I've loved my mother's desk since I was just tall enough to see above the top of it as mother sat doing letters. Standing by her chair, looking at the ink bottle, pens, and white paper, I decided that the act of writing must be the most wonderful thing in the world. Years later, during her final illness, mother kept different things for my sister and brother. “But the desk,” she would say again, “it's for Elizabeth.” I never saw her be angry, and never saw her cry. I knew she loved me—she showed it in action. But as a young girl, I wanted heart-to-heart talks between mother and daughter. They never happened. And a gulf opened between us. I was “too emotional(易动感情的)”. But she lived “on the surface(表面)”. As years passed I had my own family. I loved my mother and thanked her for our happy family. I wrote to her in careful words and asked her to let me know in any way she chose that she did forgive(原谅) me. I posted the letter and waited for her answer. None came. My hope turned to disappointment(失望), then little interest and, finally, peace— it seemed that nothing happened. I couldn't be sure that the letter had even got to mother. I only knew that I had written it, and I could stop trying to make her into someone she was not. Now the present of her desk told, as she'd never been able to, that she was pleased that writing was my chosen work. I cleaned the desk carefully and found some papers inside —a photo of my father and a one-page letter, folded(折叠) and refolded many times. Give me an answer, my letter asks, in any way you choose. Mother, you always chose the act that speaks louder than words.

    Welcome to My Q-zone!

    Hello, I'm Wan Fang. I am a 14-year-old Chinese girl. My home is in Shanghai. I want to have friends from other countries. I like singing, dancing and playing the violin. I also like swimming, but I can't swim well. I like watching TV, but my parents only let me watch TV on weekends. I don't like playing computer games. I think they are boring.

    Do you like me? If you want to be my friend, please write to me. My e-mail address is lvyhappy@yahoo.com.

    Mr. Brown is 75 years old. He lives in a small village(村庄). Mr. Brown has three sons, David, Jeff and Stefan. They work in big cities. And they don't come to see Mr Brown very often.

    The sons feel sorry for their father, so they built(建造) a big house for Mr. Brown. And they give him much money(钱). But it doesn't make Mr. Brown happy. He always feels lonely.

    There is a school next to Mr. Brown's house. Some students often come and visit Mr. Brown. He says, "I don't want money. I want love. And the students give it to me. Love is not money. Love is company(陪伴)."

    It was a beautiful spring morning. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, and the sun was warm but not too hot, so Mr Hunt was surprised(惊讶) when he saw an old man at the bus stop with a big, strong black umbrella ( 雨伞) in his hand.

    Mr Hunt said to him, "Do you think it is going to rain today？""No，" said the old man, "I don't think so."

    "Then are you carrying the umbrella to keep the sun off you？"

    "No, the sun is not very hot in spring."

    Mr Hunt looked at the big umbrella again, and the man said, "I am an old man, and my legs are not very strong, so I really need a walking stick. But when I carry a walking stick, people will say 'Look at that poor old man. 'and I don't like that. When I carry an umbrella in fine weather, people only say，'Look at that stupid(愚蠢的) man."

    Today I am going along with Rowan Dougall, a postman in Queensland in the far north of Australia, on his daily delivery（投递 trip. Every day, Rowan sets off with his post bags in the tail of his little plane--not much bigger than a large family car, and flies across one of the wildest places on Earth, Australia's Cape North, to reach the very faraway inland areas called the Outback.

    We fly just 300 metres above dangerous crocodiles(鳄鱼) and snakes. This is one of the longest and most expensive postman trips in the world.  However, a 50-cent stamp not only gets a letter posted to a neighbouring town, it will get it hand-delivered by flying postman to the furthest areas of the Outback. To help with the costs, the plane takes three or four paying local people or tourists, and I am one of them. In the back of the plane, there is a pile of post--envelopes of all sizes, newspapers, and a few parcels(包裹). Somehow I expected this post to look special, maybe to include some hats or cowboy boots, but this looks no more exciting than the post delivered to me in England. I look at some of the names and addresses, wondering about the people who are waiting for these letters and parcels.

    Rowan's route is 2,000 km long, with 15 stops, and I get a chance to meet Sandy, who has just received an order of clothes from a store. "I look forward to this weekly delivery," she says, "but I do miss actually going shopping myself." Rowan is checking the time. There are another ten stops to make before dusk(黄昏). Time to leap back on the plane and up into the air.