every year my father would call a family meeting to discuss where wi were going____vacation.

A、in

B、with

C、on

D、at

ew Year to his family.Then he ran into the street to repeat that to those he might meet.

When he came back, his father gave him two bright, new silver dollars .

His face lighted up as he took them.He had wished for a long time to buy some petty books that he had seen at the bookstore.

He left the house with a light heart, expecting to buy the books.As he ran down the street, he saw a poor family.

“I wish you a happy New Year.” said Edward, as he was happily passing on.The man shook his head.

“You are not from this country？ ” said Edward.The man again shook his head, for he could not understand or speak his language.But he pointed to his mouth, and to the children shaking with cold, as if (好像)to say, “These little ones have had nothing to eat for a long time”

Edward quickly understood that these poor people were in trouble.He took out his dollars, and gave one to the man and the other to his wife.

They were excited and said something in their language, which doubtless meant, “We thank you so much that we will remember you all the time.”

When Edward came home, his father asked what books he had bought.He hung his head a moment, but quickly looked up.

“I have bought no books,” said he, “I gave my money to some poor people, who seemed to be very hungry then.” He went on, “I think I can wait for my books till next New Year.”

“My dear boy,” said his father, “Here are some books, more as a reward for your goodness of heart than as a New-Year gift”.

“I saw you give the money cheerfully to the poor German family.It was nice for a little boy to do so.Be always ready to help others and every year of your life will be to you a Happy New Year.”

1.Edward expected to ________ with the money he got from his father.

A.help the poor family

B.buy something to eat

C.buy some pretty books

2.Why did the poor man shake his head when Edward spoke to him？()

A.He couldn’t understand the boy

B.He wouldn’t accept the money

C.He didn’t like the boy’s language

3.How much did Edward give the poor family？()

A.One dolla

B.Two dollars

C.Three dollars

4.We know that Edward ________.

A.got a prize for his kind heart

B.got more money from his father

C.bought the books at the bookstore

25.What is the best title for the passage？()

A.New Year's Gift

B.Story of Buying Books

C.Father's Words

A.run

B.to run

C.running

A.A.My father reads the Calgary Herld every mornin

B.B.my father reads the Calgary Herld every mornin

C.C.My father reads the calgary Herld every mornin

D.D.My father reads the Calgary Herld every Mornin

E.E./

A.driving

B.todrive

C.tobedriven

D.tobeingdriven

d to _ myself away from friends

A、interact

B、wrench

C、beckon

D、lunatic

A、Latter

B、Later

C、Lately

D、Late

ins in my stomach.Doctor assured me that my pain came from emotional strains.In addition to my preaching every Sunday,I have many other tasks.So I was working under constant pressure and could never relax.

e sifts through water, salt, and vegetable. Beneath her nails are saffron flakes of red pepper powder. My mother wears an apron; under it her stomach is full and round. The apron is blue with red borders. I remember she bought it one day at Woodward’s on sale.

I sit at the kitchen table beneath a peach-painted ceiling and a chandelier with oversized plastic teardrops. Every now then I get up and walk over to the counter, peer into the yellow tub, watch, pretend to watch, and then sit down again. Across from me, the little knick-knacks my mother loves So much-ceramic flowers, Delfts-blue miniature vases, a figurine forever windblown -- are arranged carefully upon the window sill.

My mother's hands are thin-skinned, pale, spotted and freckled with age and sun. The nails are thick, almost yellow. A few strands of hair, not quite black, fall over her forehead and her mouth is slightly open, the tip of her tongue just visible between her teeth as she lifts and mixes the cabbage leaves. "Are you paying attention？" she wants to know, and I nod at ceramic flowers, Delfts-blue miniature vases, a figurine forever windblown.

Kim chee is pickled cabbage. Friends always ask me for botfies of the stuff: Mama Kim’s special recipe, they tease. I pass this on the my mother and she grumbles and laughs, embarrassed, pleased.

My mother’s hands lle in my lap and I touch them carefully, life them like small, live animals, fit them into the plans of my own hands, turn them over and think of crab-hunting as a child and a trail of overturned, shell-encrusted sea rocks.

Once I told my mother that I would like to photograph' her hands, and she peered down at them, lifted her hands up to her face suspiciously as if seeing them for the first time. "My hands？" she asked, and I went and fetched some skin lotion from the bathroom. Her hands were too dry.

I had her sit on the couch in the living-room. The couch was floral-patterned and she sat in the centre of it, awkward, distracted. I took the pictures, head-to-toe shots, some of her hands alone. They lay limply in her lap. She held one hand with the other. She didn’t know what else to do with them. I took the pictures. Every ten minutes or so she got up and walked to the kitchen, checked the oven, the various pots. My father walked by once, and joked, "How about my hands？"

The cabbage leaves are washed and salted and rinsed. This much I remember. A winter’s sun floats in through the window, plays weakly with the plastic tear-drops, falls down onto the kitchen table, onto my own hands. I suppose they will soon lock like hers.

I get up, restless, lean over the counter, try to concentrate. Every year for the last five years or so I have asked my mother to teach me how to pickle cabbage. Every year I have watched her hands, seen the aprons change, the stomach grow more round -- the cabbage leaves are washed and salted and rinsed. This much I remember.

I take the roils of film to a friend who knows something about photography. He develops them and is impressed. He sees a small Asian woman, smiling hesitantly into a camera, lost among the flowers of living-room couches. She is tired and stiff. My friend doesn’t even notice her hands. He calls the photos "real", I call them "disappointing".

The kim chee is just made so it is not quite ripe, but we eat a little of it at dinner, anyway. My father tells me his story about villagers who ran away during the war, as the bombs came down, with earthenware kim chee pots in their anus. It is favourite, not quite-ripe kim chee story.

When the winter sunlight comes through the kitchen window, tear-refracted onto my own hands. I stop writing and put down my pen. My mother asks, "What are you writing？" And I tell her that I am writing about kim chee. She laughs, "You don’t even kn

A．My mother’s hand.

B．Pickled cabbage.

C．Kim chee.

D．My mother.

Mystery of the White Gardenia

Marsha Aron

Every year on my birthday , from the time I turned 12 , a white gardenia was delivered to my house in Bethesda , Md. No card or note came with it. Calls to the florist were always in vain 一 it was a cash purchase. After a while I stopped trying to discover the sender' s identity and just delighted in the beauty and heady perfume of that´ one magical , perfect flower nestled in soft pick tissue paper.

But I never stopped imagining who the anonymous giver might be. Some of the happiest moments were spent daydreaming about someone wonderful and exciting but too shy or eccentric to make known his or her identity.

My mother contributed to these imaginings. She' d ask me if there was someone for whom I had done a special kindness who might be showing appreciation. Perhaps the

neighbor l' d helped when she was unloading a car full of groceries. Or maybe it was the old man across the street whose mail I retrieved during the winter so he wouldn't have to venture down his icy steps. As a teen-ager , though , i had more fun speculating that it might be a boy i had a crush on or one who had noticed me even though i didn´t know him.

When 1 was 17 , a boy broke my heart. The night he called for the last time , i cried myself to sleep. When i awoke in the morning , there was a message scribbled on my mirror in red lipstick: Heartily know , when half-gods go , the gods arrive. i thought about that

quotation by Emerson for a long time , and until my heart healed , i left it where my mother had written it. When i finally went to get the glass cleaner , my mother knew everything was all right again.

I don' t remember ever slamming my door in anger at her and shouting , "You just don' t understand!" because she did understand.

One month before my high-school graduation , my father died of a heart attack. My feelings ranged from grief to abandonment , fear and overwhelming anger that my dad was missing some of the most important events in my life. I became completely uninterested in my upcoming graduation , the senior class play and the prom. But my mother , in the midst of her own grief , would not hear of my skipping any of those things.

The day before my father died， my mother and i had gone shopping for a prom dress. We found a spectacular one , with yards and yards of doted swiss in red , white and blue , it made me feel like Scarlet 0' Hara ,

but it was the wrong size. When my father died iforgot about the dress.

My mother didn't . The day before the prom , i found that dress 一 in the right size - draped majestically over the living room sofa. It wasn't just delivered , still in the box. It was presented to me - beautifully , artistically , lovingly. i didn' t care if 1 had a new dress or no. But my mother did.

She wanted her children to feel loved and lovable , creative and imaginative , imbued with a sense that there was magic in the world and beauty even in the face of adversity. In truth. my mother wanted her children to see themselves much like the gardenia 一 lovely ，strong ,

and perfect - with an aura of magic and perhaps a bit of mystery.

My mother died ten days after i was married. i was 22. That was the year the gardenias stopped coming.

26. When did the narrator discover the mystery of the white gardenias？ Why was the sender' s identity kept secret？

27. When and how did the father die？ How did the narrator feel at her father' s death？

28. What traits of the mother' s characters are highlighted in the story？ Cite examples from the story to support your answer.

29. What do you think of the title of the story？ What does the gardenia symbolize in the story？

参考答案：

26. The narrator got to know the truth when she was 22. It was her mother who sent her the flowers. She kept it a secret so that the daughter could have the self-knowledge of her own good deeds as she speculated about who the sender might be.

27. The father died of heart attack close to her graduation from high school. She felt sad , disappointed that her father would not experience the important events in her life.

28.a. The mother' s wisdom: She thought of a wise way to encourage kindness in her daughter: to send flowers secretly; or she wisely scribbled a quotation from Emerson on her daughter' s mirror instead of directly talking her teenage daughter into accepting the loss of her boyfriend.

b. Her strength in the face of adversities: she stood strong when her husband died.

29.It is a good / helpful title. The title tickles the reader' s curiosity. OR It' s not a good title. When we are told of the "mystery" in the title , our curiosity is destroyed. The gardenia is the essential symbol in the story , helping to bring about the theme of the story: mother' s love. The gardenia symbolizes the qualities that the mother hoped for her daughter , qualities such as magical (aura of magic , a bit of mystery) , loving , strong , perfect , etc.