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There must be something pretty special about a mother who can raise a daughter oblivious to the poverty she lived in. I didn’t even know I was poor until I was in the second grade. I had everything I needed; nine brothers and sisters to play with, books to read, a friend in a handmade Raggedy Ann, and clean clothing my mother skillfully mended or often made herself. My hair was washed and braided1 by my mother each evening for school the next day, my brown shoes polished3 and shined. I was blissfully3 happy at school, loving the smell of the new crayons and the thick art paper the teacher handed out for pro－jects. I soaked up knowledge like a sponge, earning the coveted privilege of taking messages to the prin－cipal’s office one week.
I still remember the feeling of pride as I went by myself up the stairs of the school to deliver that day’s lunch count. As I returned to my classroom, I met two older girls going back up the stairway. “Look, it’s the poor girl,” one whispered to the other, and they gig－gled. Face flaming red and choking back tears, the rest of the day was a blur4.
Walking home that day, I tried to sort out the con－flicting feelings that the girl’s comments had wrought. I wondered why the girls thought I was poor. I looked down critically at my dress and for the first time noticed how faded it was, a crease5 at the hem6 visibly an－nouncing that the dress was a hand-me-down. Despite the fact that the heavy boy’s shoes were the only kind with enough support to keep me from walking on the sides of my feet, I was suddenly embarrassed that I wore ugly brown shoes.
By the time I got home, I felt sorry for myself. I felt as if I were entering a stranger’s house, looking critically at everything. I saw the torn linoleum7 in the kitchen, smudged fingerprints on the old paint in the doorways. Dejected8, I didn’t respond to my mother’s cheery greeting in the kitchen, where she prepared oat－meal cookies and powdered milk for a snack. I was sure the other girls in school didn’t have to have powdered milk. I brooded in my room until suppertime, won－dering how to approach the topic of poverty with my mother. Why hadn’t she told me, I wondered. Why did I have to find out from someone else?
When I had worked up enough courage, I went out to the kitchen. “Are we poor?” I blurted9 out, somewhat defiantly10. I expected her to deny it, de－fend it, or at least explain it away, so I wouldn’t feel so bad about it. My mother looked at me con－templatively, not saying anything for a minute. “Poor?” she repeated, as she set down the paringknife she’d been peeling potatoes with. “No, we’re not poor. Just look at all we have,” she said, as she gestured toward my brothers and sisters playing in the next room.
Through her eyes I saw the wood stove that filled the house with warmth, the colorful curtains and homemade rag rugs that decorated the house, the plate full of oatmeal cookies on the counter. Out－side the kitchen window I could see the wide open space of country that offered so much fun and ad－venture for 10 children. She continued, “Maybe some people would think we are poor in terms of money, but we have so much.” And with a smile of contentment, my mother turned back to preparing a meal for her family, not realizing she had fed far more than an empty stomach that evening. She had fed my heart and soul.
一位能够使女儿忘记自己贫穷处境的母亲一定有她非常独特的地方。在上二年级之前，我甚至根本不知道我是贫穷的。我拥有我所需要的一切；我有九个兄弟姐妹陪我玩耍，有许多书可看，有手工缝制的布娃娃安妮做朋友，有经过母亲巧手缝补或者由她亲手缝制的干净衣服可穿。我的头发总是被洗得干干净净，并在每天晚上由母亲为我梳好发辫，以便第二天早上能够及时去上学，我的褐色鞋子也总是被擦得闪闪发亮。我欢欢喜喜地上学，喜欢闻老师发给我们的新蜡笔和厚厚的艺术纸的味道。我像海绵一样贪婪地吮吸着知识，并且赢得了人人羡慕的把信息送到校长办公室的特权。
我仍然记得当我独自一人走上楼梯去送当天的午餐数量的时候，我心里所感到的骄傲。在我返回教室的途中，我遇到两个正在上楼梯的年龄稍大的女孩子。“瞧，这就是那个穷女孩，”一个女孩对另一个女孩窃窃私语，然后，她们一起咯咯笑起来。我的脸当即像火一样燃烧起来，我强忍着羞愤，咽回了眼泪，在那天余下的时间里，我一直闷闷不乐。
在步行回家的路上，我努力从那两个女孩的议论所给我带来的思想冲突中挣扎出来。我想知道那些女孩为什么会认为我是贫穷的。我低下头，用挑剔的眼光看了看我的衣服。我第一次注意到它的颜色已经褪得多么多么淡，而它褶边处的折痕则明显地表明这是一件旧衣服。还有我脚上穿着的那双男孩鞋。它是惟一一双硬实、不让我歪着脚走路的鞋子。我突然为我穿着这样一双丑陋的褐色鞋子而感到非常困窘。
当我走到家门口的时候，我觉得自己很可怜。我觉得自己好像走进一所陌生的房子，挑剔地看着每一样东西。我看见厨房里那块破旧的油布，看见门口那幅旧油画上的脏兮兮的手指印。由于心情沮丧，我没有回应我母亲从厨房里向我发出的欢快的问候声。她正在厨房里为我们准备点心———麦片饼和用奶粉冲的牛奶。我确信学校里的其他女孩子们不需要喝用奶粉冲的牛奶。我郁闷地待在自己的房间里，一直到晚餐时间。在那段时间里，我一直在考虑该如何跟我的母亲提到有关我们贫穷的事情。我想知道她为什么从来没有告诉过我。为什么我必须从别人那里知道这件事情？
当我鼓起足够的勇气之后，我走出房间，来到厨房。“我们穷吗？”我脱口而出，语气里带着一丝挑衅的味道。我期望她会否认这一点，或者至少会解释一番，以便我不会觉得太糟。我的母亲沉思地看着我，没有立即回答。过了一会儿，她放下手中正在削土豆的削皮刀，说：“穷？不，我们不穷。只要看看我们所拥有的一切，”她说着，用手向正在隔壁房间里玩耍的我的兄弟姐妹们指了指。
顺着她的眼光，我看见那个使我们的家温暖舒适的劈柴炉子、鲜艳的窗帘、装饰房间的普通碎呢地毯，和放在柜子上的那个盛满麦片饼的碟子。透过厨房的窗户，我能够看见那一片为10个孩子提供乐趣和冒险的宽阔的田野。我的母亲继续说，“如果从钱的角度来说，也许有人认为我们很穷，但是，我们还拥有这么多其他的东西。”然后，我的母亲带着满足的微笑，转身继续为她的家庭准备食物，丝毫也没有意识到她那天晚上不仅填饱了一个远胜于饥饿的空肚子。她还填饱了我的心灵。
阑珊 摘译自The Sower’s Seeds
另一名两度死里逃生的幸存者名叫劳拉·纳托尔。8年前，她曾经从火车相撞事故中幸免于难。
7日，27岁的纳托尔正在一列准备驶离国王十字车站的地铁列车上，灾难再次降临。“我以为我会死，”她说，“当车厢沿着铁轨滑动时，我想：‘我不能相信这事又发生在我头上。’”
爆炸烧焦了这名珠宝公司雇员的头发，让她全身都沾满烟灰。“我运气真背。”她向父母抱怨道。
但父亲却对她说：“不，你不是。你两次大难不死，是最幸运的人。”
的财富
单词巧记：
当你苦记单词时，可能会记住前边的，忘了后边，顾此失彼。记得上学时，小编也吃了不少这方面的苦。不过吃一堑，长一智，倒是摸出了一套巧记单词的法宝。就拿本文的单词来说，10个单词，且稍有难度，怎么做呢？容易，先设想一个自己喜欢的场景，再把所有单词的中文释义放进去，连成一个故事。
例如：
那天，我拖着油光闪亮的辫子，独自去了西湖。心底，有种极快乐的感觉在模糊地闪现。风过留痕，湖面恍然如穿了褶边裙的女子。像我这样披着亚麻油毡，沮丧的男子，就这样被人脱口叫作了西毒，我不想挑战什么，这个世界谁都可以叫西毒，只要你也如我一样。（王家卫版）
这样，记住了所有的中文释义，再去回想英文，是不是容易多了？
I still remember the feeling of pride as I went by myself up the stairs of the school to deliver that day’s lunch count. As I returned to my classroom, I met two older girls going back up the stairway. “Look, it’s the poor girl,” one whispered to the other, and they gig－gled. Face flaming red and choking back tears, the rest of the day was a blur4.
Walking home that day, I tried to sort out the con－flicting feelings that the girl’s comments had wrought. I wondered why the girls thought I was poor. I looked down critically at my dress and for the first time noticed how faded it was, a crease5 at the hem6 visibly an－nouncing that the dress was a hand-me-down. Despite the fact that the heavy boy’s shoes were the only kind with enough support to keep me from walking on the sides of my feet, I was suddenly embarrassed that I wore ugly brown shoes.
By the time I got home, I felt sorry for myself. I felt as if I were entering a stranger’s house, looking critically at everything. I saw the torn linoleum7 in the kitchen, smudged fingerprints on the old paint in the doorways. Dejected8, I didn’t respond to my mother’s cheery greeting in the kitchen, where she prepared oat－meal cookies and powdered milk for a snack. I was sure the other girls in school didn’t have to have powdered milk. I brooded in my room until suppertime, won－dering how to approach the topic of poverty with my mother. Why hadn’t she told me, I wondered. Why did I have to find out from someone else?
When I had worked up enough courage, I went out to the kitchen. “Are we poor?” I blurted9 out, somewhat defiantly10. I expected her to deny it, de－fend it, or at least explain it away, so I wouldn’t feel so bad about it. My mother looked at me con－templatively, not saying anything for a minute. “Poor?” she repeated, as she set down the paringknife she’d been peeling potatoes with. “No, we’re not poor. Just look at all we have,” she said, as she gestured toward my brothers and sisters playing in the next room.
Through her eyes I saw the wood stove that filled the house with warmth, the colorful curtains and homemade rag rugs that decorated the house, the plate full of oatmeal cookies on the counter. Out－side the kitchen window I could see the wide open space of country that offered so much fun and ad－venture for 10 children. She continued, “Maybe some people would think we are poor in terms of money, but we have so much.” And with a smile of contentment, my mother turned back to preparing a meal for her family, not realizing she had fed far more than an empty stomach that evening. She had fed my heart and soul.
一位能够使女儿忘记自己贫穷处境的母亲一定有她非常独特的地方。在上二年级之前，我甚至根本不知道我是贫穷的。我拥有我所需要的一切；我有九个兄弟姐妹陪我玩耍，有许多书可看，有手工缝制的布娃娃安妮做朋友，有经过母亲巧手缝补或者由她亲手缝制的干净衣服可穿。我的头发总是被洗得干干净净，并在每天晚上由母亲为我梳好发辫，以便第二天早上能够及时去上学，我的褐色鞋子也总是被擦得闪闪发亮。我欢欢喜喜地上学，喜欢闻老师发给我们的新蜡笔和厚厚的艺术纸的味道。我像海绵一样贪婪地吮吸着知识，并且赢得了人人羡慕的把信息送到校长办公室的特权。
我仍然记得当我独自一人走上楼梯去送当天的午餐数量的时候，我心里所感到的骄傲。在我返回教室的途中，我遇到两个正在上楼梯的年龄稍大的女孩子。“瞧，这就是那个穷女孩，”一个女孩对另一个女孩窃窃私语，然后，她们一起咯咯笑起来。我的脸当即像火一样燃烧起来，我强忍着羞愤，咽回了眼泪，在那天余下的时间里，我一直闷闷不乐。
在步行回家的路上，我努力从那两个女孩的议论所给我带来的思想冲突中挣扎出来。我想知道那些女孩为什么会认为我是贫穷的。我低下头，用挑剔的眼光看了看我的衣服。我第一次注意到它的颜色已经褪得多么多么淡，而它褶边处的折痕则明显地表明这是一件旧衣服。还有我脚上穿着的那双男孩鞋。它是惟一一双硬实、不让我歪着脚走路的鞋子。我突然为我穿着这样一双丑陋的褐色鞋子而感到非常困窘。
当我走到家门口的时候，我觉得自己很可怜。我觉得自己好像走进一所陌生的房子，挑剔地看着每一样东西。我看见厨房里那块破旧的油布，看见门口那幅旧油画上的脏兮兮的手指印。由于心情沮丧，我没有回应我母亲从厨房里向我发出的欢快的问候声。她正在厨房里为我们准备点心———麦片饼和用奶粉冲的牛奶。我确信学校里的其他女孩子们不需要喝用奶粉冲的牛奶。我郁闷地待在自己的房间里，一直到晚餐时间。在那段时间里，我一直在考虑该如何跟我的母亲提到有关我们贫穷的事情。我想知道她为什么从来没有告诉过我。为什么我必须从别人那里知道这件事情？
当我鼓起足够的勇气之后，我走出房间，来到厨房。“我们穷吗？”我脱口而出，语气里带着一丝挑衅的味道。我期望她会否认这一点，或者至少会解释一番，以便我不会觉得太糟。我的母亲沉思地看着我，没有立即回答。过了一会儿，她放下手中正在削土豆的削皮刀，说：“穷？不，我们不穷。只要看看我们所拥有的一切，”她说着，用手向正在隔壁房间里玩耍的我的兄弟姐妹们指了指。
顺着她的眼光，我看见那个使我们的家温暖舒适的劈柴炉子、鲜艳的窗帘、装饰房间的普通碎呢地毯，和放在柜子上的那个盛满麦片饼的碟子。透过厨房的窗户，我能够看见那一片为10个孩子提供乐趣和冒险的宽阔的田野。我的母亲继续说，“如果从钱的角度来说，也许有人认为我们很穷，但是，我们还拥有这么多其他的东西。”然后，我的母亲带着满足的微笑，转身继续为她的家庭准备食物，丝毫也没有意识到她那天晚上不仅填饱了一个远胜于饥饿的空肚子。她还填饱了我的心灵。
阑珊 摘译自The Sower’s Seeds
另一名两度死里逃生的幸存者名叫劳拉·纳托尔。8年前，她曾经从火车相撞事故中幸免于难。
7日，27岁的纳托尔正在一列准备驶离国王十字车站的地铁列车上，灾难再次降临。“我以为我会死，”她说，“当车厢沿着铁轨滑动时，我想：‘我不能相信这事又发生在我头上。’”
爆炸烧焦了这名珠宝公司雇员的头发，让她全身都沾满烟灰。“我运气真背。”她向父母抱怨道。
但父亲却对她说：“不，你不是。你两次大难不死，是最幸运的人。”
的财富
单词巧记：
当你苦记单词时，可能会记住前边的，忘了后边，顾此失彼。记得上学时，小编也吃了不少这方面的苦。不过吃一堑，长一智，倒是摸出了一套巧记单词的法宝。就拿本文的单词来说，10个单词，且稍有难度，怎么做呢？容易，先设想一个自己喜欢的场景，再把所有单词的中文释义放进去，连成一个故事。
例如：
那天，我拖着油光闪亮的辫子，独自去了西湖。心底，有种极快乐的感觉在模糊地闪现。风过留痕，湖面恍然如穿了褶边裙的女子。像我这样披着亚麻油毡，沮丧的男子，就这样被人脱口叫作了西毒，我不想挑战什么，这个世界谁都可以叫西毒，只要你也如我一样。（王家卫版）
这样，记住了所有的中文释义，再去回想英文，是不是容易多了？