoats -- a rose among thorns.
While the other coats drooped, this one looked as if it were holding itself up. The thick, black wool of the double-breasted chesterfield was soft and unworn, as though it had been preserved in mothballs for years in dead old Uncle Henry's steamer trunk. The coat had a black velvet collar, beautiful tailoring, a Fifth Avenue label and an unbelievable price of . We looked at each other, saying nothing, but John's eyes gleamed. Dark, woolen topcoats were popular just then with teenage boys, but could cost several hundred dollars new. This coat was even better, bearing that touch of classic elegance from a bygone era.
John slid his arms down into the heavy satin lining of the sleeves and buttoned the coat. He turned from side to side, eyeing himself in the mirror with a serious, studied expression that soon changed into a smile. The fit was perfect.
John wore the coat to school the next day and came home wearing a big grin. "Ho. did the kids like your coat?" I asked. "They loved it," he said, carefully folding it over the back of a chair and smoothing it flat. I started calling him "Lord Chesterfield" and "The Great Gatsby."
Over the next few weeks, a change came over John. Agreement replaced contrariness, quiet, reasoned discussion replaced argument. He became more judicious, more mannerly, more thoughtful, eager to please. "Good dinner, Mom," he would say every evening.
He would generously loan his younger brother his tapes and lecture him on the niceties of behaviour; without a word of objection, he would carry in wood for the stove. One day when I suggested that he might start on homework before dinner, John -- a veteran procrastinator - said, "You're right. I guess I will."
When I mentioned this incident to one of his teachers and remarked that I didn't know what caused the changes, she said laughing. "It must be his coat!" Another teacher told him she was giving him a good mark not only because he had earned it but because she liked his coat. At the library, we ran into a friend who had not seen our children in a long time, "Could this be John?" he asked, looking up to John's new height, assessing the cut of his coat and extending his hand, one gentleman to another.
John and I both know we should never mistake a person's clothes for the real person within them. But there is something to be said for wearing a standard of excellence for the world to see, for practising standards of excellence in though, speech, and behaviour, and for matching what is on the inside to what is on the outside.
Sometimes, watching John leave for school, I've remembered with a keen sting what it felt like to be in the eighth grade -- a time when it was as easy to try on different approaches to life as it was to try on a coat. The whole world, the whole future is stretched out ahead, a vast panorama where all the doors are open. And if I were there right now, I would picture myself walking through those doors wearing my wonderful, magical coat.
關(guān)于課外英語(yǔ)美文：I Never Write Right
When I was fifteen, I announced to my English class that I was going to write and illustrate my own books. Half the students sneered, the rest nearly fell out of their chairs laughing. "Don't be silly, only geniuses can become writers," the English teacher said smugly, "And you are getting a D this semester." I was so humiliated I burst into tears.
That night I wrote a short sad poem about broken dreams and mailed it to the Capri's Weekly newspaper. To my astonishment, they published it and sent me two dollars. I was a published and paid writer. I showed my teacher and fellow students. They laughed. "Just plain dumb luck," the teacher said. I tasted success. I'd sold the first thing I'd ever written. That was more than any of them had done and if it was just dumb luck, that was fine with me.
During the next two years I sold dozens of poems, letters, jokes and recipes. By the time I graduated from high school, with a C minus average, I had scrapbooks filled with my published work. I never mentioned my writing to my teachers, friends or my family again. They were dream killers and if people must choose between their friends and their dreams, they must always choose their dreams.
I had four children at the time, and the oldest was only four. While the children napped, I typed on my ancient typewriter. I wrote what I felt. It took nine months, just like a baby. I chose a publisher at random and put the manuscript in an empty Pampers diapers package, the only box I could find. I'd never heard of manuscript boxes. The letter I enclosed read, "I wrote this book myself, I hope you like it. I also do the illustrations. Chapter six and twelve are my favourites. Thank you." I tied a string around the diaper box and mailed it without a self addressed stamped envelope and without making a copy of the manuscript.
A month later I received a contract, an advance on royalties, and a request to start working on another book. Crying Wind, the title of my book, became a best seller, was translated into fifteen languages and Braille and sold worldwide. I appeared on TV talk shows during the day and changed diapers at night. I traveled from New York to California and Canada on promotional tours. My first book also became required reading in native American schools in Canada.
The worst year I ever had as a writer I earned two dollars. I was fifteen, remember? In my best year I earned 36,000 dollars. Most years I earned between five thousand and ten thousand. No, it isn't enough to live on, but it's still more than I'd make working part time and it's five thousand to ten thousand more than I'd make if I didn't write at all. People ask what college I attended, what degrees I had and what qualifications I have to be a writer. The answer is: "None." I just write. I'm not a genius. I'm not gifted and I don't write right. I'm lazy, undisciplined, and spend more time with my children and friends than I do writing. I didn't own a thesaurus until four years ago and I use a small Webster's dictionary that I'd bought at K-Mart for 89 cents. I use an electric typewriter that I paid a hundred and twenty nine dollars for six years ago. I've never used a word processor. I do all the cooking, cleaning and laundry for a family of six and fit my writing in a few minutes here and there. I write everything in longhand on yellow tablets while sitting on the sofa with my four kids eating pizza and watching TV.
When the book is finished, I type it and mail it to the publisher. I've written eight books. Four have been published and three are still out with the publishers. One stinks. To all those who dream of writing, I'm shouting at you: "Yes, you can. Yes, you can. Don't listen to them." I don't write right but I've beaten the odds. Writing is easy, it's fun and anyone can do it. Of course, a little dumb luck doesn't hurt.
關(guān)于課外英語(yǔ)美文：Not a Chance to Regret
A short while ago when life was simple and all that mattered was friends and having fun. There were two sisters that lived life just as gracefully as possible. There names were Carlie and Mary Jane they were liked by everyone but something just wasn't right. Carlie and Mary Jane were both cheerleaders and loved it with a passion. But one day the unexpected happened.
The sisters that were always the best of friends weren't so close and Mary Jane started arguing with her mom and little things like that. Well one day it just got out of hand the arguing and yelling. M.J. and her mom were going to cheerleading practice and were going at it pretty bad and her mom said the most hurtful thing to her "Mary Jane i can't believe the person you've become i want you out of my house and my life."
Those words pierced her heart so hard and so fast that she just plunged out of the car and down an embankment her mom stopped on a dime, yelling and praying she was okay. The car that was behind her saw the whole thing and happened to be a pastor, he got out and ran down the hill to find M.j.'s mom lying there holding her daughter helplessly yelling and screaming for her daughter to wake up " I love u sweetie wake up GOD PLEASE let her wake up i love her don't take her from me i need her god PLEASE."
The pastor walked over and called 911 and he began to pray, " Dear lord watch over this young lady bring her back we need her here don't take her away just yet." well the ambulance came and so did the helicopter they knew there was something seriously wrong. M.J.'s mom Gabrielle called Carlie from the hospital and had her rush right over. Carlie arrived and didn't even recognize her dear sister, so pale and bruised and filled with aggone her eyes began to water up. Then she asked " Is she gonna be okay." the doctor replied, "Carlie your sister is on life support and is unconscious the odds aren't good." Poor Carlie dropped to her knees and begged for her sister to wake up and be okay."
M.J. I need you want you here you gotta cheer with me be my brides maid at my wedding, throw me a baby shower when I'm expecting, M.J. its to soon don't go please i love you." and right then Mary Jane took her last breath. Word traveled fast and everyone was devastated friends, family, and even complete strangers. Mary Jane will always be remembered and loved. But you never know when its your time to go so try and be the best person you can be and don't do something in the heat of the moment you might not get a chance to regret it.
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