(完整版)《新编英语教程》第3册的课文

A Winter to Remember难忘的冬天Robert Best罗伯特.贝斯特①According to the weather men last winter was one of the worst in living memory.①气象员说，去年冬天是记忆中最冷的一个冬天。

①We live in the depths of the country, and my whole family agree that it was certainly a winter we shall never forget. ②Snow began to fall at round about thebeginning of the New Year and①我们生活在偏远地区；我们全家人都认为去年冬天肯定是我们永远无法忘记的。

②雪在年初开始下，断断续续下了十来天。

①At first we were all thrilled to see it.②It fell silently and relentlessly in large soft flakes until every ugly patch and corner of our rather rambling garden was smoothed over and had become a spotless white canopy.③The children soon spoiltleaving their footprints all over it.④Hungryon its surface.⑤It was now, when the garden was all churned up and of a dirty grey colour, that a severe frost set in, hardening the snow into ugly lumps of grimy concrete.⑥For the next three months the whole countryside lay in a grip of iron.①看见这样的情形，我们一开始都很兴奋。

Unit 4Language StructureMain Teaching Points:1.Modal auxiliaries may/might used to express “possibility”eg. It may/might be fine tomorrow.2.Modal auxiliaries should/ ought to expressing “obligation”eg. He should/ought to get up early and take some exercise every day. 3.Modal auxiliaries would rather expressing “preference”eg. I would rather do some reading.4.Modal auxiliaries must and can’t used to express “strong probability”and “impossibility” respectivelyeg. He must be in the gym. // He can’t be there.Useful Expressionsgo-mountain climbing be in good healthtake notice of be weak in / be poor insuffer from sth. live transmission of sports eventsDialogue A Trip to ChinaA. Listening to the recordingB. Questions on specific detailsC. Broad questions:1. Describe the changes in China’s rural areas, particularly in the coastal areas.2. What are the ways in which Chinese farmers get up-to-dateinformation?3. Why college education important for modern farmers?4. Do you believe in “Y ou get what you put in”?D. Language Points1. Fancy meeting you here.=It’s a surprise to meet you here.2. world-renowned/ world-famous世界闻名的eg. 1) Shanghai is a world-renowned cosmopolitan metropolis.上海是国际知名的大都会。

Unit 3TEXT IThree Sundays in a WeekTextRobert, the narrator of the story, was left in the care of his Uncle Rumgudgeon when his parents died. He grew up with Kate, daughter of Uncle Rumgudgeon. Kate had agreed to marry Robert any time he got her father's consent. But the old man would not give his consent until three Sundays came together in a week. Robert was greatly upset.Now it so happened that among Kate's sailor friends were two men who had just traveled around the globe. They had circled it in a year and come back to England. With their help, Kate and I tried to gain our point indirectly. So we invited the pair up to meet my uncle, and after a half hour or so of idle talk, we began to steer the conversation."Well, well, Mr. Rumgudgeon," Captain Pratt started. "Here I am just a year after leaving England —let me see. October 10 —yes, just a year since I called here, you will remember, to bid my friends goodbye. By the way —it does seem a coincidence, really, doesn't it? Captain Smitherton here has also been absent a year exactly — just a year today!" "Why yes, yes, yes," replied my uncle. "Very queer indeed. Both of you gone just a year —very queer indeed. Now, that's what Dr. Double L. Dee would call an extraordinary concurrence of events. Extraordinary! Doctor Doub —""To be sure, papa, it is something strange," Kate interrupted hastily. "But remember that Captain Pratt didn't go by the same route as Captain Smitherton — that makes a difference, you know.""Well," broke in my uncle. "I don't know any such thing! How should I? It only makes the thing even more extraordinary.""Why papa, Captain Pratt went around Cape Horn, and Captain Smitherton doubled the Cape of Good Hope.""Precisely — the one went east and the other went west, you fool! And they both have gone completely around the world. Now, Dr. Double L. Dee —""Captain Pratt, you must come and spend the evening with us tomorrow,"I said, "— you and Captain Smitherton. You can tell us all about your voyages, and we'll have a game of cards —.""Cards? My dear fellow, you forget!" cried Captain Pratt. "Tomorrow will be Sunday, you know. Some other evening!""Sunday?" Kate demanded. "Come, you know Robert's not so bad as that! Todayis Sunday, of course!""To be sure! To be sure!" my uncle added."I must beg both your pardons," Pratt insisted, "but I can't be so much mistaken. I know tomorrow's Sunday, because —"Here Smitherton found his voice at last. He'd been looking at the others as though they were mad. "What are you people thinking about, anyhow? Wasn't yesterday Sunday, I should like to know?"Everyone had an answer for that, but they were different answers. "Today's Sunday!" my uncle roared, purple with anger. "No! No! Tomorrow's Sunday," called Pratt."Why, you are all mad, every one of you! I am as positive that yesterday was Sunday as I am that I'm sitting in this chair."And here Kate ended the quarrel by jumping up, as if she had a new thought. "I see it all! I see it all! It's a judgment on you, papa, about you know what! It's a very simple thing, really. I can explain it in a minute. Here's Captain Smitherton — he says yesterday was Sunday. And so it was. He's right. Bobby and Uncle and I say today is Sunday. And we're right. We're perfectly right. And Captain Pratt is right too, when he says tomorrow is Sunday. —We're all right, because, three Sundays have come together in this week!""Why, of course! said Smitherton after a bit of mock thought. "What fools we two are!""The earth you know, is about 24,000 miles around. And it spins around from west to east in 24 hours. Now if I sail along eastward a thousand miles from this position, I reach London with an hour extra, because I've been traveling right towards the rising sun and meeting it as it rose. In that way, I gain an hour on the clock. I see the sun rise just an hour before you do. And in another thousand miles eastward, I gain another hour in the same way — by meeting the sun before it rises. Thus when I go eastward around the globe, 24,000 miles or so, and reach this spot again, why, I've gone toward the rising sun just 24 hours. That is to say, when I arrive, it is a full day ahead of your time. Understand?""But Dr. Double L. Dee —" my uncle began feebly. Smitherton would not be interrupted."But Captain Pratt, on the contrary, traveled westward. Every thousand miles took him an hour away from the rising sun. Each thousand miles in that direction brought him to a point an hour further from the sun. It takes just an hour for the sun to catch up with him there. So we can say that he has lost an hour. When he has sailed 24,000 miles west, why, he has lost just 24 hours. He has arrived a day after our time." "Now, in that way, yesterday was really Sunday for me, because I gained a day. With you, Mr. Rumgudgeon, who remained here, today is Sunday. Captain Pratt, however, lost a day. Tomorrow will be his Sunday." "And what is even more interesting, Mr. Rumgudgeon, there can be noparticular reason given why the day of any one of us should be more correct than another. We are all perfectly correct in our claims about this Sunday."Uncle Rumgudgeon kept his word, and Robert would have Kate, her inheritance and all.By Edgar Allan Poe (abridged and adapted)TEXT IIThe Bermuda TriangleThere is a section of the Western Atlantic, off the southeast coast of the United States, forming what has been termed a triangle, extending from Bermuda in the north to southern Florida, and then east to a point through the Bahamas past Puerto Rico to about 40°west longitude and then back again to Bermuda. This area occupies a disturbing and almost unbelievable place in the world's catalogue of unexplained mysteries. This is usually referred to as the Bermuda Triangle, where more than a hundred planes and ships have literally vanished into thin air, most of them since 1945, and more than a thousand lives have been lost in the past thirty-three years, without a single body or even a piece of wreckage from the vanishing planes or ships having been found. Disappearance continue to occur with apparently increasing frequency, in spite of the fact that the seaways and airways are today more travelled, searches are more thorough, and records are more carefully kept.Many of the planes concerned have vanished while in normal radio contact with their base or terminal destination until the very moment of their disappearance, while others have radioed the most extraordinary messages, implying that they could not get their instruments to function, that their compasses were spinning, that the sky had turned yellow and hazy (on a clear day), and the ocean (which was calm nearby) "didn't look right" without further clarification of what was wrong.One group of five planes, a flight of Navy TBM Avengers, on a mission from the Fort Lauderdale Naval Air Station, on December 5, 1945, were the object, along with the Martin Mariner sent to rescue them, and which also disappeared, of one of the most intensive groundsea rescue operations ever conducted, although no life rafts, oil slicks, or wreckage was ever located. Other aircraft including passenger planes, have vanished while receiving landing instructions, almost as if, as has been mentioned in Naval Board of Inquiry procedures, they had flown through a hole in the sky. Large and small boats have disappeared without leaving wreckage, as if they and their crews had been snatched into another dimension. Large ships, such as the Marine Sulphur Queen, a 425-foot-long freighter, and the U.S.S. Cyclops, 19,000 tons with 309 people aboard, have simplyvanished while other ships and boats have been found drifting within the Triangle, sometimes with an animal survivor, such as a dog or canary, who could give no indication of what had happened — although in one case a talking parrot vanished along with the crew.Unexplained disappearances in the Bermuda Triangle have continued to the present day and no plane or ship is reported overdue and finally classed as "search discontinued" by the Seventh Coast Guard without the expressed or unexpressed comment or feeling among the public or the searchers that there is some connection with the past and present phenomenon of the Bermuda Triangle. There seems to be growing public awareness that something is very wrong with this area. Recent numerous reports from planes and boats which have had incredible experiences within the Triangle and survived are contributing toward a new folklore of the sea, although the cause of the unexplained menace to planes and ships within this area is as mysterious as ever.From The Bermuda Triangle by Charles Berlitz。

Unit 9TEXT IWho Killed Benny Paret?TextSometime about 1935 or 1936 I had an interview with Mike Jacobs, the prizefight promoter. I was a fledgling newspaper reporter at that time; my beat was education, but during the vacation season I found myself on varied assignments, all the way from ship news to sports reporting. In this way I found myself sitting opposite the most powerful figure in the boxing world.There was nothing spectacular in Mr. Jacobs' manner or appearance; but when he spoke about prizefights, he was no longer a bland little man but a colossus who sounded the way Napoleon must have sounded when he reviewed a battle. You knew you were listening to Number One. His saying something made it true.We discussed what to him was the only important element in successful promoting — how to please the crowd. So far as he was concerned, there was no mystery to it. You put killers in the ring and the people filled your arena. You hire boxing artists — men who are adroit at feinting, parrying, weaving, jabbing, and dancing, but who don't pack dynamite in their fists —and you wind up counting your empty seats. So you searched for the killers and sluggers and maulers — fellows who could hit with the force of a baseball bat.I asked Mr. Jacobs if he was speaking literally when he said people came out to see the killer."They don't come out to see a tea party," he said evenly. "They come out to see the knockout. They come out to see a man hurt. If they think anything else, they're kidding themselves."Recently a young man by the name of Benny Paret was killed in the ring. The killing was seen by millions; it was on television. In the twelfth round he was hit hard in the head several times, went down, was counted out, and never came out of the coma.The Paret fight produced a flurry of ernor Rockefeller was shocked by what happened and appointed a committee to assess the responsibility. The New York State Boxing Commission decided to find out what was wrong. The District Attorney's office expressed its concern. One question that was solemnly studied in all three probes concerned the action of the referee. Did he act in time to stop the fight? Another question had to do with the role of the examining doctors who certified the physical fitness of the fighters before the bout. Still anotherquestion involved Mr. Paret's manager; did he rush his boy into the fight without adequate time to recuperate from the previous one?In short, the investigators looked into every possible cause except the real one. Benny Paret was killed because the human fist delivers enough impact, when directed against the head, to produce a massive hemorrhage in the brain. The human brain is the most delicate and complex mechanism in all creation. It has a lacework of millions of highly fragile nerve connections. Nature attempts to protect this exquisitely intricate machinery by encasing it in a hard shell. Fortunately, the shell is thick enough to withstand a great deal of pounding. Nature, however, can protect man against everything except man himself. Not every blow to the head will kill a man — but there is always the risk of concussion and damage to the brain. A prizefighter may be able to survive even repeated brain concussions and go on fighting, but the damage to his brain may be permanent.In any event, it is futile to investigate the referee's role and seek to determine whether he should have intervened to stop the fight earlier. This is not where the primary responsibility lies. The primary responsibility lies with the people who pay to see a man hurt. The referee who stops a fight too soon from the crowd's viewpoint can expect to be booed. The crowd wants the knockout; it wants to see a man stretched out on the canvas. This is the supreme moment in boxing. It is nonsense to talk about prizefighting as a test of boxing skills. No crowd was ever brought to its feet screaming and cheering at the sight of two men beautifully dodging and weaving out of each other's jabs. The time the crowd comes alive is when a man is hit hard over the heart or the head, when his mouthpiece flies out, when blood squirts out of his nose or eyes, when he wobbles under the attack and his pursuer continues to smash at him with poleax impact.Don't blame it on the referee. Don't even blame it on the fight managers. Put the blame where it belongs — on the prevailing mores that regard prize-fighting as a perfectly proper enterprise and vehicle of entertainment. No one doubts that many people enjoy prizefighting and will miss it if it should be thrown out. And that is precisely the point. By Norman CousinsTEXT IIA Piece of SteakWith the last morsel of bread Tom King wiped his plate clean of the last bit of flour gravy and chewed the resulting mouthful in a slow and thoughtful way. When he arose from the table, he was oppressed by the feeling that he was distinctly hungry. Yet he alone had eaten. The twochildren in the other room had been sent early to bed in order that in sleep they might forget they had gone supperless. His wife had touched nothing, and had sat silently and watched him with troubled eyes. She was a thin, worn woman of the working class, though signs of an earlier prettiness were still there in her face. The flour for the gravy she had borrowed from the neighbor across the hall. The last two ha 'pennies had gone to buy the bread.He sat down by the window on a rickety chair that protested under his weight, and quite mechanically he put his pipe in his mouth and dipped into the side pocket of his coat. The absence of any tobacco made him aware of his action, and with a frown for his forgetfulness he put the pipe away. His movements were slow, almost clumsy, as though he were burdened by the heavy weight of his muscles. He was a solid-bodied, stolid-looking man, and his appearance did not suffer from being overprepossessing. His rough clothes were old and shapeless. The uppers of his shoes were too weak to carry the heavy resoling that was itself of no recent date. And his cotton shirt, a cheap, two-shilling affair, showed a frayed collar and ineradicable paint stains.But it was Tom King's face that advertised him unmistakably for what he was. It was the face of a typical prizefighter; of one who had put in long years of service in the squared ring and by that means, developed and emphasized all the marks of the fighting beast. It was distinctly a threatening appearance, and that no feature of it might escape notice, it was clean-shaven. The lips were shapeless and made his mouth harsh like a deep cut in his face. The jaw was aggressive, brutal, heavy. The eyes, slow of movement and heavy-lidded, were almost expressionless under the shaggy brows. Sheer animal that he was, the eyes were the most animal-like feature about him. They were sleepy, lionlike — the eyes of a fighting animal. The forehead slanted quickly back to the hair, which, clipped close, showed every swelling of an evil-looking head. A nose, twice broken and molded variously by countless blows, and a cauliflower ear, permanently swollen and distorted to twice its size, completed his adornment, while the beard, fresh-shaven as it was, sprouted in the skin and gave the face a blue-black stain.Altogether, it was the face of a man to be afraid of in a dark alley or lonely place. And yet Tom King was not a criminal, nor had he ever done anything criminal. Except for brawls, common to the boxing world, he had harmed no one. Nor had he ever been known to start a quarrel. He was a professional, and all the fighting brutishness of him was reserved for his professional appearances. Outside the ring he was slow-going,easy-natured, and, in his younger days, when money was plentiful, too generous for his own good. He bore no grudges and had few enemies. Fighting was a business with him. In the ring he struck to hurt, struck to maim, struck to destroy; but there was no hatred in it. It was a plain businessproposition. Audiences assembled and paid for the spectacle of men knocking each other out. The winner took the big end of the purse. When Tom King faced the Woolloomoolloo Gouger, twenty years before, he knew that the Gouger's jaw was only four months healed after having been broken in a Newcastle bout. And he had played for that jaw and broken it again in the ninth round, not because he bore the Gouger any ill will but because that was the surest way to put the Gouger out and win the big end of the purse. Nor had the Gouger borne him any ill will for it. It was the game, and both knew the game and played it.The impression of his hunger came back on him."Blimey, but couldn't I go a piece of steak!" he muttered aloud, clenching his huge fists."I tried both Burke's an' Sawley's", his wife said half apologetically. "An' they wouldn't?" he demanded."Not a ha'penny. Burke said —" She faltered."G'wan! Wot'd he say?""As how 'e was thinkin' Sandel 'ud do ye tonight, an' as how yer score was comfortable big as it was."Tom King grunted but did not reply. He was busy thinking of the bull terrier he had kept in his younger days to which he had fed steaks without end. Burke would have given him credit for a thousand steaks —then. But times had changed. Tom King was getting old; and old men, fighting before second-rate clubs, couldn't expect to run bills of any size with the tradesmen.He had got up in the morning with a longing for a piece of steak, and the longing had not died down. He had not had a fair training for this fight. It was a drought year in Australia, times were hard, and even the most irregular work was difficult to find. He had had no sparring partner, and his food had not been of the best nor always sufficient. He had done a few day's navvy work when he could get it and he had run around the Domain in the early mornings to get his legs in shape. But it was hard, training without a partner and with a wife and two kiddies that must be fed. Credit with the tradesmen had undergone very slight expansion when he was matched with Sandel. The secretary of the Gayety Club had advanced him three pounds —the loser's end of the purse —and beyond that had refused to go. Now and again he had managed to borrow a few shillings from old pals, who would have lent more only that it was a drought year and they were hard put themselves. No — and there was no use in disguising the fact — his training had not been satisfactory. He should have had better food and no worries. Besides, when a man is forty, it is harder to get into condition than when he is twenty."What time is it, Lizzie?" he asked.His wife went across the hall to inquire, and came back."Quarter before eight.""They'll be startin' the first bout in a few minutes," he said. "Only a tryout. Then there's a four-round spar 'tween Dealer Wells an' Gridley, an' a ten-round go 'tween Starlight an' some sailor bloke. I don't come on for over an hour."At the end of another silent ten minutes he rose to his feet."Truth is, Lizzie, I ain't had proper trainin'."He reached for his hat and started for the door. He did not offer to kiss her — he never did on going out — but on this night she dared to kiss him, throwing her arms around him and compelling him to bend down to her face. She looked quite small against the massive bulk of the man. "Good luck, Tom," she said. "You gotter do 'im."Ay, I gotter do 'im," he repeated. "That's all there is to it. I jus' gotter do' im."He laughed with an attempt at heartiness, while she pressed more closely against him. Across her shoulders he looked around the bare room. It was all he had in the world, with the rent overdue, and her and the kiddies. And he was leaving it to go out into the night to get meat for his mate and cubs —not like a modern workingman going to his machine grind, but in the old, primitive, royal, animal way, by fighting for it."I gotter do 'im," he repeated, this time a hint of desperation in his voice. "If it's a win, it's thirty quid —an' I can pay all that's owin', with a lump o' money left over. If it's a lose, I get naught — not even a penny for me to ride home on the tram. The secretary's give all that's comin' from a loser's end. Good-by, old woman. I'll come straight home if it's a win.""An' I'll be waitin' up," she called to him along the hall.It was full two miles to the Gayety, and as he walked along he remembered how in his palmy days —he had once been the heavyweight champion of New South Wales — he would have ridden in a cab to the fight, and how, most likely, some heavy backer would have paid for the cab and ridden with him. There were Tommy Burns and that Yankee, Jack Johnson — they rode about in motorcars. And he walked! And, as any man knew, a hard two miles was not the best preliminary to a fight. He was an old un and the world did not wag well with old uns. He was good for nothing now except navvy work, and his broken nose and swollen ear were against him even in that. He found himself wishing that he had learned a trade. It would have been better in the long run. But no one had told him, and he knew, deep down in his heart, that he would not have listened if they had. It had been so easy. Big money — sharp, glorious fights — periods of rest and loafing in between — a following of eager flatterers, the slaps on the back, the shakes of the hand, the toffs glad to buy him a drink for the privilege of five minutes' talk — and the glory of it, the yelling houses, the whirlwind finish, the referee's "King wins!" and his name in the sporting columns next day.Those had been times! But he realized now, in his slow, ruminating way, that it was the old uns he had been putting away. He was Youth, rising; and they were Age, sinking. No wonder it had been easy —they with their swollen veins and battered knuckles and weary in the bones of them from the long battles they had already fought. He remembered the time he put out old Stowsher Bill, at Rush-Cutters Bay, in the eighteenth round, and how old Bill had cried afterward in the dressing room like a baby. Perhaps old Bill's rent had been overdue. Perhaps he'd had at home a missus an' a couple of kiddies. And perhaps Bill, that very day of the fight, had had a hungering for a piece of steak. Bill had fought the game and taken incredible punishment. He could see now, after he had gone through the mill himself, that Stowsher Bill had fought for a bigger stake, that night twenty years ago, than had young Tom King, who had fought for glory and easy money. No wonder Stowsher Bill had cried afterward in the dressing room.They had tried him out against the old uns, and one after another he had put them away —laughing when, like old Stowsher Bill, they cried in the dressing room. And now he was an old un, and they tried out the youngsters on him. There was that bloke Sandel. He had come over from New Zealand with a record behind him. But nobody in Australia knew anything about him, so they put him up against old Tom King. If Sandel made a showing, he would be given better men to fight with bigger purses to win; so it was to be depended upon that he would put up a fierce battle. He had everything to win by it — money and glory and career; and Tom King was the grizzled old chopping block that guarded the highway to fame and fortune. And he had nothing to win except thirty quid, to pay to the landlord and the tradesmen. And as Tom King thus ruminated, there came to his stolid vision the form of youth, glorious youth, rising exultant and invincible, supple of muscle and silken of skin, with heart and lungs that had never been tired and torn and that laughed at limitation of effort. Yes, youth was the nemesis. It destroyed the old uns and minded not that in so doing, it destroyed itself. It enlarged its arteries and smashed its knuckles, and was in turn destroyed by youth. For youth was ever youthful. It was only age that grew old.[Tom King had a bout with young Sandel and lost the game.]He had not a copper in his pocket, and the two-mile walk home seemed very long. He was certainly getting old. Crossing the Domain he sat down suddenly on a bench, pained by the thought of the missus sitting up for him, waiting to learn the outcome of the fight. That was harder than any knockout, and it seemed almost impossible to face.He felt weak and sore, and the pain of his smashed knuckles warned him that, even if he could find a job at navvy work, it would be a week beforehe could grip a pick handle or a shovel. The hunger palpitation at the pit of the stomach was sickening. His wrechedness overwhelmed him, and into his eyes came an unusual moisture. He covered his face with his hands, and, as he cried, he remembered Stowsher Bill and how he had served him that night in the long ago. Poor old Stowsher Bill! He could understand now why Bill had cried in the dressing room.By Jack London (abridged and adapted)。

My First JobWhile I was waiting to enter university, I saw in a local newspaper a teaching post advertised at a school in a suburb of London about ten miles from where I lived. Being very short of money and wanting to do something useful, I applied, fearing as I did so, that without a degree and with no experience of teaching my chances of landing the job were slim.However, three days later a letter arrived, summoning me to Croydon for an interview. It proved an awkward journey: a train to Croydon station; a ten-minute bus ride and then a walk of at least a quarter of a mile. As a result I arrived on a hot June morning too depressed to feel nervous.The school was a dreary, gabled Victorian house of red brick and with big staring sash-windows. The front garden was a gravel square; four evergreen shrubs stood at each corner, where they struggled to survive the dust and fumes from a busy main road.It was clearly the headmaster himself that opened the door. He was short and rotund. He had a sandy-colored moustache, a freckled forehead and hardly any hair. He was wearing a tweed suit —one felt somehow he had always worn it —and across his ample stomach was looped a silver watch-chain.He looked at me with an air of surprised disapproval, as a colonel might look at a private whose bootlaces were undone. "Ah yes," he grunted. "You'd better come inside." The narrow, sunless hall smelled unpleasantly of stale cabbage; the cream-printed walls had gone a dingy margarine color, except where they were scarred with ink marks; it was all silent. His study, judging by the crumbs on the carpet, was also his dining room. On the mantelpiece there was a salt cellar and pepper-pot. "You'd better sit down," he said, and proceeded to ask me a number of questions: what subjects had I taken in my General School Certificate; how old was I; what games did I play; then fixing me suddenly with his bloodshot eyes, he asked me whether I thought games were a vital part of a boy's education. I mumbled something about not attaching too much importance to them. He grunted. I had said the wrong thing. The headmaster and I obviously had singularly little in common.The school, he said, consisted of one class of twenty-four boys, ranging in age from seven to thirteen. I should have to teach all subjects except art, which he taught himself. Football and cricket were played in the Park, a mile away on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons.The teaching set-up appalled me. I should have to split the class up into three groups and teach them in turn at three different levels; and I was dismayed at the thought of teaching algebra and geometry — two subjects at which I had been completely incompetent at school. Worse perhaps was the idea of Saturday afternoon cricket. It was not so much having to tramp a mile along the dusty streets of Croydon, followed by a crocodile of small boys that I minded, but the fact that most of my friends would be enjoying leisure at that time.I said diffidently, "What would my salary be?" "Twelve pounds a week plus lunch." Before I could protest he got to his feel. "Now," he said, "you'd better meet my wife. She's the one who really runs this school."This was the last straw. I was very young: the prospect of working under a woman constituted the ultimate indignity. The InterviewThe man who looked like a terrier said: "You're Blakey, are you? Take a seat."Blakey took a seat."I see you took your 'A' levels in English, French and History, and continued with the Arts at university." The terrier man looked up from Blakey's application form. "What," he asked mildly, "has prompted you to want to change to medicine?""Well," Blakey said — feeling anything but well — "I've always, even at school, been interested, but it was a big decision to take, and I wasn't sure at the time I had the right temperament." The panel of three made no comment, and their silence reminded him he'd not yet answered their question. "I really wanted to write."The man next to the terrier cleared his throat. "So the fact is you'd rather be a writer than a doctor?""Not necessarily," Blakey said. "It might have been true once, but for some time now my mind's been set on becoming a doctor.""But you are capable of a change of heart." There was a long pause."I'm sorry," Blakey said, startled, "did you mean that as a question?""Well?" the man said, raising an eyebrow."No, I don't think I am at all.""And you left University without taking a degree. Is that right?""Yes.""Why was this?""Looking back," Blakey said, "I reckon I took on too much, too many activities.""Could you explain to us what these activities were?""I produced several plays for the college dramatic society," (which was true) "I spoke at Union debates" (also true) "and did a bit of social work" (which wasn't).The third member of the panel frowned. "Social work?" he said, as if it were some incurable disease. "Tell us about that." For a thickset heavy-jowled man, his voice was oddly querulous."Yes," Blakey said, and described the only two student organizations of the sort he knew the names of, but which for one reason or another he'd never got round to joining. "And if your application were successful," the terrier man said on a note of somber improbability, "could you support yourself?" Blakey hesitated. He had a sudden premonition that his answer could be crucial."You have no grant?" the man prompted."No.""Have you any private means?""I think I could manage all right."For the first time his principal tormentor revealed his teeth in a tight, impatient smile. "How could you manage?" Blakey shifted in his chair. He had begun to resent these cold, unforthcoming men who instilled in him a sense of guilt. It was more a cross-examination than an interview. His desire to take up medicine seemed almost like a crime. "I had a part-time job during vacations, which enabled me to save —""Could you tell us," his persecutor persisted, "the weekly income."He told them."Are you thinking of getting married in the near future?" "No.""What are your interests? How do you spend your spare time?"What had he said on the form? Why did they ask him when it was all on the form? He told them he liked music, the theatre, and that he often went walking. "Once," he said, "I even took part in a fishing match."The panel appeared not to regard this with much enthusiasm. "What games do you play?" The heavy-jowled man leaned forward hopefully. "Do you play rugger? "No, I was at a soccer school.""Did you ever win any prizes at anything?""No.""Have any members of your family been in the medical profession?"Blakey shook his head. "Most of my relations," he said, stung by a sense of inadequacy, "work in the pits." "Hm," The terrier man scribbled something on the form. "I think that covers pretty well everything," he said. He gave Blakey a wintry smile. "In due course you will hear from us."It sounded to Blakey like a threat.Unwillingly on HolidayNot all holidays are seen as pleasurable occasions. Sometimes going on holiday can be something to be dreaded. Partly it could be the change from the known routine, going somewhere where you are uncertain of what is expected or what you will find. Some people find this an exciting new experience; others face it with dread. Read the following account. What would your feelings be about going somewhere new on holiday?If, standing alone on the back doorstep, Tom allowed himself to weep tears, they were tears of anger. He looked his good-bye at the garden, and raged that he had to leave it — leave it and Peter. They had planned to spend their time here so joyously these holidays.Town gardens are small, as a rule, and the Longs' garden was no exception to the rule; there was a vegetable plot and a grass plot and one flower-bed and a rough patch by the back fence. In this last the apple-tree grew: it was large, but bore very little fruit, and accordingly the two boys had always been allowed to climb freely over it. These holidays they would have built a tree-house among its branches. Tom gazed, and then turned back into the house. As he passed the foot of the stairs, he called up. "Good-bye, Peter!" There was a croaking answer.He went out on to the front doorstep, where his mother was waiting with his suitcase. He put his hand out for it, but Mrs. Long clung to the case for a moment, claiming his attention first. "You know, Tom," she said, "it's not nice for you to be rushed away like this to avoid the measles, but it's not nice for us either. Your father and I will miss you, and so will Peter. Peter's not having a nice time, anyway, with measles.""I didn't say you'd all be having a nice time without me," said Tom. "All I said was —""Hush!" whispered his mother, looking past him to the road and the car that waited there and the man at the driving-wheel. She gave Tom the case, and then bent over him, pushing his tie up to cover his collar-button and letting her lips come to within an inch of his ear. "Tom, dear Tom —" she murmured, trying to prepare him for the weeks ahead, "remember that you will be a visitor, and do try — oh, what can I say? — try to be good."She kissed him, gave him a dismissive push towards the car and then followed him to it. As Tom got in, Mrs. Long looked past him to the driver. "Give my love to Gwen," she said, "and tell her, Alan, how grateful we are to you both for taking Tom off at such short notice. It's very kind of you, isn't it, Tom?""Very kind," Tom repeated bitterly."There's so little room in the house," said Mrs. Long, "when there's illness.""We're glad to help out," Alan said. He started the engine. Tom wound down the window next to his mother. "Good-bye then!""Oh, Tom!" Her lips trembled. "I am sorry — spoiling the beginning of your summer holidays like this!"The car was moving; he had to shout back: "I'd rather have had measles with Peter — much rather!"Tom waved good-bye angrily to his mother, and then, careless even of the cost to others waved to an inflamed face pressed against a bedroom window. Mrs. Long looked upwards to see what was there, raised her hands in a gesture of despair — Peter was supposed to keep strictly to his bed — and hurried indoors.Tom closed the car window and sat back in his seat, in hostile silence. His uncle cleared his throat and said: "Well, I hope we get on reasonably well."This was not a question, so Tom did not answer it.He knew he was being rude, but he made excuses for himself; he did not much like Uncle Alan, and he did not want to like him at all. Indeed, he would have preferred him to be a brutal uncle. "If only he'd beat me," thought Tom, "then I could run away home, and Mother and Father would say I did right, in spite of the quarantine for measles. But he'll never even try to beat me, I know; and Aunt Gwen — she's worse because she's a child-lover, and she's kind. Cooped up for weeks with Uncle Alan and Aunt Gwen in a poky flat..." He had never visited them before, but he knew that they lived in a flat, with no garden.April Fools' DayThe first day of April ranks among the most joyous days in the juvenile calendar."It is a day when you hoax friends of yours with jokes like sending them to the shop for some pigeon's milk, or telling them to dig a hole because the dog has died; when they come back and ask where is the dead dog you say 'April fool' and laugh at them. There are some when you just say 'Your shoe lace is undone' or 'Your belt is hanging' or 'Go and fetch that plate off the table', and of course their shoe lace is tied up right, and their belt is not hanging, and there is no plate on the table, so you say 'Ever been had, April fool'."Boy, 14, Knighton."On April the first we try to trick people by saying things such as there is a ghost behind you or there's a spider up your sleeve and so on. We also say things to frighten people by saying the bed has give way, or the picture has fallen down and so on. If the people look you call them an April fool, if they do not look they sometimes call you an April fool."Girl, 9, Birmingham."On April Fools' day nearly all the time people fooled us. Last April I said to my brother 'And so everyone must keep in till next January 28th.' Then Brian said 'Why Dave, because there's a disease going on?' and I said to him 'No, because it's April Fool to you.' Then Dicky Riley said that he was looking for us to have our dinner. So off we set towards home and when we got there I told my mom what Dick had said, and mom said she had only just put the chips on. Suddenly Sailor our dog gave a low growl that was the sign that someone was at the door. I went to the door and who do you think was there, it was Dickly Riley coming to say April Fool."Boy, 9, Birmingham.Needless to say the people they most want to fool are the people who have just fooled them. "Arriving at school," writes a 12-year-old Longton girl:"Elizabeth Arnold caught me with one of her witty jokes. 'Ah, ah,' I said. 'You wait until I can think of one.' At play time a grand idea had struck me. I went up to Liz and said, 'Elizabeth, Miss Buxton wants you.' 'Alright,' she said and ran into school. She walked all the way round the school and finally found Miss Buxton. Miss Buxton told her she did not want her. Liz was awfully sneapt (put out). She came back to me, and so I said 'April Fool'."Teachers come in for their share of the fooling, and, according to a 12-year-old girl from Usk, Monmouth shire, are the most exciting prey:"The best joke I ever saw was in school when one of our girls brought another girl dressed as our new needlework mistress into the form room. She was introduced to mistress who was taking us, and she was completely taken in. She even told us to stop laughing at the new mistress. Then we shouted 'April Fool' to her and we all had a good laugh."And parents, of course, are not exempt. "We have a lovely time," says an 11-year-old Swansea girl, "as there are so many jokes to play such as sewing up the bottom of Daddy's trousers." And a 9-year-old Birmingham boy writes:"Last year I fooled father by gluing a penny to the floor and saying 'Dad, you've dropped a penny on the floor.' He couldn't get it off the ground because it was stuck firm, then I shouted 'Yah, April Fool'."Unit 4A Man from Stratford — William ShakespeareOn March 25th, 1616, fifty-two-year-old Master William Shakespeare signed his will leaving the famous legacy of his "second best bed and furniture" to his wife and the greater part of his estate to his married daughter, Susanna Hall. It was the will of a comfortably off man, for the income from the estate probably amounted to about $200 a year, which was a lot of money over three hundred and sixty years ago. For historians, the most interesting part of the will was that signature, because it and other signatures are all we have left of the handwriting of the world's literary genius. There is no country where Shakespeare's work is not read with something very like awe because there is something fascinating about a man whose work was so much better than that of anyone else. Yet in spite of the thousands of books that have been written about this amazing writer, almost every detail of his personal life is supposition rather than fact. Historically speaking, Shakespeare lived only yesterday but his activities, like those of nearly every playwright of his day, are so vague that he could have been born in Roman times. Shakespeare's birthplace, the little town of Stratford-upon-Avon, in Warwickshire, had made a thriving business out of its most famous citizen for a long time. It is a popular place for tourists from all over the world, even though many of them would have the greatest of difficulty in understanding Shakespeare's Elizabethan English. However, he has such a fine reputation that it is well worth the journey just to be able to look at the swans that swim on his river, and gaze at the cottage where Anne, his wife, lived before their marriage, and then to see his plays at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre.To plot Shakespeare's life is to become involved in a kind of detective story where there are plenty of clues but very little else. Nobody even knows the exact date of his birth, although the register of the Parish Church confirms that William Shakespeare was baptized there on April 26th, 1564. Nor can it be proved that he went to the excellent local grammar school, although he probably did as there was nowhere else for him to go. At the age of 18 he married Anne Hathaway, a woman eight years older than himself, and they had three children. Then in 1585 this young married man apparently left Stratford and his family, for there is absolutely no record of him for seven long years.Exactly what happened to William Shakespeare during those seven years has puzzled scholars ever since. There are different theories, but of all the probabilities the most likely one is that he travelled abroad, spending a good deal of time at sea. Shakespeare wrote with great conviction about storms and shipwrecks and eating the hard ship's biscuits "with aching teeth".What is quite certain is that, during the time Shakespeare lived there, Stratford-upon-Avon was visited by a great number of theatrical companies. It can never be proved, but it seems quite possible that the young Shakespeare saw some of these performances, realized in a flash that this was the life for him and talked one of the managers into giving him a job. At least nobody questions the fact that he can next be traced in 1592 in London, earning his living as a dramatist and generally getting well known in the theatre. Whatever else had happened during the lost years, plays that followed, such as Richard III and The Taming of the Shrew, were proof that the greatest literary career of all time had begun. Shakespeare soon became sufficiently well known for managers and other influential people to refer to him in writing. We know that as well as working on old plays he rapidly made a name for himself as an author of entirely new ones and also performed as an actor at court. During his fifteen years as a working man of the theatre, Shakespeare wrote more than thirty plays as well as marvelous verse.After his death on April 23rd, 1616, Shakespeare left behind a mass of questions that experts have been trying to answer ever since. What was the source of Shakespeare's amazingly detailed knowledge of so many different subjects? Who was the beautiful but apparently heartless "dark lady" who seemed to have first inspired him and thencaused him a lot of sadness? So far we do not know. There have even been foolish attempts to prove that William Shakespeare's plays were in fact written by someone else. When one remembers that he lived in an age when printing was still very expensive and that it was rare for anything written to be thrown away, it seems astonishing that nothing remains of the busy writer's own handwriting but the signature. Sooner or later someone may discover a bundle of letters that will answer the question that have puzzled so many people for so long.From an article in the magazine Look and LearnWilliam ShakespeareMost people have heard of Shakespeare and probably know something of the plays that he wrote. However, not everybody knows much about the life of this remarkable man, except perhaps that he was born in the market town of Stratford-upon-Avon and that he married a woman called Anne Hathaway. We know nothing of his school life. We do not know, for example, how long it lasted, but we presume that he attended the local grammar school, where the principal subject taught was Latin.Nothing certain is known of what he did between the time he left school and his departure for London. According to a local legend, he was beaten and even put in prison for stealing rabbits and deer from the estate of a neighboring landowner, Sir Thomas Lucy. It is said that because of this he was forced to run away from his native place. A different legend says that he was apprenticed to a Stratford butcher, but did not like the life and for this reason decided to leave Stratford.Whatever caused him to leave the town of his birth, the world can be grateful that he did so. What is certain is that he set foot on the road to fame when he arrived in London. It is said that at first he was without money or friends there, but that he earned a little by taking care of the horses of the gentlemen who attended the plays at the theatre. In time, as he became a familiar figure to the actors in the theatre, they stopped and spoke to him. They found his conversation so brilliant that finally he was invited to join their company. Earlier than 1592 there is no mention of Shakespeare either as actor or as playwright, and the name of the theatre he worked in is not known. However, by this date he had become one of the three leading members of a company of actors called the Lord Chamberlain's Men. This company was under the protection of the Lord Chamberlain, a powerful nobleman and an official at the Queen's Court. The company travelled about the country, giving performances in different towns, and also performed plays at Court.From what we know of his later life, it is clear that Shakespeare's connection with the theatre made him a wealthy man, since his plays attracted large audiences and he shared in the profits. Towards the end of the sixteenth century he bought a large property in Stratford. It is not certain when he went back there to live but it was probably around 1603. He is not recorded as having acted in any play after that date, though he continued writing. No less than eleven of his plays were produced during the next ten years. These include the great tragedies Othello, Macbeth and King Lear. His last work was The Tempest, but he may have shared in the writing of the historical play King Henry VIII.Even after his retirement he frequently visited London. Since the road between Stratford and London passed through Oxford, he would rest there at the home of his friend John Davenant, who had a deep respect and affection for the playwright.Shakespeare died in 1616. Some years earlier he chose a gravestone, under which he was to be buried. He had a curse engraved on this stone which threatened to bring misfortune on anyone who might remove his body from his grave.It seems strange that he should have had this fear. He must have known how greatly he was respected, even in his lifetime, for the genius that he showed in his plays and poems. It seems impossible that his remains could have been disturbed after his death.The Light at the End of the ChunnelIn a hotel lobby in Sandgate, England, not two miles from the soon-to-be-opened English Channel Tunnel, stiff upper lips trembled. For the first time since the last ice age, England was about to be linked to France."I'd rather England become the 51st state of the U. S. A. than get tied up to there," said a retired civil servant with a complexion the color of ruby port. He nodded toward the steel gray Channel out the window, his pale blue eyes filled with foreboding."Awful place," added his wife, lifting a teacup to her lips. "They drink all the time, and the food is terrible. When I go to the Continent, I take my own bottle of English sauce." "We don't care much for the French," her husband concluded. "But the French. ..." Here a pause, a shudder, as the gull-wing eyebrows shot upward. "The French don't care for anybody."On the other side of the Channel, the entente was scarcely more cordiale. In Vieux Coquelles, a village a beet field away from the French terminal near Calais, Clotaire Fournier walked into his farmhouse."I went to England once," he said, sinking into a chair in the dining room. "Never again! All they eat is ketchup. " A tiny explosion of air from pursed lips, then the coup de grace. "You can't even get a decent glass of red wine!" Well, by grace of one of the engineering feats of the century, for richer or poorer, better or worse, England and France are getting hitched. On May 6, 1994, Queen Elizabeth of Britain and President Francois Mitterrand of France are scheduled to inaugurate the English Channel Tunnel ("Chunnel" for short), sweeping aside 200 years of failed cross-Channel-link schemes, 1,000 years of historical rift, and 8,000 years of geographic divide.The 31-mile-long Chunnel is really three parallel tunnels: two for trains and a service tunnel. It snakes from Folkestone, England, to Coquelles, France, an average of 150 feet below the seabed. Drive onto a train at one end; stay in your car and drive off Le Shuttle at the other 35 minutes later. Later this year [i. e. , 1994] Eurostar passenger trains will provide through service: London to Paris in three hours; London to Brussels in three hours, ten minutes.The Chunnel rewrites geography, at least in the English psyche. The moat has been breached. Britain no longer is an island.It's June 28, 1991, and I'm packed into a construction workers' train along with several dozen other journalists.We're headed out from the English side to the breakthrough ceremony for the south running tunnel —the last to be completed.The Chunnel is a work in progress. The concrete walls await final installation of the power, water, and communication lines that will turn it into a transport system. White dust fills the air. The train screeches painfully. "Makes you appreciate British Rail," someone jokes.Finally we reach the breakthrough site. The two machines that dug this tunnel started from opposite sides of the Channel and worked toward the middle. Now we're staring at the 30-foot-diameter face of the French tunnel boring machine (TBM), "Catherine."In one of those vive la difference quirks that color the project, the French gave women's names to their machines. On the British side, it's by the numbers — like TBM No. 6. Another difference: French workers wear chic, well-cut, taupe jumpsuits with red and blue racing stripes down the sleeves. The British uniform is pure grunge: baggy, bright orange.Looking up, I imagine 180 feet of Channel above my head — ferries, tankers, a Dover sole or two. ...The grating of the TBM interrupts my reverie. Its cutterhead —a huge wheel with tungsten-tipped teeth —chews into the last trace of rock separating England from France.Music blares, and lights glare. Several Frenchmen scramble through. Thunderous applause erupts as dozens more follow. Strangely moving, this connecting of countries. Champagne corks pop, and French workers hug British counterparts."I might have opposed it 30 years ago, but now it's my tunnel," an Englishman says.French tunnelers are still climbing through. "So many," I say, turning to a French official."And there are 56 million more behind them," he replies. Apres le tunnel, le deluge? Eurotunnel hopes so. It predicts eight million passengers a year by 1996. The flow will be lopsided. Only 30 percent of the traffic will be headed to Britain. "The French don't take holidays in England," explains Jeanne Labrousse, a Eurotunnel executive.Hmmmm. Why do the French visit Britain? For the food? The weather? Fashion?Mme. Labrousse seemed thoughtful."Of course," she brightened, "we will work on selling the idea."Travelling"What a lot of travelling you have done in your day, Aunt Augusta.""I haven't reached nightfall yet," she said. "If I had a companion I would be off tomorrow, but I can no longer lift a heavy suitcase, and there is a distressing lack of porters nowadays. As you noticed at Victoria1.""We might one day," I said, "continue our seaside excursions. I remember many years ago visiting Weymouth. There was a very pleasant green statue of Geroge III on the front.""I have booked two couchettes a week from today on the Orient Express."I looked at her in amazement. "Where to?" I asked."Istanbul, of course.""But it takes days...""Three nights to be exact.""If you want to go to Istanbul surely it would be easier and less expensive to fly?""I only take a plane," my aunt said, "when there is no alternative means of travel.""It's really quite safe.""It is a matter of choice, not nerves," Aunt Augusta said. "I knew Wilbur Wright very well indeed at one time. He took me for several trips. I always felt quite secure in his contraptions. But I cannot bear being spoken to all the time by irrelevant loud-speakers. One is not badgered at a railway station. An airport always reminds me of a Butlin's Camp."If you are thinking of me as a companion...""Of course I am. Henry.""I'm sorry, Aunt Augusta, but a bank manager's pension is not a generous one.""I shall naturally pay all expenses. Give me another glass of wine, Henry. It's excellent.""I'm not really accustomed to foreign travel. You'd find me...""You will take to it quickly enough in my company. The Pullings have all been great travelers. I think I must have caught the infection through your father.""Surely not my father... He never travelled further than Central London.""He travelled from one woman to another, Henry, all through his life. That comes to much the same thing." Atomic CarsEvery motorist dreams of a car of the future that does not have to be refueled every few hundred miles, a car that will cost little to run because there is no outlay on petrol."Of course," you hear it said by an optimistic motorist, "the answer is the atom. Harness atomic power in a car, and you'll have no more worries about petrol. The thing will run for years without a refill."And, theoretically, he is right. The answer is the atom. If atomic power could be used in a car, one small piece of uranium would keep the engine running for twenty or more years. Of course, this would cut the cost of running a car by quite a few hundred pounds, depending upon how much you spend on petrol.But is this science-fiction-like picture of the atom exploding peacefully beneath the bonnet of a car possible? In theory it is, since already the atom has been harnessed to drive submarines, and an atomic engine is already in existence. But, say the experts, there are many problems still to be conquered before such an engine can in fact be fixed into a car.Now what exactly are these problems that stand between you and a car that you will never have to refuel? Frankly, most of them can be summed up in one word — radiation. An atomic reactor, the kind of engine that would produce energy by atom-splitting, throws off radiation, extremely dangerous radiation. These rays are just as dangerous as when they are released from an atomic bomb. This radiation penetrates anything except the thickest concrete and lead, with fatal results for anybody in its path. Thus, at the moment any car carrying an atomic engine would also have to carry many tons of lead in order to prevent the。

Unit 1在弗雷德看来，面试进行得很顺利。

五天前他曾向一家小公司申请工作，现在那公司的一名董事正在对他进行面试。

在这之前弗雷德一直在当推销员。

他现在想调工作并不是因为缺钱，而是因为作为一名推销员他几乎没有空闲的时间。

弗雷德在谈话前很担心，生怕头脑发昏说错话，但是很幸运他发现自己同这位董事的共同之处颇多。

显然这位董事很满意。

正当弗雷德在想着自己很可能得到工作时，董事接着问他：“你愿意加班吗?”In Fred’s view, the interview was going very smoothly indeed. Five days before, he had applied for a job at a small business company and now he was being interviewed by one of its directors.Fred had been working as a salesman. He wanted to change his job not because he was short of money, but because as a salesman he could hardly enjoy any leisure at all.Fred had been worried that he might lose his head and say something silly, but fortunately he found that he had a lot in common with the director.It was clear that the director was quite satisfied. Fred was thinking that his chances of landing the job were favourable when the director proceeded to ask, “Do you mind working over time?”Unit 2B.汉译英汤姆一开始同父亲谈话就想直截了当地把自己的意思说出来。

↓↓↓大英3课文SummaryUNIT 1catching crabsIn the fall of our final year,our mood relaxed atmosphere had disappeared, and peer group pressure to work hard was strong. Meanwhile,at the back of everyone’s mind was what we would do next after graduation. As for me,I wanted to travel,and I wanted to be a braced myself for some resistance to the idea from my father,who wanted me to go to law school,and follow his path through life.However,he supported what I wanted but he made me think about it by watching the cage was full of crabs. One of them was trying to escape,but each time it reached the top the other crabs pulled it the end it gave up lengthy struggle to escape and started to prevent other crabs from watching crabs,my father told me not to be pulled back by others,and to get to know himself better.are all dyingLife is never quite know when we become coffin dwellers or trampled ash in the rose garden of some local there’s no point in putting our dreams on the back burner until the right time is the time to do what we want to do. Make the best of our short stay and fill our life with the riches on offer so that when the reaper arrives,we’ve achieved much instead of regrets.UNIT 2The extract from Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams by Sylvia Plath is a combination of her real life and imaginary life in her the real life,Plath was a winner of the prize for drawing the best Civil Defense signs,lived by an airport and had an Uncle who bore resemblance to her imagination,the airport was her Mecca and Jerusalem because of her flying fulfilled her dream at the moment.David Stirling,a bookish boy,also worship the recess at school,he and the author played Superman with their school-mates who played the routine games,they felt they were outlaws but had a sense of windy also found a stand-in,Sheldon Fein, who later invented tortures.childhoodsHistorically,childhood has undergone enormous transformations in terms of children’s responsibilities and parental ,childhood is socially interplay of history and cultural leads to different understanding of childhood,consequently it is advisable not to impose ideas from one culture to understand childhood in another culture.UNIT 3we listenFor the sake of clarify,we split up the process of listening to music into three hypothetical ,the sensuous is a kind of brainless but attractive state of mind engendered by the mere sound appeal of the ,the expressive is when we believe eachpiece of music has a theme,which mirrors a different world of feeling,such as gaiety,,the musical is the ability to experience different musical elements,such as melodies,the rhythms,the harmonies,the tone colors usually listen to music on all three planes.mystery of Girl with a Pearl EarringThe painting Girl with a Pearl Earrin g is one of Dutch painter Johannes Vermeer’s shows a striking young woman wearing an exotic costume and a turban,peering over her shoulder straight out at the the name implies,it uses a pearl earring for a focal has been referred to as the Mona Lisa of the north,because,like Leonardo da Vinci’s painting,it appears to be a simple likeness of a woman with an enigmatic smile,yet which contains levels of meanings and much mystery in the painting contributes to its worldwide popularity and generates a thoroughly rewarding novel and a well-composed film.UNIT 4in corporate AmericaIn today’s American jobs are not what they used to long ago,when a father was asked about his job he could answer in terms that a child could come to grips ,when the parent take his offspring to his place of business in glass buildings that are really incomprehensive to ’s more,it’s safe bet that even grown men have trouble visualizing what other men does in their jobs with his ,it’s not difficult to imagine a poor child may answer”mulling over” after it beats me the mysteries of work,when his friends asks him of his father’s job.supposedly exciting times are really rather dullLiving in a world of unprecedented/dazzling change,there are never been anything quite like ,we are just ignorant of/about deeper historical patterns,take globalization for example,from historical context point of view,the world is almost simply do not live in a age of great technological innovation for all our enthusiasm about internet and staggering 90 percent of all web traffic is local,we are always be told the Internet has “opened up”the the Chinese curse runs “May you live in interesting times”,it can bring chaos and anxiety in the in the wake.UNIT 5at Joanne’sWhen a young black man arrives in a crowded and expensive restaurant,the head waiter makes him sit in the least comfortable place,even though a table has been booked for him and a “Ms Rogers”.When Ms Rogers arrives,the waiter realizes that she is a well-known Senator; and Ms Roger realizes that her friend has been treated badly because of the color of his waiter realizes his mistake too,and tries to make up for it,but it’s too late.theyThe writer uses stories about doing business between Swedes and Saudis to illustrate the differences between an individualist and a collectivist approach to business. They have different concepts of the role of personal relationships in business. The Swedes believe the business is done with a company while the Saudis think it shouldbe done with a person they know and the writer compares the characteristics of the collectivist and those of the individualist.In the most collectivist societies,the families are usually extended families while in the individualist societies,nuclear families are prevalent. People consider themselves as part of a “we”group or in-group in the collectivist contrast, the individualist think of themselves as “I”,their personal identity which is distinct from other people’s. A practical and psychological dependence relationship develops between the person and the in-group in the collectivist societies. However, rarely do people depend on a group in the individualist societies.UNIT 6Last man downThe text from Last Ma Down offers an eyewitness account of defining historical event of 9/11 attack from the perspective of Richard Picciotto, a firefighter; his story is that of a man, a hero,and a tragic event that inspired the nation. His recount isn’t one of death and destruction, but a celebration of life and it’s unpredictable nature.Eleanor RooseveltThe passage offers a hero who contrasts with brave firefighters. This time she is a woman of power and previlege who still wanted to devote herself to the sucess she believed in.Living in a male-dominated world, Eleanor Roosevelt showed growing concern for women’s issues, along with those for labor issues,youth and civil rights issues. Eleanor created new First Lady profile. She held a press conference for the female only. She was a great supporter for FDR, her wheel-bound husband, whose career as the US president offered her opportunity to come into her own.After FDR’s departure, she still held public posts to use her power to her beliefs. Anna Eleanor Roosevelt never ran on a par with men, she set the place.。

Unit 5TEXT IThe Light at the End of the ChunnelTextIn a hotel lobby in Sandgate, England, not two miles from the soon-to-be-opened English Channel Tunnel, stiff upper lips trembled. For the first time since the last ice age, England was about to be linked to France."I'd rather England become the 51st state of the U. S. A. than get tied up to there," said a retired civil servant with a complexion the color of ruby port. He nodded toward the steel gray Channel out the window, his pale blue eyes filled with foreboding."A wful place," added his wife, lifting a teacup to her lips. "They drink all the time, and the food is terrible. When I go to the Continent, I take my own bottle of English sauce.""We don't care much for the French," her husband concluded. "But the French. ..." Here a pause, a shudder, as the gull-wing eyebrows shot upward. "The French don't care for anybody."On the other side of the Channel, the entente was scarcely more cordiale. In Vieux Coquelles, a village a beet field away from the French terminal near Calais, Clotaire Fournier walked into his farmhouse."I went to England once," he said, sinking into a chair in the dining room. "Never again! All they eat is ketchup. " A tiny explosion of air from pursed lips, then the coup de grac e. "Y ou can't even get a decent glass of red wine!"Well, by grace of one of the engineering feats of the century, for richer or poorer, better or worse, England and France are getting hitched. On May 6, 1994, Queen Elizabeth of Britain and President Francois Mitterrand of France are scheduled to inaugurate the English Channel Tunnel ("Chunnel" for short), sweeping aside 200 years of failed cross-Channel-link schemes, 1,000 years of historical rift, and 8,000 years of geographic divide.The 31-mile-long Chunnel is really three parallel tunnels: two for trains and a service tunnel. It snakes from Folkestone, England, to Coquelles, France, an average of 150 feet below the seabed. Drive onto a train at one end; stay in your car and drive off Le Shuttle at the other 35 minutes later. Later this year [i. e. , 1994] Eurostar passenger trains will provide through service: London to Paris in three hours; London to Brussels in three hours, ten minutes.The Chunnel rewrites geography, at least in the English psyche. The moat has been breached. Britain no longer is an island.It's June 28, 1991, and I'm packed into a construction workers' train along with several dozen other journalists. We're headed out from the English side to the breakthrough ceremony for the south running tunnel — the last to be completed.The Chunnel is a work in progress. The concrete walls await final installation of the power, water, and communication lines that will turn it into a transport system. White dust fills the air. The train screeches painfully. "Makes you appreciate British Rail," someone jokes.Finally we reach the breakthrough site. The two machines that dug this tunnel started from opposite sides of the Channel and worked toward the middle. Now we're staring at the30-foot-diameter face of the French tunnel boring machine (TBM), "Catherine."In one of those vive la difference quirks that color the project, the French gave women's names to their machines. On the British side, it's by the numbers — like TBM No. 6. Another difference: French workers wear chic, well-cut, taupe jumpsuits with red and blue racing stripes down the sleeves. The British uniform is pure grunge: baggy, bright orange.Looking up, I imagine 180 feet of Channel above my head —ferries, tankers, a Dover sole or two. ...The grating of the TBM interrupts my reverie. Its cutterhead — a huge wheel with tungsten-tipped teeth — chews into the last trace of rock separating England from France.Music blares, and lights glare. Several Frenchmen scramble through. Thunderous applause erupts as dozens more follow. Strangely moving, this connecting of countries. Champagne corks pop, and French workers hug British counterparts."I might have opposed it 30 years ago, but now it's my tunnel," an Englishman says.French tunnelers are still climbing through. "So many," I say, turning to a French official."And there are 56 million more behind them," he replies.Apres le tunnel, le deluge? Eurotunnel hopes so. It predicts eight million passengers a year by 1996. The flow will be lopsided. Only 30 percent of the traffic will be headed to Britain. "The French don't take holidays in England," explains Jeanne Labrousse, a Eurotunnel executive. Hmmmm. Why do the French visit Britain? For the food? The weather? Fashion?Mme. Labrousse seemed thoughtful."Of course," she brightened, "we will work on selling the idea."From National Geographic, May 1994, by Cathy Newman.。