M y N e w R o o m m a t e
年俗文化It was my first day at the institute．I got into the building where 1 was
going to live．My eyes arched carefully from the door of one bedroom to that
of another for my name w hich ought to have been pasted on the door of one of the bedrooms．At last I found it．On s tepping into the bedroom I found there was a lready in it a student who was making his bed．
Having exchanged with me a few words of greetings，he resumed his arrangement of bedding and no longer paid any attention to me．“What a stuck-up fellow．”
烫面油饼的做法I thought and began to survey the room．It looked quite similar to any other bedroom in the building．Even the furniture in all bedrooms was uniform．It emed my bedroom had already been thoroughly cleaned by my new roommate．
hdmi是什么He was t hin，short and dark-skinned．His hair looked like a bundle of straw．His dirty clothes and lusterless eyes clearly indicated that he had had a long
journey．His clothes were made of cheap cloth．His coat was too short，and the legs of his trours were too loo．He wore a pair of unfashionable rubber shoes．Thus he did not look like a smart freshman at a11.“A yokel,” I concluded．The cond time he spoke，his accent told me t hat he was from the south．“May I help you get your luggage from the office?”
I did not decline his help becau I really needed it．He was quick in movement． He walked out of the room and was s oon far ahead of me i n the corridor．“A good guy,” I said to mylf．“I will make f riends with him．”I hurried and caught up with him．
My English Teacher
I like most of my t eachers in college．They were，for the most part，friendly and competent, willing to help students．I liked them — but I don’t remember them very well，except for Mr. Jones，my freshman English teacher．He was an enthusiastic， nsitive man，who knew his subject and was determined that we would learn it and love it, too．
Mr. Jones was a tall，slender man in his mid-forties with gray, thinning hair．Perched precariously on his no，his glass gave him a rious look．But they didn’t remain there long，for he was always either taking them off and polishing their two pieces of glass or putting either of the two earpi
eces in
his mouth when he was meditating a respon to some question raid by a student．When on his way to our classroom，he always carried two or three books
with strips of paper sticking out of them，which were for marking the passages
he wanted to read to us．I remember, too， his cardigan sweaters．He must have had a dozen of them．On rainy days he would have a blue raincoat on．But what is most tenacious in my memory is his smile．When he smiled，his whole face lit up；his eyes sparkled．His smile made you feel good，at ea，and somehow reassured．Though habitually friendly and at ea with everybody, he was a bit prim in classroom，and he could be stem on occasions．He never called us by our first names．He obviously enjoyed his work and loved his students，but he kept his distance．He never deliberately or publicly embarrasd a student by using
sarcastic language．Nevertheless he could distinctly reveal his displeasure in
his own way．He’d look steadily at an offending student for quite a few freezing conds．That was usually enough for the little culprit to be cowed．But if it didn’t work，he’d say something to the student in a lowered tone of voice．He didn’t do this often, though．
Mr. Jones had personality, integrity, vitality — a11 of which made him popular；but what I liked most about him was that he was a fine teacher It was
true that he cared about his students，but he cared more about teaching them his subject．And that meant homework，lots of it，and pop quizzes now and then to keep them current on the reading．He lectured occasionally to provide background information whenever we moved on to a new literary period．After a brief glance
at his notes，he’d begin to move around as he talked to the blackboard to the window, back to the 1ectem．But he preferred discussion，a Socratic dialogue．He’d write veral questions on the board for the next day’s discussion，and he’d expect you to be prepared to discuss them．He directed the
discussion, but he didn’ｔdominate it：for he was a good listener and made s ure we all had a chance to respond, whether we wanted to or not．If he was plead with a respon，he’d nod his head and smile．Occasionally he’d read a student’s essay, praising its good points and then winking at the writer as he pasd it
back．But he was tough-minded，too，as I suggested before．He really nailed you for sloppy work
or inattention．When you got an A from him，you really felt good，for he wasn’t an easy grader．We ud to complain about his grading standards，usually to no avail, though he would change a grade if he thought he had been
unfair．
Mr. Jones was a competent teacher．He knew what he was doing in classroom，and he could conduct his class very well．But what was more important was that
he made his students fall in love with the cour he offered．He led us to take the initiative in delving into it on out own．
Mariak Anagian
She was ninety-two years old when I met her, a gentle，diminutive lady in European dress．Her face was deeply lined，and her coar grey hair had yellowed with the years．She spoke softly in a quivering voice in half English and half American．Her gnarled hands testified to the years of hard work on the farm in
her homeland．Yet．in her dark eyes and in her gentle manner there was a childlike simplicity as sh
e told me her story．I thought“she has the wisdom that comes with years of experience and the gentle purity of a child—that was a wonderful but strange combination of traits．”I knew that l would never forget her．
语音输入法Her name was Mariak Anagian When she was a young woman，her homeland was i nvaded by foreign troops．She had been keeping hou for her father, brothers， husband，and her two young children．One day she returned from the market and found the mutilated（残缺不全的）bodies of her father and one of her brothers on her doorstep．They were among t he many v ictims of the war．Mariak’s husband was much older than she，and he soon succumbed to the rigorous demands of field work and mental strain，leaving Mariak alone in the world to take care of her two small
children．Many o f the town’s people helped her, and she was a ble to produce enough on the small farm to feed her family．Shortly after the turn of the century, her daughter married and went to America．A few years later，Mariak’s daughter nt her some money which enabled her to come to the United States．Thus Mariak came to live in the United States for thirty years．
As Mariak told her story, her eyes grew large with fear and her breath
quickened with excitement．Then she wept．After a short time，she sat silently
老光棍儿with her head bowed．Suddenly, she ro from the chair, lifted her skirt to just above her ankles，and began to dance in short，jerky steps．She s ang almost inaudibly
in her native language，but I knew it was a children’s song．Her simple melody and simple dance steps were typically tho of an average child．Her eyes shone with youthful gaiety, and her voice was light and happy．Her grandson appeared at this time，spoke to her affectionately, and led her away from the room．
My Dormitory Bedroom
My dormitory bedroom on the cond floor of Bienville Hall is small and
cluttered up．Its dark green walls and dirty white ceiling make it look gloomy
and thus
even smaller than it is．On entering the bedroom．one would find my bed is right
班主任工作感悟in his way becau it takes up half of the room．The two large windows over my bed are obstructed from view by the golden heavy drapes．Against the left wall
is a large book ca extending into the comer which is behind the head of my b ed．The bookca is crammed with piles of sheets of paper, books，and knickknacks．Wedged in between the bookca and the wall opposite the bed is a small grey metal
desk．Near the desk stands a brown wooden chair which fills up the left end of
the room．Stuffed under the desk is a wastepaper basket overflowing with tom pieces of Paper and refu．The wall above the bookca and desk is completely taken
共享上网up with two small posters．On the right side of the room is a narrow clot with clothes，shoes，hats，tennis racquets， and boxes bulging out of its sliding doors．Every time 1 walk out of my bedroom．I think to mylf, Now I know what
it is like to live in a clot．”
Subways
Subways are long，dark，gloomy, sooty tunnels under the ground．Trains with many c ars clatter on steel tracks through the tunnels．The automatic doors open noisily, one at each end and another in the middle of the car．The trains have bright electric lights and long benches for pasngers’comfort．There are many colorful posters on the damp m etal walls of the trains．Some adverti toothpaste for the family．Many posters plead for support for charity organizations．A lot of posters urge subway riders to buy a special lime-scented deodorant or a
赞美太阳
particular lemon-oil haft tonic．A few posters ask readers to buy this soap or
that shoe polish．Most of the riders read the posters．A few of them read books
or newspapers．Not many riders talk to their fellow travelers as they burrow
through the earth from one end of the city to another．
A Spring Morning
It was early in a morning in spring．The sun was just scrambling upward from the eastern horizon and shedding vermilion steaks to penetrate the ambient clouds that were drifting across the sky．Soon the campus was bathed in the first rays
of the sun. Then the lake，the trees and the bamboos looked as if they were all gilded．The ground was covered with tender grass and the beaded dewdrops stood on their tips and were ready to reflect the nascent sunshine．
Birds flew about in the woods，twittering restlessly．Some b oy students who were absorbed in reading leaned against trees with buds peeping out from beneath the gray bark．A couple of girl students were reading from their English textbooks aloud while walking up and down the gravel path around the lake where a sort of
stream ro to form swirls of thin mist．It was really a morning of beauty, vigor and hope．
A Pleasant Summer
