Art for Heart’s Sake Keith Koppel, private duty nurse to the extraordinarily wealthy Collis P. Ellsworth, was glad to leave his patient’s room to answer the door. He had had a tiring morning trying to get Ellsworth to cooperate in his own recovery. As soon as Koppel discovered that the caller was Ellsworth’s doctor, he began to complain. “I can’t do a thing with him,” he told Dr.Caswell. “He won’t take his juice. He doesn’t want me to read to him. He hates listening to the radio or watching TV. He doesn’t like anything.” Actually, he did like something: his business. The problem was that while he was still a fabulously wealthy man, he had recently begun to make big mistakes. He insisted on buying companies at very high prices, only to watch them fail or go bankrupt. Ellsworth was in pretty good shape for a 76-year-old , but his business failures were ruinous to his health. He had suffered his last. Heart attack after his disastrous purchase of a small railroad in Iowa. The health problem he suffered before that came about because of excitement over the failure of a chain of grocery stores, stores which he had purchases had to be liquidated at a great sacrifice to both his pocketbook and his health. They were beginning to have serious effects. Dr. Caswell had done his homework, however. He realized that he needed to interest the old man in something which would take his mind off his problem and redirect his energies. His answer was art. The doctor entered his patient’s room. “I hear that you haven’t been obeying orders,” the doctor said. “Who’s giving me orders at my time of life?” The doctor drew up his chair and sat down close to the old man. “I’ve got a suggestion for you,” he said quietly. Old Ellsworth looked suspiciously over his eyeglasses. “What is it, more medicine, more automobile rides, more foolishness to keep me away form my office? “How would you like to take up art?” The doctor had his stethoscope ready in case the suddenness of the suggestion proved too much for the patient’s heart. But the old man’s answer was a strong “foolishness!” ‘I don’t mean seriously,” said the doctor, relieved that nothing had happened. “Just play around with chald and crayons. It’ll be fun.” But after several more scowls, which were met with gentle persuasion by the wise doctor, Ellsworth gave in. he would, at least, try it for a while. Caswell went to his friend Judson Livingston, head of the Atlantic Art Institute, and explained the situation. Livingston introduced Frank Swain. Swain was an 18-year-old art student, quite good; who needed money to continue his education. He would tutor Ellsworth one afternoon a week for ten dollars an hour. Their first lesson was on the next afternoon. It was less than an overwhelming success. Swain began by arranging some paper and crayons on the table. “Let’s try to draw that vase over there,” he suggested. “What for?” It’s only a bowl with some blue stains on it. Or are they green?” “Try it, Mr. Ellsworth, please.” “Umph!” The old man took a piece of crayon in a shaky hand and drew several lines. He drew several more and then connected these crudely. “There it is, young man,” he said with a tone of satisfaction. “Such foolishness!” Frank Swain was patient. He needed the ten dollars. “If you want to draw, you will have to look at what you’re drawing, sir.” Ellsworth looked. “Gosh, it’s rather pretty. I never noticed it before.” Koppel came in with the announcement that his patient had done enough for the first lesson. “Oh, it’s pineapple juice again,” Ellsworth said. Swain left, not sure if he would be invited back. When the art student came the following week, there was a drawing on the table that had a slight resemblance to a vase. The wrinkles deepened at the corners of the old gentleman’s eyes as he asked. “Well, what do you think of it?” “Not bad, sir,” answered Swain. “But it’s not quite straight.” “Gosh,” old Ellsworth smiled, “I see. The halves don’t match.” He added a few lines with a shaking hand and colored the open spaces blue, like a child playing with a picture book. Then he looked towards the door. “Listen, young man,” he whispered, “I want to ask you something before old Pineapple Juice comes back.” “Yes, sir,” answered Swain politely. “I was thinking--- do you have the time to come twice a week, or perhaps three times?” As the weeks went by, Swain’s visits grew more frequent. When Dr. Caswell called, Ellsworth would talk about the graceful lines of the chimney or the rich variety of color in a bowl of fruit. The treatment was working perfectly. No more trips downtown to his office for the purpose of buying some business that was to fail later. No more crazy financial plans to try the strength of his tired old heart. Art was a complete cure for him. The doctor thought it safe to allow Ellsworth to visit the Metropolitan Museum, the Museum of Modern Art, and other exhibitions with Swain. An entirely new word opened up its mysteries to him. The old man showed a tremendous curiosity in the art galleries and in the painters who exhibited in them. How were the galleries run? Who selected the pictures for the exhibitions? An idea was forming in is brain. When the late spring began to cover the fields and gardens with color, Ellsworth painted a simply horrible picture which he called “Trees Dressed in White”. Then he made a surprising announcement. He was going to exhibit the picture in the summer show at the Lathrop Gallery. The summer show at the Lathrop Gallery was the biggest art exhibition of the year---in quality, if not in size. The lifetime dream of every important artist in the United States was a prize from this exhibition. Among the paintings of this distinguished group of artists, Ellsworth was now going to place his “Trees Dressed in White”, which resembled a handful of salad dressing thrown violently against the side of a house. “If the newspapers hear about this, everyone in town will be laughing at Mr. Ellsworth. We’ve got to stop him,” said Koppel. “No,” warned the doctor. “We can’t interfere with him now and take a chance of running down all the good work which we have done.” To the complete surprise of al three--- and especially Swain--- “Trees Dressed in White” was accepted for the Lathrop show. Not only was Mr. Ellsworth crazy, thought Koppel, but the Lathrop Gallery was crazy, too. Fortunately, the painting was hung in an inconspicuous place, where it did not draw any special notice or comment. During the curse of the exhibition, the old man kept on taking lessons, seldom mentioning his picture. He was unusually cheerful. Every time Swain entered the room, he found Ellsworth laughing to himself. Maybe Koppel was right. The old man was crazy. But it seemed equally strange that the Lathrop committee should encourage his craziness by accepting his picture. Two days before the close of the exhibition, a special messenger brought a long, official-looking envelope to Mr. Ellsworth while Swain, Koppel, and the doctor were in the room. “Read it to me,” said the old man. “My eyes are tired from painting.” It gives the Lathrop Gallery great pleasure to announce that the First Prize of $1000 has been awarded to Collis P. Ellsworth for his painting “Trees Dressed in White”. Swain and Koppel were so surprised that they could not say a word. Dr. Caswell, exercising his professional self-control with a supreme effort, I didn’t expect such great news. But, but---well, now, you’ll have to admit that art is much more satisfying than business.” “Art has nothing to do with it,” said the old man sharply. “I bought the Lathrop Gallery last month.” 10.What was the final twist to the story?

Directions:Read the text blow, and fill in the number gaps with the vocabulary provided below. Note that there are more lexical items than needed, and that some changes in form are necessary. in youth, over again, surmount, part, practice, precisely, sustain, itself, at once, between　　 　　 If I Were a Boy Again　　 　　If I were a boy again, I would（l）（ ） perseverance（百折不挠） more often, and never give up a thing because it was difficult or inconvenient. If we want light, we must conquer darkness. Perseverance can sometimes equal genius in its results. "There are only two creatures," says a proverb, "who can （2）（ ） the pyramids--the eagle and the snail.” 　　If I were a boy again, I would school myself into a habit of attention; I would let nothing come （3）（ ） me and the subject in hand. I would remember that a good skater never tries to skate in two directions （4）（ ） . 　　The habit of attention becomes （5）（ ） of our life, if we begin early enough. I often hear grown up people say, "I could not fix my attention on the sermon or book, although I wished to do so” and the reason is, the habit was not formed （6））（ ）. If I were to live my life （7）（ ）, I would pay more attention to the Cultivation of the memory. I would strengthen that faculty by every possible means, and on every possible occasion. It takes a little hard work at first to remember things accurately, but memory soon helps （8）（ ）, and gives very little trouble. It only needs early cultivation to become a power.

Directions:　Read through the text below and then choose from the list in the drop down menu following the text the best clause to fill each of the numbered spaces. Some of the suggested answers do not fit at all. Learning How to Behave Example: （0）－J“which is usually overlooked” 　　Most people are unaware they possess a quite remarkable skill, （0）　　because it exercised daily, and in the most ordinary of contexts. But without it, our lives would be unfulfilled and empty. It is the ability to relate to others, to engage them in conversation, to operate as social and sociable individuals and to develop both short-term and long-term relationships （1）　　. We are not born with this ability. There is nothing wired into the human brain （2）　　. To perform effectively in a world （3）　　, encounters and relationships, we have to learn what to do. Small babies, as any parent will remember, are among the least sociable beings （4）　　. 　　They are totally demanding, utterly selfish and scream with rage if their every whim is not immediately satisfied. Somehow this unlikely raw material is transformed over the years into a being （5）　　on being able to form reciprocal bonds with others and to follow complex rules （6）　　. The monstrous infant becomes the caring, responsible adult whose life experiences revolve around both the joys and pains, and the giving and receiving, of friendships and other relationships. It is this remarkable transformation which is the central characteristic of being human. 　　[A]that you could imagine 　　[B]which relies for its survival 　 [C]that relies so heavily on social interaction 　　[D]which nobody understands, not even scientists 　　[E]which lies at the heart of our very existence as human beings 　　[F]that takes a lifetime to learn and practice 　　[G]that govern every aspect of its social life 　　[H]that provides us with set response to social situations 　　[I]that they do without conscious thought 　　[J]which is usually overlooked

Try to translate the following into Chinese . 3.Thus, when there was peace again, and Zeus sat on his throne on Mount Olympus, he sent for Prometheus. In gratitude for Prometheus’ help, Zeus gave him great power. He sent him to earth and told him to make mortal man out of clay.

Lady in the Dark From the other side of the road he saw the only lighted window on the third floor go black. His eyes came down to the big door, the entrance to the building. The light came warmly through there into the cold of the evening. After a little time a girl passed through the door, stopped at the top of the steps and pulled her coat close round her. He watched her come down the steps, turn to the left and disappear along the road. He had plenty of time. He knew that she would be gone for two hours. He knew a great many things. It wasn’t difficult to find out all you wanted to know so long as you took your time and were sensible. He crossed the road. He went past the main entrance, turned the corner of the building and went in at a side door. There was a staircase there used by the servants. He climbed up to the third floor. Then he pushed open a small door. He came out into a brightly lit passage. At the end of the passage there was a door; on a plate on the door he could read “Mrs. Walter Courtney.” He turned the handle and went in. that door was never locked when the servant was out: the old lady did not like to be locked in. if she rang for the doorman she didn’t want to have to come and open the door, not at her age, not in her condition. He knew exactly the arrangement of the rooms in the flat. Four months age the flat on the floor below was empty and he looked over it. He crossed the hall to the door of the sitting room. The window of this room looked out onto the street. He had seen its window when he watched, but it was not in this room that the light had gone out. The light had gone out in the servant’s room on the left. This room was dark. He went in and shut the door behind him. A voice said, “Who is that?” It was the first time he had heard her voice, and it was very much as he had expected, a thin old voice: she was over eighty years of age. It was the voice of a lady, of a proud woman who all her life had had wealth and an easy life, rich places---all the things that he had not had. That was why she spoke in that way---“Who are you, my man?” He said, “Never mind who I am, and don’t get alarmed: I’m not going to hurt you.” He went forward and sat down on a chair by the big desk. There was a certain amount of light in the room from the street outside, and he could see her sitting there on the other side of the desk. He could see her white hair and her straight back and the gold pin in her dress. She was holding up her hands a little and he saw that she had been knitting when he entered the room. “Well,” she said, “what do you want?” “I want the key to your safe.” “How dare you ask such a thing!” He felt the anger in him rise. This thing was so nearly done that he was eager to get it finished. He had lived with the thing for years, thinking it over. “I said that I wouldn’t hurt you, and I won’t. I just want your key. Your servant has gone out for two hours and there is nothing that you can do.” She moved forward a little in her chair and put her knitting down on the desk, but he noticed that one hand was still playing with a long knitting needle. Perhaps this was because she was a little bit afraid. Well, that suited him. He wanted her to be afraid. “I understand,” she said. “And, when you have the key, I suppose that you will take my jewels.” “That’s right,” he laughed. “They can give me a good life from now on.” “So you have not had what you call a ‘good life’ up to now?” “No, I have not.” “I see. You’re that sort of young man.” “How do you know I’m a young man?” She shook her head and her hand tapped on the soft paper lying in front of her on the desk. “I have been blind for twenty years, and that only makes it easier for me to tell some things. You have a young man’s voice and you’re angry. You have a lot of anger in you. You feel that you that you have no that the things which you have a right to have. And you are a fool to think that this is the way to get these things.” “Just give me the key. You can tell the police later that your jewels were taken by an angry young man that never went to a good school. It will be a great help to them in picking me out from about ten million others.” He pulled a case out of his pocket and lit a cigarette. “I want that key. If you won’t give it to me, I shall take it from that chain which you wear round your neck.” “Listen to me, young man.” There was sign of anger in her voice, and she tapped with her knitting needle on the desk calling him to order. “I do not mean to give the police a better description of you than you imagine. But, if you go now, I will forget this unpleasant visit.” “You don’t frighten me, and I’ve wasted enough time. Give me the key.” “Once more, for your own good, young man, listen to me. Go away at once. Go away and work for the things, which you want. Do you think that, because I am blind, I am helpless? Of course I’m not helpless. I know already a great deal about you, which would help the police if you take my jewels. You are a young man about 5 feet 10 inches in height. I can tell that from the way in which your voice comes down to me. You are wearing a bowler hat, a round hard hat, and you are wearing a raincoat. I can hear it as you move. I am glad to know that you had the politeness to take off your hat when you came into the room, but I have noticed that you keep on tapping the top of that hard hat as you hold it on your knee. You smoke: you are smoking some kind of American cigarette, certainly not an English cigarette. You did not ask me if you might smoke.” He laughed. “It’s still a description which would fit thousands and thousands of men in this country. Why do you want those jewels? You have plenty of money, and I haven’t; and I’m going to have some of the things which you’ve enjoyed all your life.” The old lady was silent for a moment, and then she said: “You want to take my jewels because they mean money. I have never looked at the in that way. To me they are memories. They all mean something in my life. If you think that I’ll give you the key to my safe so that you can walk out of here with my memories, you are very much mistaken.” He stood up. He had suddenly become angry. “You’re a silly old woman. What do I care about your memories, about your past, ‘each jewel a memory’.” He laughed. “Well, I’ll tell you what I think of your memories. There’s your husband’s gold watch and chain; and there’s a little curl of hair from your child in the back of that diamond pin. Memories are worth nothing to me, but jewels mean money, just that. That’s what they mean to me.” As he moved to go round the desk her hands shook with a rapid and angry-tap-tap-tap and she said, “Don’t you dare to come near me? Don’t you dare!” “Then give me the key.” “You fools, go away.” But he did not go away; he moved slowly round the desk and stood at her side. If it had to be that way, well that’s how it had to be! He had come too far, dreamt too long of this to back away now. Even so, there was something in him, which drew back at the thought of using force on such an old woman. She turned in her seat to face him. “Come on, give me the key,” he said. “You’ve got no choice.” He put out his cigarette and put the end of it carefully in his pocket. But she shook her head. “I will do nothing to help you, nothing.” He stepped towards her. He put out his hands and took her by the shoulder. She struck at his hand with a knitting needle. He caught her arms and held them with one hand, while his free hand went to her neck, searching for the chain. He pulled it free. It was then that he heard her give a little cry, and her body fell back from him pulling at the hand with which he held her arms. She was lying back in the chair. He let go of her arms: she made no move. He stood there for a moment undecided. She was an old lady. He’d never meant it this way. It couldn’t be true! She couldn’t be dead! She’d be all right in a few moments. He went to the wall and found the picture, which covered the safe. Nothing could be allowed to stop him now, not after all these weeks of work, listening to the servant talking to her friend in the café three miles from here where she went on her night off. He learnt that the safe was behind the picture, and that the key was on a chain round the old lady’s neck. He had done all that work to learn these things. He put the jewel cases in the pockets of his raincoat. When the safe was empty he went back to the old lady. He put his hand on her heart. It was true: she was dead. Well, what did it matter? He had what he wanted. She couldn’t tell the police the few little things that she had learned about him. Detective Inspector Burrows walked into Albert Munster & Son’ shop. It was a small but very good-class jeweler’s shop. When he was alone with Mr. Munster, Inspector Burrows said, “I believe that you did some work for a Mrs. Walter Courtney.” “Yes, that is so. Every two years her jewelry came here to be cleaned.” “How many people in this shop dealt with the stuff?” “There are only three of us here: myself, Mr. Brown and the man we have in the workshop who does the cleaning.” Burrows looked across at Mr. Munster. He was a very short fat man, more than sixty years of age. “No,” said Burrows. “No, I don’t think the description fits you.” “What description, Inspector?” “The description of the person who last night stole Mrs. Courtney’s jewels. She was found dead by her servant.” “Dead? What a terrible thing! Poor Mrs. Courtney. But---but, Inspector, what has this to do with us?” “You will see.” Burrows took a piece of paper out of his pocket. “What I want is a young man who did not go to one of the best schools. His height is about five feet ten inches. He smokes American cigarettes, and he wears a bowler hat and a raincoat, does that description fit Mr. Brown?” “No, no; he’s as old as I am, and he doesn’t smoke. The description fits young Greisens. He’s not a bad young fellow. He has been with me for about eight years.” He shook his head. “Dear me, dear me; Mrs. Courtney’s dead! I can’t believe it.” “Well, it’s true.” “What makes you think it is young Greisens?” “Mrs. Courtney lived alone with her servant. She had never worn the jewels since she went blind twenty years ago. The servant has never seen them. The jewels left her room once every two years to come here for cleaning. So she knew that the thief came from your shop.” “But how could she have told you? She’s dead, you say.” “She was a very brave old lady. She was blind, but not helpless. She knew how to deal with young Greisens. He came in to her, and I imagine there was some talk between them while she refused to hand over the key; and while they talked, unknown to him, she was making notes about him.” Burrows looked at the piece of paper and read: “Young man, not gentleman, height abut five feet ten inches, bowler hat, raincoat, American cigarette, angry, knows jewels well, Walter’s watch and chain, Edith’s hair in pin. Must be from Munster & Sons. Burrows put the paper back in his pocket. “Yet, she was no fool. The room was in darkness. She was blind. She wrote it all down on the nice soft piece of paper on her desk. She wrote it pushing the point of her knitting needed into the paper. Wrote it in pinholes, which you can arrange in sixty-three different ways. These can tell anything that a blind person wants to tell you. Braille. I think you had better send for young Greisens,” said the Inspector. “Tapping away! Just think of it! Tapping away with her knitting needle in the dark,” said Mr. Munster. 1. How could the young man enter the old lady's house? Why didn't she like to have the door locked?

Try to translate the following into Chinese . 1.I shall deal with the background of the Constitution, the great Convention of 1787 that produced it, some of its leading principles and provisions, and the means by which it has been adapted over so long a time to the needs of a changing society.

Try to translate the following into Chinese . 5.The old priest told that a drop of sunlight the size of his thumb was worth more than large mines of copper, silver, or gold.

Try to translate the following into Chinese . 4.But soon the flickering light came to an end and all was as it had been before.

Pronouncing a language is a skill. Every normal person is expert in the skill of pronouncing his own language； but few people are even moderately proficient at pronouncing foreign languages. Now there are many reasons for this, some obvious, some perhaps not so obvious. But I suggest that the fundamental reason why people in general do not speak foreign languages very much better than they do their own languages is that they fail to grasp the true nature of the problems of learning to pronounce, and consequently never set about tackling it in the right way. Far too many people fail to realize that pronouncing a foreign language is a skill—one that needs careful training of a special kind, and one that cannot be acquired by just leaving it to take care of itself.I think, even teachers of language, while recognizing the importance of a good accent. tend to neglect the branch of study concerned with speaking in their practical teaching. So・ the first point I want to make here is that the teacher should be prepared to devote some of the lesson time to the teaching of English pronunciation. There should be occasions when other aspects of English• such as grammar or spelling* are allowed for the moment to take second place.Apart from this question of the time given to pronunciation, there are two other requirements for the teacher： the first, knowledge； the second, technique.It is important that the teacher should be in possession of the necessary information. This can generally be obtained from books. It is possible to get from books some idea of the mechanics of speecht and of what we call general phonetic theory. But the first and most important part of a language teacher s technique is his own performance, his ability to demonstrate the spoken language, in every detail of articulation (发音)as well as in fluent speaking, so that the student s talent capacity for imitation is given the fullest scope and encouragement.According to the author, why do people generally not speak foreign languages very much better than their own languages?

Try to translate the following into Chinese . 9.All legislative power granted by the Constitution is given to Congress; the executive power is given to the President; and the judicial power is given to the Supreme Court and other federal courts.