初一英語美文欣賞

　　美文飄香,給人以精神享受,給人以美感，是生活的向?qū)?是愉悅精神的妙藥。下面是學(xué)習(xí)啦小編帶來的初一英語美文欣賞，歡迎閱讀!

　　初一英語美文欣賞精選

　　The Tablecloth

　　A young minister had been called to serve at an old church that at one time had been a magnificent edifice in a wealthy part of town. Now the area was in a state of decline and the church was in bad shape. Nevertheless， the pastor and his wife were thrilled with the church and believed they could restore it to its former magnificence.

　　When the minister took charge of the church early in October 1948， he and his wife immediately went to work painting， repairing and attempting to restore it. Their goal was to have the old edifice looking its best for Christmas Eve services.

　　Just two days before Christmas， however， a storm swept through the area， dumping more than an inch of rain. The roof of the old church sprung a leak just behind the altar. The plaster soaked up the water as if it were a sponge and then crumbled， leaving a gaping hole in the wall.　　Dejected， the pastor and his wife looked at the defaced wall. There was obviously no chance to repair the damage before Christmas. Nearly three months of hard work had been washed way. Yet the young couple accepted the damage as God’s will and set about cleaning up the damp debris.

　　It was a depressed minister and his wife who attended a benefit auction for the church youth group that afternoon. One of the items put of for bid was an old gold-and-ivory-colored lace tablecloth， nearly fifteen feet long.

　　Seized with an inspiration， the pastor was the high bidder at .50. His idea was to hang the orange cloth behind the altar to cover the ragged hole in the wall.

　　On the day before Christmas， snowflakes mingled with the howling wind. As the pastor unlocked the church doors， he noticed an older woman standing at the nearby bus stop. He knew the bus wouldn’t be there for at least half an hour， so he invited her inside to keep warm.

　　She wasn’t from the neighborhood， she explained. She had been in the area to be interviewed for a job as a governess to the children of a well-known wealthy family. She had been a war refugee， her English was poor and she didn’t get the job.

　　Head bowed in prayer， she sat in the pew near the back of the church. She paid no attention to the pastor， who was hanging the tablecloth across the unsightly hole. When the woman looked up and saw the cloth she rushed to the altar.

　　“It’s mine!” she exclaimed. “It’s my banquet cloth!”

　　Excitedly she told the surprised minister its history and even showed him her initials embroidered in one corner.

　　She and her husband had lived in Vienna， Austria， and had opposed the Nazis before the Second World War. They decided to flee to Switzerland， but her husband said they must go separately. She left first. Later she heard that he had died in a concentration camp.　　Touched by her story， the minister insisted that she take the cloth. She thought about i　　t for a moment but said no， she didn’t need it any longer， and it did look pretty hanging behind the altar. Then she said good-bye and left.

　　In the candlelight of the Christmas Eve services， the tablecloth looked even more magnificent. The white lace seemed dazzling in the flickering light of the candles， and the golden threads woven through it were like the brilliant rays of a new dawn.　　As members of the congregation left the church， they complimented the pastor on the services and on how beautiful the church looked.　　One older gentlemen lingered， admiring the tablecloth， and as he was leaving he said to the minister：　　“It’s strange. Many years ago my wife -- God rest her -- and I owned such a tablecloth. She used it only on very special occasions. But we lived in Vienna then.”　　The night air was freezing， but the goosebumps on the pastor’s skin weren’t caused by the weather. As calmly as he could， he told the man about the woman who had been to the church that very afternoon.

　　“Can it be，” gasped the old man， tears streaming down his cheeks，” that she is alive? How can I find her?”

　　The pastor remembered the name of the family who had interviewed the woman. With the trembling old man at his side， he telephoned the family and learned her name and address.

　　In the pastor’s old car they drove to her home on the other side of town. Together they knocked on her apartment door. When she opened it， the pastor witnessed the tearful， joyful and thrilling reunion of husband and wife.

　　Some people would call it an extremely lucky chance happening， the result of a hole in the church wall， an old tablecloth， a pastor’s ingenuity in solving a problem and so on. But the combination of events was far too complex for it to have been merely “coincidence.”　　If one link in the fragile chain of events had been broken， the husband and wife might never have found each other. If the rain hadn’t come， if the church roof hadn’t leaked， if the pastor had decided not to go to the auction， if the woman hadn’t been looking for a job or standing on that corner at just the right time…the list of ifs is virtually endless.

　　It was simply God’s will. And， as it has been said many times， He works in mysterious ways.

　　初一英語美文欣賞閱讀

　　When I was a little girl， every Sunday my family of six would put on their best clothes and go to Sunday School and then church. The kids in elementary school would all meet together to sing songs， and then later divide into groups based on their ages.

　　One Easter Sunday， all the kids arrived with big eyes and big stories about what the Easter Bunny had brought. While all of the kids shared their stories with delight， one young boy， whom I will call Bobby， sat sullenly. One of the teachers， noticing this， said to him， "And what did the Easter Bunny bring you?" He replied， "My mom locked the door on accident so the Easter Bunny couldn't get inside."

　　This sounded like a reasonable idea to all of us kids， so we kept on going with the stories. My mom knew the true story， though. Bobby's mom was a single parent， and she suspected that they just couldn't afford the Easter Bunny.

　　After Sunday School was over， everyone went off to church. When my dad came to meet us my mom announced that we were going home instead. At home， she explained that to make Bobby feel better， we were going to pretend to be the Easter Bunny and make a basket of goodies for him and leave it at church. We all donated some of our candies to the basket， and headed back up to church. There， mom unzipped his coat， hung the basket over the hanger， and zipped up the coat and attached a note.

　　初一英語美文欣賞學(xué)習(xí)

　　Have Freedom， Will Travel

　　I had a ticket. I had my passport. And he had cold feet. I might have known fairy tales don't come true. Seven months out of my marriage， I had met the "great love of my life." We dated a year. I'd always longed to see Europe， and， with my divorce final， we planned the trip together. Then two weeks before takeoff， he took off. Having piggybacked two breakups， I felt as if I'd been through a double divorce. Here I was， thirty-nine years old， with two small children， and facing my ultimate fear： a life alone. Was I ready to spend a month in Europe by myself? I had a hard time going to a movie alone! But it did seem now or never. The kids would be with their dad， the money came as part of my property settlement， and I had a job waiting when I returned. Okay， if I was going to be lonely for the next few years， I might as well start by being lonely in Europe.

　　The highlight of my journey was to be Paris， the city I'd always wanted to see. But now I was frightened to travel without a companion. I steeled myself and went anyway. I arrived at the train station in Paris panicked and disoriented. I hadn't used my college French in twenty years. Pulling my red suitcase on wobbly wheels behind me， I was shoved and pushed by perspiring travelers reeking of cigarette smoke， different diets and not nearly enough deodorant. The roar of many languages bombarding me seemed unintelligible， just babble. On my first Metro ride， I encountered an incompetent， clumsy pickpocket. I melted him with a look， and he eased his hand from my purse to fade into the crowded car. At my stop， I hauled my heavy suitcase up the steep stairs and froze. Cars zoomed helter skelter， honking belligerently. Somewhere in this confusing city my hotel was hidden， but the directions I had scrawled suddenly weren't legible. I stopped two people. Both greeted me with that Parisian countenance that said： "Yes， I speak English， but you'll have to struggle with your French if you want to talk to me." I walked up one street and across another. A wheel broke off my suitcase. When I finally found the hotel， my heart was pounding， I was sweating like a basketball player and my spirits drooped. They flattened altogether when I saw my room. I couldn't stay. Could I? The wallpaper looked like it had been through a fire. The bedsprings creaked. The bathroom was down the hall， and the window looked out onto the brick wall of another building. Welcome to Paris. I sincerely wanted to die. I missed my friend. I was entering my third week away from home and my kids， and I had arrived in the most romantic city in the world， alone. Alone and lonely. Alone， lonely and petrified.

　　The most important thing I did in Paris happened at that moment. I knew that if I didn't go out， right then， and find a place to have dinner， I would hide in this cubicle my entire time in Paris. My dream would be foregone， and I migh　　t never learn to enjoy the world as a single individual. So I pulled myself together and went out. Evening in Paris was light and balmy. When I reached the Tuileries， I strolled along a winding path， listening to birds sing， watching children float toy sailboats in a huge fountain. No one seemed to be in a hurry. Paris was beautiful. And I was here alone but suddenly not lonely. My sense of accomplishment at overcoming my fear and vulnerability had left me feeling free， not abandoned. I wore out two pairs of shoes during my week's stay in Paris. I did everything there was to do， and it was the greatest week of my European vacation. I returned home a believer in the healing power of solitary travel. Years later， I still urge divorcing or widowed friends to take their solo flight in the form of travel plans. Those who have gone have returned changed; even by a four-day weekend in Santa Fe， an Amtrak ride up the coast or an organized tour of Civil War battlefields. Traveling alone redeems itself by demanding self-reliance and building the kind of confidence that serves the single life well. Certainly Paris became my metaphor for addressing life's challenges on my own. Now when I meet an obstacle I just say to myself， If 1 can go to Paris， 1 can go anywhere.