給人啟示的英語美文閱讀

　　經典美文閱讀是初中英語教學的重要組成部分,學生通過經典閱讀,不但可以修身養性,還可以提高學生的人文氣質和語文水平。下面是小編帶來的，歡迎閱讀!

　　篇一

　　Love Notes

　　It's been over eleven years now. It was a wintry afternoon, the snow swirling around the cedar trees outside, forcing little icicles to form at the tips of the deep green foliage clinging to the branches.

　　My older son, Stephen, was at school, and Reed , my husband, at work .Mythree little ones were clustered around the kitchen counter, the tabletop piled high with crayons and markers. Tom was perfecting a paper airplane, creating his own insignia with stars and dtripes,while Sam worked on a self-portrait, his chubby hands drawing first a head, then legs and arms sticking out where the body should have been. The children mostly concentrated on their work, Tom occasionally tutoring his younger brother on excatly how to make a plane that would fly the entire length of the room.

　　But Laura, our only daughter, sat quietly, engrossed in her project. Every once in a while she would ask how to spell the name of someone in our family, then painstakingly form the letters one by one. Next , she would add flowers with smaill green stems, complete with grass lining the bottom of the page. She finished off each with a sun in the upper right hand corner,surrounded by an inch or two of blue sky. Holding them at eye level, she let out a long sigh of satisfaction.

　　"What are you making, Honey?" I asked.

　　She glanced at her brothers beofre looking back at me:

　　"It's a surprise," she said, covering up her work with her hands.

　　Next , she taped the top two edges of each sheet of paper together trying her best to create a cylinder. When she had finished, she disappered up the stairs with her treasure.

　　It wasn't until later that evening thhat I noticed a "mailbox" taped onto the doors to each of our bedrooms , there was one for Steve. There was one for Tom. She hadn't forgotten Sam or baby Paul.

　　For the next few weeks, we received mail on a regular basis. There were little notes confessing her love for each of us. There were short letters full of tiny compliments that only a seven-year-old would notice. Iwas in charge of retrieving baby Paul's letteres,page after page of colored scenes including flowers with happy faces.

　　"He can't read yet." she whispered, " But he can look at the pictures."

　　Each time I recevied one of my little girl's gifts, it brightened my heart.

　　I was touched at how carefully she observed our moods. When stephen lost a baseball game, there was a letter telling him she thought he was the best ballplayer in the whole world. After I had a particularly hard day, there was a message thanking me for my efforts, complete with a smile face tucked near the bottom corner of the page.

　　This same little girl is grown now, driving off every day to the community college. But some things about her have never changed. One afternoon only a week or so ago, I found a love note next to my bedside.

　　"Thanks for always being there for me, Mom, " it read, " I'm glad that we're the best of friends."

　　I couldn't help but remember the precious child whose smile has brought me countless hours of joy throughout the years. There are angels among us .

　　I know , I live with one.

　　篇二

　　A Dance with Dad

　　I am dancing with my father at my parents' 50th-wedding-anniver-sary celebration. The band is playing an old-fashioned waltz as we move gracefully across the floor. His hand on my waist is as guiding as it always was, and he hums the tune to himself in a steady, youthful way. Around and around we go, laughing and nodding to the other dancers.

　　We are the best dancers on the floor, they tell us. My father squeezes my hand and smiles at me. All the years that I refused to dance with him melt away now. And those early times come back.

　　I remember when I was almost three and my father came home from work, swooped me into his arms and began to dance me around the table. My mother laughed at us, told us dinner would get cold. But my father said, "She's just caught the rhythm of the dance! Our dinner can wait." Then he sang out, "Roll out the barrel, let's have a barrel of fun," and I sang back, "Let's get those blues on the run."

　　We danced through the years. One night when I was 15, lost in some painful, adolescent mood. My father put on a stack of records and teased me to dance with him. "C'mon," he said, "let's get those blues on the run."

　　When I turned away from him, my father put his hand on my shoulder, and I jumped out of the chair screaming, "Don't touch me! I am sick and tired of dancing with you!" I saw the hurt on his face, but words were out and I could not call them back. I ran to my room sobbing hysterically.

　　We did not dance together after that night. I found other partners, and my father waited up for me after dances, sitting in his favorite chair. Sometimes he would be asleep when I came in, and I would wake him, saying, "If you were so tired, you should have gone to bed."

　　"No, no," he'd say, "I was just waiting for you."

　　Then we'd lock up the house and go to bed.

　　My father waited up for me through my high school and college years when I danced my way out of his life

　　Shortly after my first child was born; my mother called to tell me my father was ill. "A heart problem," she said, "now, don't come. It's three hundred miles. It would upset your father."

　　A proper diet restored him to good health. My mother wrote that they had joined a dance club. "The doctor says it's a good exercise. You remember how your father loves to dance."

　　Yes, I remembered. My eyes filled up with remembering.

　　When my father retired, we mended our way back together again; hugs and kisses were common when we visited each other. He danced with the grandchildren, but he did not ask me to dance. I knew he was waiting for an apology from me. I could never find the right words.

　　As my parents' 50th anniversary approached, my brothers and I met to plan the party. My older brother said, "Do you remember that night you wouldn't dance with him? Boy, was he mad? I couldn't believe he'd get so mad about a thing like that. I'll bet you haven't danced with him since."

　　I did not tell him he was right.

　　My younger brother promised to get the band. "Make sure they can play waltzes and polkas," I told him.

　　I did not tell him that all I wanted to do was dance once more with my father.

　　When the band began to play after dinner, my parents took the floor. They glided around the room, inviting the others to join them. The guests rose to their feet, applauding the golden couple. My father danced with his granddaughters, and then the band began to play the "Beer Barrel Polka".

　　"Roll out the barrel," I heard my father singing. Then I knew it was time. I wound my way through a few couples and tapped my daughter on the shoulder.

　　"Excuse me," I said, looking directly into my father's eyes and almost choking on my words, "but I believe this is my dance."

　　My father stood rooted to the spot. Our eyes met and traveled back to that night when I was 15. In a trembling voice, I sang, "Let's get those blues on the run."

　　My father bowed and said, "Oh, yes. I've been waiting for you."

　　Then he started to laugh, and we moved into each other's arms.

　　與父親共舞

　　在父母五十週年結婚紀念日那天我與父親跳舞了。樂隊演奏著舊式的華爾茲，我們在地板上優美地滑動著。他的手環著我的腰，像以往一樣指引著我，平和而又充滿活力地哼著調子。我們跳了一圈又一圈，不時地向其他舞者笑著點頭致意。他們說我們是舞場中最優秀的舞者。父親握著我的手，露出了微笑。

　　我們繼續著舞步，這時我想起在我三歲那年，父親下班回家，一把將我摟在懷裡，圍著桌子開始跳舞。母親笑著說，飯都要涼了。但父親卻說：“她剛好跟上舞蹈的節奏，飯可以等會再吃。”然後，他開始哼唱：“Roll out the barrel, let's have a barrel of fun。”我就唱道：“Let's get those blues on the run。”那天晚上，他教我跳波爾卡、華爾茲，還教我跳狐步舞。那晚我們連飯都沒吃。

　　我們每天都要跳舞。在我五歲時，父親教我跳shuffle off to Buffalo。後來，我們在露營少女團夏令營中，贏得了舞蹈比賽的冠軍。我們還去美國勞軍聯合組織所在的地方表演吉特巴舞。每次父親進入舞池之後，都會與所有的人跳舞，與在場的女士們旋轉，甚至還有士兵。我們都為父親歡呼、鼓掌，因為他是一個真正的舞者。

　　我十五歲那年的一個晚上，或許由於青春期的多愁善感，我非常悲傷。父親拿出一堆唱片，非要我跟他跳舞。“來吧，”他說，“Let's get those blues on the run。”我沒理他，獨自承受著自己的痛苦。他走過來把手放在我的肩上。我跳下椅子，對他吼道：“別碰我!別碰我!我討厭和你跳舞!”我看到了他臉上受傷的表情，但話已出口，我無法收回。我痛哭著跑回了房間。

　　從那之後，我再也沒和父親跳過舞。我有了其他舞伴，而父親總是會穿著法蘭絨睡衣，坐在自己最喜歡的椅子上，等我回家。有時當我回來，他已經睡著了。我便把他叫醒，告訴他：“既然你這麼累，就該早點去睡覺。”

　　他總是會說：“不，沒有。我在等你呢。”

　　然後，我們就鎖上房門，各自去睡了。

　　在我上高中和大學的幾年裡，每次我出去跳舞，父親都會一直等我回家。

　　在我的第一個孩子出生不久的一個晚上，母親打電話告訴我說父親病了：“是心臟的問題。現在不要過來，三百英里太遠了，你父親會生氣的。等等吧，有了結果我會告訴你。”

　　父親的檢查顯示他壓力有些過重，不過合理的飲食使他恢復了健康。只是暫時的小毛病。背部椎間盤問題，心臟問題，白內障晶體移植。但是他從未停止跳舞。母親寫信說他們參加了一個舞蹈俱樂部。“你還記得你父親多麼喜歡跳舞嗎?”

　　是的，我記得。我的眼中充滿了對過去的回憶。

　　父親退休之後，我們又聚在了一起。每次見面，我們都要相互擁抱，親吻。但是父親從未讓我陪他跳舞。他和外孫女們跳舞。我的女兒們還不識字就知道怎麼跳華爾茲。

　　“一、二、三，一、二、三，”父親總是數著舞步。“能來和我跳支華爾茲嗎?”每次我希望父親對我說出這句話的時候，心裡都會感到陣痛。但是我知道父親在等我的道歉，而我總是很難找到恰當的語言。

　　而隨著父母結婚五十週年紀念日的到來，我的兄弟和我計劃為他們舉辦一次舞會。我哥哥說：“還記得你拒絕陪他跳舞的那個晚上嗎?天哪，他簡直瘋了。真不敢相信他為了此事竟如此傷心。從那以後，你肯定沒和他跳過舞吧。”

　　我沒有回答，但他說得沒錯。

　　弟弟說他能夠搞定一支樂隊。

　　我告訴他：“一定要保證他們能夠演奏華爾茲和波爾卡舞曲。”

　　他說：“爸爸可以跳任何一支曲子。你不想跳嗎?是不是很緊張啊?”我沒有告訴他，我只是想和父親再跳一次舞。

　　晚餐過後，樂隊開始演奏，父母步入了舞池。他們在房間裡翩翩起舞，並邀請其他人加入。客人們都站起來，一齊為這對金婚夫婦喝彩。父親開始和他的外孫女跳舞，樂隊演奏起了“Beer Barrel Polka”。

　　我聽見父親在唱：“Roll out the barrel”。我知道現在是最佳時機。我知道要想讓父親和我跳舞，我需要說些什麼。我穿過人群，拍了拍女兒的肩膀。

　　“對不起。”我說，有一種窒息的感覺。“我想這是我的舞曲。”

　　父親呆了一樣站在那裡。我們都注視這對方，思緒飛回到我十五歲的那個夜晚。我用略帶顫抖的聲音唱道：“Let's get those blues on the run。”

　　父親鞠躬道：“噢，當然。我一直在等你。”

　　說完，他大笑起來。我們挽著彼此的胳膊，停了一下，以便跟上舞曲的節奏。

　　篇三

　　Mother’s Hands

　　Night after night, she came to tuck me in, even long after my childhood years. Following her longstanding custom, she'd lean down and push my long hair out of the way, then kiss my forehead.

　　I don't remember when it first started annoying me — her hands pushing my hair that way. But it did annoy me, for they felt work-worn and rough against my young skin. Finally, one night, I shouted out at her, "Don't do that anymore —your hands are too rough!" She didn't say anything in reply. But never again did my mother close out my day with that familiar expression of her love.

　　Time after time, with the passing years, my thoughts returned to that night. By then I missed my mother's hands, missed her goodnight kiss on my forehead. Sometimes the incident seemed very close, sometimes far away. But always it lurked, in the back of my mind.

　　Well, the years have passed, and I'm not a little girl anymore. Mom is in her mid-seventies, and those hands I once thought to be so rough are still doing things for me and my family. She's been our doctor, reaching into a medicine cabinet for the remedy to calm a young girl's stomach or soothe the boy's scraped knee. She cooks the best fried chicken in the world... gets stains out of blue jeans like I never could...

　　Now, my own children are grown and gone. Mom no longer has Dad, and on special occasions, I find myself drawn next door to spend the night with her. So it was late on Thanksgiving Eve, as I slept in the bedroom of my youth, a familiar hand hesitantly run across my face to brush the hair from my forehead. Then a kiss, ever so gently, touched my brow.

　　In my memory, for the thousandth time, I recalled the night my young voice complained, "Don't do that anymore — your hands are too rough!" Catching Mom's hand in hand, I blurted out how sorry I was for that night. I thought she'd remember, as I did. But Mom didn't know what I was talking about. She had forgotten — and forgiven — long ago.

　　That night, I fell asleep with a new appreciation for my gentle mother and her caring hands. And the guilt that I had carried around for so long was nowhere to be found.

　　媽媽的手

　　母親總是在我入睡之後，為我掖好被子，然後俯下身子，輕輕撥開覆在我臉上的長髮，親吻我的前額。日復一日，母親一直保持著這個習慣，即使我已不再是小孩子了，這一切卻依然故我。

　　不知從什麼時候開始，母親的這種習慣漸漸讓我感到不悅----我不喜歡她那雙佈滿老繭的手就這樣劃過我細嫩的面板。終於，在一個夜晚，我忍不住衝她吼了起來：“你不要再這樣了，你的手好粗糙!”母親無言以對。但從此卻再沒有用這種我熟悉的表達愛的方式來為我的一天畫上句號。

　　日子一天天過去，隨著時間的流逝，我卻總是不由得想起那一夜。我開始想念母親的那雙手，想念她印在我前額上的“晚安”。這種渴望忽遠忽近，但始終潛藏在我心靈深處的某個角落。

　　若干年後，我成熟了，已不再是個小女孩了。母親也已到了古稀之年，可她卻始終沒有停止過操勞，用她那雙曾經被我視為“粗糙”的手為我和我的家庭做著力所能及的事情。她是我們的家庭醫生，小姑娘胃痛時，她會從藥箱裡找出胃藥來，小男孩擦傷的膝蓋時，她會去安撫他的傷痛。她能做出世界上最好吃的炸雞，能把藍色牛仔褲上的汙漬去得毫無痕跡......

　　現在，我自己的孩子也已長大，有了自己的生活，母親卻沒有了父親的陪伴。有一次，恰好是感恩節前夜，我決定就睡在母親旁邊的臥室裡，陪她度過這一夜。這是我兒時的臥室，一切都是那麼的熟悉，還有一隻熟悉的手猶豫著從我的臉上掠過，梳理著我前額的頭髮，然後，一個吻，帶著一如往日的溫柔，輕輕落在了我的額頭。

　　在我的記憶裡，曾幾千次再現那晚的情景和我那稚嫩的抱怨聲：“你不要再這樣了，你的手好粗糙!”我一把抓住母親的手，一股腦說出我對那一晚深深的愧疚。我想，她一定和我一樣，對那晚的事歷歷在目。然而，母親卻不知我再說些什麼-----她早忘了，早已原諒我了。

　　那天晚上，我帶著對母親新的感激安然入睡，我感激她的溫柔，和她那呵護的雙手。多年來壓在我心頭的負罪感也隨之煙消雲散。