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写英语作文

时间2020-11-19 来源:贬恶诛邪网

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写英语作文

  主要看平日积累好词好句,才能让自己的英语更形象,更生动!归根结底一句话,英语作文写的`好不好,跟平日的学习是离不开的。

  给一篇的英语作品吧!

  The Wonderful Lousy Poems

  Budd Schulberg

  When I was eight or nine years old, I wrote my first poem.

  At that time my father was a Hollywood tycoon, head of Paramount Studios. My mother was a founder and prime mover in various intellectual projects, helping to bring "culture" to the exuberant H贵阳治癫痫病的专科医院在哪里ollywood community, of the 1920s.

  My mother read the little poem and began to cry. "Buddy, you didn't really write this beautiful, beautiful poem!" Shyly, proud-bursting, I stammered that I had. My mother poured out her welcome praise. Why, this poem was nothing short of genius. She had no idea that I had such talent for writing. I must write more poems, keep on writing, perhaps someday even publish them.

  I glowed. "What time will Father be home?" I asked. I c兰州有哪几家正规的癫痫病医院ould hardly wait to show him what I had accomplished. My mother said she hoped he would be home around 7. I spent the best part of that afternoon preparing for his arrival.

  First, I wrote the poem out in my finest flourish. Then I used colored crayons to draw an elaborate border around it that would do justice to its brilliant content. Then I waited. As 7 o'clock drew near, I confidently placed it right on my father's plate on the dining-room table.

  But my fat小孩癫痫频繁发作要怎么办?her did not return at 7. I rearranged the poem so it would appear at a slightly more advantageous angle on his plate. Seven-fifteen. Seven-thirty. The suspense was exquisite. I admired my father. He had begun his motion-picture career as a writer. He would be able to appreciate this wonderful poem of mine even more than my mother.

  This evening it was almost 8 o'clock when my father burst in, and his mood seemed thunderous. He was an hour late for dinner, but he could not s治癫痫病药的副作用it down. He circled the long dining-room table with a Scotch highball in his hand, calling down terrible oaths on his glamorous employees. I can see him now, a big Havana cigar in one hand, the rapidly disappearing highball in the other, crying out against the sad fates that had sentenced him to the cruel job of running a teeming Hollywood studio.

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