初中生優(yōu)秀英語(yǔ)美文閱讀
初中生優(yōu)秀英語(yǔ)美文閱讀
摘抄積累很重要,可 采蜜 作業(yè)(即摘抄作業(yè))大多數(shù)小學(xué)生不歡迎,主要原因有無用論、怕辛苦、不得法、缺動(dòng)力。下面是學(xué)習(xí)啦小編整理的初中生優(yōu)秀英語(yǔ)美文，歡迎閱讀!
初中生優(yōu)秀英語(yǔ)美文篇一
A True Gift of Love
"Can I see my baby?" the happy new mother asked.
When the bundle was nestled in her arms and she moved the fold of cloth to look upon his tiny face, she gasped. The doctor turned quickly and looked out the tall hospital window. The baby had been born without ears.
Time proved that the baby's hearing was perfect. It was only his appearance that was marred. When he rushed home from school one day and flung himself into his mother's arms, she sighed, knowing that his life was to be a succession of heartbreaks.
He blurted out the tragedy. "A boy, a big boy...called me a freak."
He grew up, handsome for his misfortune. A favorite with his fellow students, he might have been class president, but for that. He developed a gift, a talent for literature and music.
"But you might mingle with other young people," his mother reproved him, but felt a kindness in her heart.
The boy's father had a session with the family physician... "Could nothing be done?"
"I believe I could graft on a pair of outer ears, if they could be procured," the doctor decided. Whereupon the search began for a person who would make such a sacrifice for a young man.
Two years went by. One day, his father said to the son, "You're going to the hospital, son. Mother and I have someone who will donate the ears you need. But it's a secret."
The operation was a brilliant success, and a new person emerged. His talents blossomed into genius, and school and college became a series of triumphs.
Later he married and entered the diplomatic service. One day, he asked his father, “Who gave me the ears? Who gave me so much? I could never do enough for him or her.”
"I do not believe you could," said the father, "but the agreement was that you are not to know...not yet."
The years kept their profound secret, but the day did come. One of the darkest days that ever pass through a son. He stood with his father over his mother's casket. Slowly, tenderly, the father stretched forth a hand and raised the thick, reddish brown hair to reveal the mother had no outer ears.
"Mother said she was glad she never let her hair be cut," his father whispered gently, "and nobody ever thought mother less beautiful, did they?"
REMEMBER...
Real beauty lies not in the physical appearance,
but in the heart.
Real treasure lies not in what can be seen,
but what cannot be seen.
Real love lies not in what is done and known,
but in what that is done but not known.
初中生優(yōu)秀英語(yǔ)美文篇二
Fishing For Jasmine
The silent young woman in bed number six is called Jasmine. So am I, but names are only superficial things, floats bobbing on the surface of the water, and we share deeper connections than that. Which is why she fascinates me - why I spend my off-duty time sitting beside her.
Today is difficult. The ward heaves with patients and I am kept busy emptying bed-pans, filling out forms, changing dressings. Finally, late in the afternoon, I get a few moments to make coffee, to take it over to the orange plastic chair beside her bed. I am thankful to be off my feet, glad to be in her company once again.
'Hello, Jasmine,' I say, as if greeting myself.
She does not reply. Jasmine never replies. She is down too deep.
Like me, she has been sea-damaged. I too am the daughter of a fisherman, so I bait my words like fish-hooks, cast them into her ears, imagine them sinking down through cold, dark water. Down to wherever she may be.
'I have little time today,' I tell her, touching her hair.
With Jasmine, it is always difficult not to touch. She is that rare thing, a truly beautiful woman. Because of this, people invent reasons to walk by. I catch them looking, drinking her in, feeding on her. They are barracuda, all of them. Wheelchair-pushing porters who slow to a crawl when they near her bed. Roaming visitors with greedy eyes. Doctors who stop, draw the thin screen of curtain, and continually re-examine that which does not need examination.
Great beauty is something Jasmine and I do not share. I am glad of it.
'Your father may be here soon,' I say. 'Last week he said he would come.'
Jasmine says nothing. Her left eyelid flickers, perhaps.
It is two months since the incident on her father's fishing boat, since she fell overboard, sank, became entangled in the nets. It was some time before anyone noticed, then there was panic. Her father hauled her back on board and sailed for home. When he finally arrived, he carried ashore what he thought was his daughter's body.
'Jasmine,' I whisper. I want her to take our baited name. I want her to swallow it.
Fortunately, there was a doctor in the village that morning, a young man visiting relatives. It was he who brought this drowned woman back from the brink, he who told me her story. She opened her eyes, he said, looked up at her father and spoke a single word - then sank again, this time into coma.
Barracuda. That is what Jasmine said.
When her father visits, he touches her hair, kisses her cheek, sits in the orange plastic chair at the side of her bed and holds her hand. Like my own father, he has the big, brown, life-roughened hands of a fisherman. He too smells of the sea, and pretends he is a good, simple man.
Jasmine. We share so much, we are almost one.
I remember early mornings, my hair touched to wake me, my father lifting me half-asleep from my bed, carrying me, dropping me into his boat. His voice rough in my ear, his hands rough on my skin. I never wanted to go, but I was just a child. He did as he wished.
I remember salt water, hot sun, my mother shrinking on the shore. I remember the rocking of the boat, the screams of the gulls.
'Jasmine, you have a life inside you. Can't you hear it calling?'
Nothing.
The ward door bangs, and I see Jasmine's father walking towards us, carrying flowers. He smiles at me.
Even in death, my own child had my father's smile, and Jasmine's will have this man's. I know it.
He stops by her bed and touches her hair. Something stirs deep inside me. I watch Jasmine's eyelids, waiting for her to bite.
初中生優(yōu)秀英語(yǔ)美文篇三
A Rose For Marly
It was one week before high school graduation when I found the note. I didn’t know it then, but by the end of that week, my life would be changed forever.
I had been cleaning out my locker, looking through old papers and taking down all the pictures I had taped to the door. Everything seemed to hold memories from the past year, so I was careful not to throw away anything with sentimental value. I found the note on the top shelf of my locker, laying on top of my biology book. It had my name , Marly, printed neatly at the top, and though I didn’t recognize the handwriting, I thought that it was probably from one of my friends. But as I read it, I realized that it couldn't be. It was signed, 'from a secret admirer.' I knew I shouldn't take it seriously, but I couldn't stop my heart from beating fast or my face from turning red.
I kept thinking that it was just a prank. But who could've written something so sweet and touching just for a good laugh? I heard laughter from the end of the hall, but when I looked down there I saw that those laughing were paying no attention to me.
That evening I kept replaying the words of the note in my head. I reread it so many times during my last hour class, I almost had it memorized.
We never spent any time together, it said, but in my mind we did... In my mind we shared so much... from our first kiss to popcorn at the movie theater on our first date. We laughed at inside jokes that no one else got, you taught me how to dance in my backyard. Of course, none of those things really happened... I only imagined them. Outside of my mind we never existed as a couple, you never even knew my true feelings for you. And I'm afraid you never will if I don't tell you now. Please meet me Friday night after the prom, in the park.
I spent that entire evening thinking about the note and who could've written it. It wasn't every day I got a note from someone who had been admiring me from afar.
The next day at school, I showed the note to my best friend, Christy. We sat down by our lockers, musing over who the mysterious person could be. Every time a boy walked by I contemplated the question: Could it be him? I tried to act like it wasn't important to me. After all, it could just be a cruel joke someone was playing on me and I would look stupid if I made a big deal out of it.
By the end of third hour, everyone knew about the note I had received. At noon, a crowd had gathered around my locker. Some wanted to see the note but I was cautious of who I let read it. I guarded it as if it were some great treasure, and to me, it was.
"What if its him?" Diane Johansen said, pointing in his direction and laughing. She started doing a dead-on impersonation of Jimmy. I couldn't help but laugh as Diane talked with a stutter and shook, as Jimmy often did. I instantly regretted it. I looked at him. I didn't see love or admiration in his eyes, I saw pain.
Throughout the rest of the day I kept thinking about Jimmy. He had lived across the street from me for years, yet I knew so little about him. I remembered my mother telling me to be nice to him when I was younger. She said that he needed a friend. When I asked her why he acted so different, she told me that his mother had done bad things when she was pregnant with him. It wasn't until I was older that I really understood this. I would occasionally wave at him on the street, but not if my friends were with me. I tried to make myself feel better by thinking that I had at least treated him better than others had.
Jimmy was pleasantly interesting. Sometimes I could see in his room through his window as I passed by. He was often playing his guitar, or sitting at his desk writing. After I got the note, I wondered if he had been writing things for me. From then on I tried to see Jimmy through the window. It was my only way of looking into his world. I wondered if my admirer had ever done the same.
One evening, I got a call from Christy.
"I think I know who your admirer is!" she shrieked.
My heart pounded. "Who?"
"You're not going to believe this, but I think its Russell Moore! At church I overheard him say you were cute! Can you believe it?"
There was a long silence.
"Well, aren't you excited?" she asked.
"I guess," I said.
"Who do you want it to be?" she asked.
I couldn't think of anyone but Jimmy so I said that I didn't know.
Later that evening, I considered writing Jimmy a letter. I thought I could be an 'admirer' myself. He thinks I hate him. He thinks I’m like everyone else. What if I don't get the chance to tell him different? But I decided against it. I guess I wasn't as brave as my secret admirer was. It was strange. I wondered if I was falling in love with him. All of a sudden I wanted to see him, talk to him, hear his voice. I wondered why I felt that way.
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