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1、精选优质文档-倾情为你奉上11A Writing for Myself Russell Baker The idea of becoming a writer had come to me off and on since my childhood in Belleville, but it wasnt until my third year in high school that the possibility took hold. Until then I d been bored by everything associated with English courses. I found
2、 English grammar dull and difficult. I hated the assignments to turn out long, lifeless paragraphs that were agony for teachers to read and for me to write. When our class was assigned to Mr. Fleagle for third-year English I anticipated another cheerless year in that most tedious of subjects. Mr. Fl
3、eagle had a reputation among students for dullness and inability to inspire. He was said to be very formal, rigid and hopelessly out of date. To me he looked to be sixty or seventy and excessively prim. He wore primly severe eyeglasses, his wavy hair was primly cut and primly combed. He wore prim su
4、its with neckties set primly against the collar buttons of his white shirts. He had a primly pointed jaw, a primly straight nose, and a prim manner of speaking that was so correct, so gentlemanly, that he seemed a comic antique. I prepared for an unfruitful year with Mr. Fleagle and for a long time
5、was not disappointed. Late in the year we tackled the informal essay. Mr. Fleagle distributed a homework sheet offering us a choice of topics. None was quite so simple-minded as “What I Did on My Summer Vacation,” but most seemed to be almost as dull. I took the list home and did nothing until the n
6、ight before the essay was due. Lying on the sofa, I finally faced up to the unwelcome task, took the list out of my notebook, and scanned it. The topic on which my eye stopped was “The Art of Eating Spaghetti.” This title produced an extraordinary sequence of mental images. Vivid memories came flood
7、ing back of a night in Belleville when all of us were seated around the supper tableUncle Allen, my mother, Uncle Charlie, Doris, Uncle Haland Aunt Pat served spaghetti for supper. Spaghetti was still a little known foreign dish in those days. Neither Doris nor I had ever eaten spaghetti, and none o
8、f the adults had enough experience to be good at it. All the good humor of Uncle Allen s house reawoke in my mind as I recalled the laughing arguments we had that night about the socially respectable method for moving spaghetti from plate to mouth. Suddenly I wanted to write about that, about the wa
9、rmth and good feeling of it, but I wanted to put it downsimply for my own joy, not for Mr. Fleagle. It was a moment I wanted to recapture and hold for myself. I wanted to relive the pleasure of that evening. To write it as I wanted, however, would violate all the rules of formal composition I d lear
10、ned in school, and Mr. Fleagle would surely give it a failing grade. Never mind. I would write something else for Mr. Fleagle after I had written this thing for myself. When I finished it the night was half gone and there was no time left to compose a proper, respectable essay for Mr. Fleagle. There
11、 was no choice next morning but to turn in my tale of the Belleville supper. Two days passed before Mr. Fleagle returned the graded papers, and he returned everyone s but mine. I was preparing myself for a command to report to Mr. Fleagle immediately after school for discipline when I saw him lift m
12、y paper from his desk and knock for the class s attention. “Now, boys,” he said. “I want to read you an essay. This is titled, The Art of Eating Spaghetti. ” And he started to read. My words! He was reading my words out loud to the entire class. Whats more, the entire class was listening. Listening
13、attentively. Then somebody laughed, then the entire class was laughing, and not in contempt and ridicule, but with open-hearted enjoyment. Even Mr. Fleagle stopped two or three times to hold back a small prim smile. I did my best to avoid showing pleasure, but what I was feeling was pure delight at
14、this demonstration that my words had the power to make people laugh. In the eleventh grade, at the eleventh hour as it were, I had discovered a calling. It was the happiest moment of my entire school career. When Mr. Fleagle finished he put the final seal on my happiness by saying, “Now that, boys,
15、is an essay, dont you see. Itsdont you seeits of the very essence of the essay, dont you see. Congratulations, Mr. Baker.” 11B The Scholarship Jacket Martha Salinas The smallTexasschool that I attended carried out a tradition every year during the eighth grade graduation; a beautiful gold and green
16、jacket, the school colors, was awarded to the class valedictorian, the student who had maintained the highest grade for eight years.The scholarship jacket had a big gold S on the left front side and the winners name was written in gold letters on the pocket. My oldest sister Rosie had won the jacket
17、 a few years back and I fully expected to win also. I was fourteen and in the eight grade. I had been a straight A student since the first grade, and the last year I had looked forward to owing that jacket. My father was a farm laborer who couldnt earn enough money to feed eight children, so when I
18、was six I was given to my grandparents to raise. We couldnt participate in sports in school because there were registration fees, uniform costs, and trips out of town; so even thought we were quite agile and athletic there would never be a sports school jacket for us. This one, the scholarship jacke
19、t, was our only chance. In May, close to graduation, spring fever struck, and no one paid any attention in class; instead we stared out the windows and at each other, wanting to speed up the last few weeks of school. I despaired every time I looked in the mirror. Pencil thin, not a curve anywhere, I
20、 was called “Beanpole” and “String Bean” and I knew thats what I looked like. A flat chest, no hips, and a brain, thats what I had. That really isnt much for a fourteen-year-old to work with, I thought, as I absentmindedly wandered from my history class in the gym. Another hour of sweating in basket
21、ball and displaying my toothpick legs was coming up. Then I remembered my P.E. shorts were still in a bag under my desk where Id forgotten them. I had to walk all the way back and get them. Coach Thompson was a real bear if anyone wasnt dressed for P.E. She had said I was a good forward and once she
22、 even tried to talk Grandma into letting me join the team. Grandma, of course, said no. I was almost back at my classrooms door when I heard angry voices and arguing. I stopped. I didnt mean to eavesdrop; I just hesitated, not knowing what to do. I needed those shorts and I was going to be lat, but
23、I didnt want to interrupt an argument between my teachers. I recognized the voices; Mr. Schmidt, my history teacher, and Mr. Boone, my math teacher. They seemed to be arguing about me. I couldnt believe it. I still remember the shock that rooted me flat against the wall as if I were trying to blend
24、in with the graffiti written there.“I refuse to do it! I dont care who her father is, her grades dont even begin to compare to Marthas. I wont lie or falsify records. Martha has a straight A plus average and you know it” That was Mr. Schmidt and he sounded very angry. Mr. Boones voice sounded calm a
25、nd quite. “Look, Joanns father is not only on the Board, he owns the only store in town; we could say it was a close tie and” The pounding in my ears drowned out the rest if the words only a word here and there filtered through. “ Martha is Mexican resign wont do it”Mr. Schmidt came rushing out, luc
26、kily for me went down the opposite was toward the auditorium, so he didnt see me. Shaking, I waited a few minutes and then went in and grabble my bag and fled from the room. Mr. Boone looked up when I came in but didnt say anything. To this day I dont remember if I got in trouble in P.E. for being l
27、ate or how I made it through the rest of the afternoon. I went home very sad and cried into my pillow that night so grandmother wouldnt hear me. It seemed a cruel coincidence that I had overheard that conversation. The nest day when the principle called me into the office, I knew what it would be ab
28、out. He looked uncomfortable and unhappy. I decided I wasnt going to make it easier for him so I looked him straight in the eye. He looked away and fidgeted with the papers on his desk. “Martha,” he said, “theres been a change in policy this year regarding the scholarship jacket. As you know, it has
29、 always been free.” He cleared his throat and continued. “This year the Board decided to charge fifteen dollarswhich still wont cover the complete cost of the jacket”. I stared at him in shock and a small sound of dismay escapedmy throat. I hadnt expected this. He still avoided looking in my eyes. “
30、So if you are unable to pay the fifteen dollars for the jacket, it will be given to the next one in line.” Standing with all the dignity I could muster, I said, Ill speak to my grandfather about it, sir, and let you know tomorrow.” I cried on the walk home from the bus stop.The dirt road was a quart
31、er of a mile from the highway, so by the time I got home, my eyes were red and puffy. “Wheres Grandpa?” I asked Grandma, looking down at the floor so she wouldnt ask me why Id been crying. She was sewing on a quilt and didnt look up. “I think hes out back working in the bean field.” I went outside a
32、nd looked out at the fields. There he was, I could see him walking between the rows, his body bent over the little plants, hoe in hand. I walked slowly out to him, trying to think of how I could best ask him for the money. There was a cool breeze blowing and a sweet smell of mesquite in the air, but
33、 I didnt appreciate it. I kicked at a dirt clot. I wanted that jacket so much. It was more that just being a valedictorian and giving a little thank you speech for the jacket on graduation night. It represents eight years of hard work and expectation. I knew I had to be honest with Grandpa; it was m
34、y only chance. He saw me and looked up. He waited for me to speak. I cleared my throat nervously and clasped my hands behind my back so he wouldnt see them shaking. “Grandpa, I have a big favor to ask you” I said in Spanish, the only language he knew. He still waited silently, I tried again. “Grandp
35、a, this year principle said the scholarship jacket is not going to be free. Its going to cost fifteen dollars and I have to take the money tomorrow, otherwise itll be given to someone else.” The last words came out eager rush. Grandpa straightened up tiredly and leaned his chin on the hoe handle. He
36、 looked out over the field that was filled with the tiny green bean plants. I waited, desperately hoping hed say I could have the money. He turned to me and asked quietly, “what does a scholarship jacket mean?” I answered quickly; maybe there was a chance. “It means youve earned it by having the hig
37、hest for eight years and thats why theyre giving it to you.” Too late to realized the significance of my words. Grandpa knew that I understood it was not a matter of money. It wasnt that. He went back to hoeing the weeds that sprang up between the dedicated little bean plants. It was a time consumin
38、g job; sometimes the small shoots were right next to each other. Finally he spoke again. “Then if you pay for it, Marta, its not a scholarship jacket, it is? Tell your principal I will not pay the fifteen dollars.” I walked back to the house and locked myself in the bathroom for a long time. I was a
39、ngry with grandfather even thought I know he was right; and I was angry with the Board, whoever they were. Why did they have to change the rules just when it was my turn to win the jacket? It was a very sad and withdrawn girl who dragged into the principals office the next day. This time he did look
40、 me in the eyes. “What did your grandfather say?” U sat very straight in my chair. “He said to tell u he wont pay the fifteen dollars.” The principal muttered something I couldnt understand under his breath, and walked over to the window. He stood looking out at something outside. He looked bugger t
41、hen usual when he stood up; he was a tall gaunt man with gray hair, and I watched the back of his head while I waited for him to speak. “Why?” he finally asked. “Your grandfather has the money. Doesnt he own a small beam farm? I looked at him, forcing my eyes to stay dry. “He said if I had to pay fo
42、r it, then it wouldnt be a scholarship jacket,” I said and stood up to leave. “I guess youll just have to give it to Joann.” I hadnt meant to say that; it had just slipped out. I was almost to the door when he stopped me. “Marthawait.” I turned and looked at him, waiting. What did he want now? I cou
43、ld feel my heart pounding. Something bitter and vile tasting was coming up in my mouth; I was afraid I was going to be sick. I didnt need and sympathy speeches. He sighed loudly at me, biting his lip, as if thinking. “Okay, damn it. Well make an exception in your case. Ill tell the Board, youll get
44、your jacket.” I could hardly believe it. I spoke in a trembling rush. “Oh, thank you sir!” Suddenly I felt great. I didnt know about adrenalin in those days, but I knew something was pumping through me, making me feel as tall as the sky. I wanted to yell, jump, run the mile, do something I ran out s
45、o I could cry in the hall where there was no one to see me. At the end of the day, Mr. Schmidt winked at me and said, “I hear youre getting a scholarship jacket this year. His face looked as happy and innocent as a babys but I knew better. Without answering I gave him a quick hug and ran to the bus.
46、 I cried on the walk home again, but this time because I was so happy. I couldnt wait to tell Grandpa and ran straight to the field. I joined him in row where he was working and without saying anything I crouched down and started pulling up the weeds with my hands. Grandpa worked alongside me for a
47、few minutes, but he didnt ask what had happened. After I had a little pile of weeds between the rows, I stood up and faced him. “The principle said hes making an exception the jacket after al. Thats after I told him what you said.” Grandpa didnt say anything, he just gave me a pat on the shoulder an
48、d a smile. He pulled out the crumpled red handkerchief that he always carried in his back pocket and wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Better go see if your grandmother needs any help with supper.” I gave him a big grin. He didnt fool me. I skipped and ran back to the house whistling some silly tune.12A All the Cabbie Had Was a Letter Foster Furcolo He must