全新版大学英语 课文全Word格式文档下载.docx

1、d been bored by everything associated with English courses. I found English grammar dull and difficult. I hated the assignments to turn out long, lifeless paragraphs that were agony for teachers to read and for me to write. When our class was assigned to Mr. Fleagle for third-year English I anticipa

2、ted another cheerless year in that most tedious of subjects. Mr. Fleagle had a reputation among students for dullness and inability to inspire. He was said to be very formal, rigid and hopelessly out of date. To me he looked to be sixty or seventy and excessively prim. He wore primly severe eyeglass

3、es, his wavy hair was primly cut and primly combed. He wore prim suits with neckties set primly against the collar buttons of his white shirts. He had a primly pointed jaw, a primly straight nose, and a prim manner of speaking that was so correct, so gentlemanly, that he seemed a comic antique. I pr

4、epared for an unfruitful year with Mr. Fleagle and for a long time was not disappointed. Late in the year we tackled the informal essay. Mr. Fleagle distributed a homework sheet offering us a choice of topics. None was quite so simple-minded as “What I Did on My Summer Vacation,” but most seemed to

5、be almost as dull. I took the list home and did nothing until the night before the essay was due. Lying on the sofa, I finally faced up to the unwelcome task, took the list out of my notebook, and scanned it. The topic on which my eye stopped was “The Art of Eating Spaghetti.” This title produced an

6、 extraordinary sequence of mental images. Vivid memories came flooding back of a night in Belleville when all of us were seated around the supper tableUncle Allen, my mother, Uncle Charlie, Doris, Uncle Haland Aunt Pat served spaghetti for supper. Spaghetti was still a little known foreign dish in t

7、hose days. Neither Doris nor I had ever eaten spaghetti, and none of the adults had enough experience to be good at it. All the good humor of Uncle Allen s house reawoke in my mind as I recalled the laughing arguments we had that night about the socially respectable method for moving spaghetti from

8、plate to mouth. Suddenly I wanted to write about that, about the warmth and good feeling of it, but I wanted to put it downsimply for my own joy, not for Mr. Fleagle. It was a moment I wanted to recapture and hold for myself. I wanted to relive the pleasure of that evening. To write it as I wanted,

9、however, would violate all the rules of formal composition I d learned in school, and Mr. Fleagle would surely give it a failing grade. Never mind. I would write something else for Mr. Fleagle after I had written this thing for myself. When I finished it the night was half gone and there was no time

10、 left to compose a proper, respectable essay for Mr. Fleagle. There was no choice next morning but to turn in my tale of the Belleville supper. Two days passed before Mr. Fleagle returned the graded papers, and he returned everyone s but mine. I was preparing myself for a command to report to Mr. Fl

11、eagle immediately after school for discipline when I saw him lift my paper from his desk and knock for the class s attention. “Now, boys,” he said. “I want to read you an essay. This is titled, The Art of Eating Spaghetti. ” And he started to read. My words! He was reading my words out loud to the e

12、ntire class. Whats more, the entire class was listening. Listening attentively. Then somebody laughed, then the entire class was laughing, and not in contempt and ridicule, but with open-hearted enjoyment. Even Mr. Fleagle stopped two or three times to hold back a small prim smile. I did my best to

13、avoid showing pleasure, but what I was feeling was pure delight at this demonstration that my words had the power to make people laugh. In the eleventh grade, at the eleventh hour as it were, I had discovered a calling. It was the happiest moment of my entire school career. When Mr. Fleagle finished

14、 he put the final seal on my happiness by saying, “Now that, boys, is an essay, dont you see. Itsdont you seeits of the very essence of the essay, dont you see. Congratulations, Mr. Baker.” 11B The Scholarship Jacket Martha Salinas The smallTexasschool that I attended carried out a tradition every y

15、ear during the eighth grade graduation; a beautiful gold and green jacket, the school colors, was awarded to the class valedictorian, the student who had maintained the highest grade for eight years.The scholarship jacket had a big gold S on the left front side and the winners name was written in go

16、ld letters on the pocket. My oldest sister Rosie had won the jacket a few years back and I fully expected to win also. I was fourteen and in the eight grade. I had been a straight A student since the first grade, and the last year I had looked forward to owing that jacket. My father was a farm labor

17、er who couldnt earn enough money to feed eight children, so when I was six I was given to my grandparents to raise. We couldnt participate in sports in school because there were registration fees, uniform costs, and trips out of town; so even thought we were quite agile and athletic there would neve

18、r be a sports school jacket for us. This one, the scholarship jacket, was our only chance. In May, close to graduation, spring fever struck, and no one paid any attention in class; instead we stared out the windows and at each other, wanting to speed up the last few weeks of school. I despaired ever

19、y time I looked in the mirror. Pencil thin, not a curve anywhere, I was called “Beanpole” and “String Bean” and I knew thats what I looked like. A flat chest, no hips, and a brain, thats what I had. That really isnt much for a fourteen-year-old to work with, I thought, as I absentmindedly wandered f

20、rom my history class in the gym. Another hour of sweating in basketball and displaying my toothpick legs was coming up. Then I remembered my P.E. shorts were still in a bag under my desk where Id forgotten them. I had to walk all the way back and get them. Coach Thompson was a real bear if anyone wa

21、snt dressed for P.E. She had said I was a good forward and once she even tried to talk Grandma into letting me join the team. Grandma, of course, said no. I was almost back at my classrooms door when I heard angry voices and arguing. I stopped. I didnt mean to eavesdrop; I just hesitated, not knowin

22、g what to do. I needed those shorts and I was going to be lat, but I didnt want to interrupt an argument between my teachers. I recognized the voices; Mr. Schmidt, my history teacher, and Mr. Boone, my math teacher. They seemed to be arguing about me. I couldnt believe it. I still remember the shock

23、 that rooted me flat against the wall as if I were trying to blend in with the graffiti written there.“I refuse to do it! I dont care who her father is, her grades dont even begin to compare to Marthas. I wont lie or falsify records. Martha has a straight A plus average and you know it” That was Mr.

24、 Schmidt and he sounded very angry. Mr. Boones voice sounded calm and quite. “Look, Joanns father is not only on the Board, he owns the only store in town; we could say it was a close tie and” The pounding in my ears drowned out the rest if the words only a word here and there filtered through. “ Ma

25、rtha is Mexican resign wont do it”Mr. Schmidt came rushing out, luckily for me went down the opposite was toward the auditorium, so he didnt see me. Shaking, I waited a few minutes and then went in and grabble my bag and fled from the room. Mr. Boone looked up when I came in but didnt say anything.

26、To this day I dont remember if I got in trouble in P.E. for being late or how I made it through the rest of the afternoon. I went home very sad and cried into my pillow that night so grandmother wouldnt hear me. It seemed a cruel coincidence that I had overheard that conversation. The nest day when

27、the principle called me into the office, I knew what it would be about. He looked uncomfortable and unhappy. I decided I wasnt going to make it easier for him so I looked him straight in the eye. He looked away and fidgeted with the papers on his desk. “Martha,” he said, “theres been a change in pol

28、icy this year regarding the scholarship jacket. As you know, it has always been free.” He cleared his throat and continued. “This year the Board decided to charge fifteen dollarswhich still wont cover the complete cost of the jacket”. I stared at him in shock and a small sound of dismay escapedmy th

29、roat. I hadnt expected this. He still avoided looking in my eyes. “So if you are unable to pay the fifteen dollars for the jacket, it will be given to the next one in line.” Standing with all the dignity I could muster, I said, Ill speak to my grandfather about it, sir, and let you know tomorrow.” I

30、 cried on the walk home from the bus stop.The dirt road was a quarter of a mile from the highway, so by the time I got home, my eyes were red and puffy. “Wheres Grandpa?” I asked Grandma, looking down at the floor so she wouldnt ask me why Id been crying. She was sewing on a quilt and didnt look up.

31、 “I think hes out back working in the bean field.” I went outside and looked out at the fields. There he was, I could see him walking between the rows, his body bent over the little plants, hoe in hand. I walked slowly out to him, trying to think of how I could best ask him for the money. There was

32、a cool breeze blowing and a sweet smell of mesquite in the air, but I didnt appreciate it. I kicked at a dirt clot. I wanted that jacket so much. It was more that just being a valedictorian and giving a little thank you speech for the jacket on graduation night. It represents eight years of hard work and expectation. I knew I had to be honest