While music has value all by itself, researchers have long noticed that musicians also tend to be better at learning languages and show other improved reading and math abilities. Now a new study from the University of Washington by Christina Zhao shows that rhythm is an important bridge between music and speech as early as nine months of age.

    Researchers randomly placed babies into two groups of 20 each, and each group played at the lab with their parents for a dozen 15-minute sessions over a month.

    In one group, researchers played recordings of songs with a waltz rhythm and showed the parents how to help their babies tap out that 1-2-3 beat in time with the music on boy drums or with their feet. In the other group, children played with typical toys and no music.

    The babies in the music group were better able to detect random mistakes in that rhythm when they heard it within two weeks of the last session. They also showed a stronger brain response to disruptions in the rhythm. For example, researchers would sometimes alter the timing of syllables(音节) by slightly shortening the middle sound of a word like bibbi to make it bibi—and the babies with music training were more likely to notice it.

    In other words, music training not only improved the babies' ability to notice when a musical rhythm skipped a beat, but also improved their ability to notice when the rhythms of speech changed unexpectedly, an important skill for learning to talk.

    The study reflects Zhao's personal experiences as a pianist who music in college, and as someone who speaks both Mandarin and English. She noticed that a lot of her fellow musicians were also good at learning other languages. “That really got me wondering how these two are related, “Zhao said.

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    Science has a lot of uses. It can uncover laws of nature, cure diseases, make bombs, and help bridges to stand up. Indeed science is so good at what it does that there's always a temptation(诱惑) to drag it into problems where it may not be helpful. David Brooks, author of The Social Animal: The Hidden Sources of Love, Character, and Achievement, appears to be the latest in a long line of writers who have failed to resist the temptation.

    Brooks gained fame for several books. His latest book The Social Animal, however, is more ambitious and serious than his earlier books. It is an attempt to deal with a set of weighty topics. The book focuses on big questions: What has science revealed about human nature? What are the sources of character? And why are some people happy and successful while others aren't?

    To answer these questions, Brooks surveys a wide range of disciplines（学科）.Considering this, you might expect the book to be a dry recitation of facts. But Brooks has structured his book in an unorthodox(非常规的), and perhaps unfortunate, way. Instead of introducing scientific theories, he tells a story, within which he tries to make his points, perhaps in order to keep the reader's attention. So as Harold and Erica, the hero and heroine in his story, live through childhood, we hear about the science of child development and as they begin to date we hear about the theory of sexual attraction. Brooks carries this through to the death of one of his characters.

    On the whole, Brooks's story is acceptable if uninspired. As one would expect, his writing is mostly clear and, to be fair, some chapters stand out above the rest. I enjoyed, for instance, the chapter in which Harold discovers how to think on his own. While Harold and Erica are certainly not strong or memorable characters, the more serious problems with The Social Animal lie elsewhere. These problems partly involve Brooks's attempt to translate his tale into science.

    When I was in the fourth grade, I worked part-time as a paperboy. Mrs. Stanley was one of my customers. She'd watch me coming down her street, and by the time I'd biked up to her doorstep, there would be a cold drink waiting. I'd sit and drink while she talked.

    Mrs.Stanley talked mostly about her dead husband, "Mr. Stanley and I went shopping this morning." she'd say. The first time she said that, soda (汽水) went up my nose.

    I told my father how Mrs. Stanley talked as if Mr. Stanley were still alive. Dad said she was probably lonely, and that I ought to sit and listen and nod my head and smile, and maybe she'd work it out of her system. So that's what I did, and it turned out Dad was right. After a while she seemed content to leave her husband over at the cemetery (墓地).

    I finally quit delivering newspapers and didn't see Mrs. Stanley for several years. Then we crossed paths at a church fund-raiser(募捐活动). She was spooning mashed potatoes and looking happy. Four years before, she'd had to offer her paperboy a drink to have someone to talk with. Now she had friends. Her husband was gone, but life went on.

    I live in the city now, and my paperboy is a lady named Edna with three kids. She asks me how I'm doing. When I don't say "fine", she sticks around to hear my problems. She's lived in the city most of her life, but she knows about community. Community isn't so much a place as it is a state of mind. You find it whenever people ask how you're doing because they care, and not because they're getting paid to do so. Sometimes it's good to just smile, nod your head and listen.

The teenage Snowboarder.

I was born in Denver, USA. and started snowboarding aged eight when my dad took me to a resort in the mountains. About two hours from Denver. The hill looked unbelievably steep and scary. So My dad had to do a lot of persuading to get me on a board. Because I was so young. I hadn't even thought of asking him if I could start snowboarding? But he was already into it and wanted me to love it, too—-He made it look so simple, and in the end I managed just fine.

After this experience, it wasn't long before I'd developed a love of sport and had improved my ability too. I started competing aged ten. Some people entered loads of competitions and ended up getting bored of snowboarding. But my love of taking part and winning got stronger as I got older, which always help me to push myself harder. I enjoyed not having a fixed plan and sometimes this went well, like when I became the first female ever to get a perfect 100 at a local competition. I wasn't sure I'd even attempted the jumps that got me the score until I actually set off. That achievement increased my trust in my own abilities.

During the summer I focused on training and my studies while there's no snow. Although I trained daily, it's nice not having to stick to quite a strict diet like I did in the winter. I also got to spend lots of time with my friends then. It's the best way of dealing with not being able to do what I loved so much and what I was really good at.

Now. I have to think carefully about my future. Snowboarding is such a huge part of my life now. But I also feel it's important to have something else I can do. just in case I don't succeed as a professional snowboarder or I get injured. I'm wondering whether becoming a doctor is a possibility. if my active life allows time for doing a college degree, it's impossible to imagine myself growing tired of the sport. But I can't go on snowboarding my whole life.

In recent years American society has become increasingly dependent on its universities to find solutions to its major problems. It is the universities that have been to blame for developing the expertise to place men on the moon; for dealing with our urban problems and with our worsening environment; for developing the means to feed the world's rapidly increasing population. The effort involved in meeting these demands presents its own problems. In addition, however, this concentration on the creation of new knowledge significantly impinges on the universities' efforts to perform their other principal functions, the transmission and interpretation of knowledge-the imparting of the heritage of the past and the preparing of the next generation to carry it forward.

With regard to this, perhaps their most traditionally acknowledged task, college and universities today find themselves in a serious situation. On one hand, there is the American commitment, especially since World War Ⅱ, to provide higher education for all young people who can profit from it. The result of the commitment has been a dramatic rise in enrollments(登记入学) in our universities, coupled with a striking shift from the private to the public sector of higher education. 

On the other hand, there are serious and continuing limitations on the resources available for higher education. While higher education has become a great "growth industry", it is also at the same time a tremendous drain(耗竭) on the resources of the nation. With the vast increase in enrollment and the shift in priorities away from education in state and federal(联邦的) budgets, there is in most of our public institutions a significant decrease in expenses for their students. One crucial aspect of this drain on resources lies in the persistent shortage of trained faculty(全体教师), which has led, in turn, to a declining standard of competence in instruction.

Intensifying these difficulties is, as indicated above, the concern with research, with its increasing claims on resources and the attention of the faculty. In addition, there is a strong tendency for the institutions' organization and functioning to fulfill the demands of research rather than those of teaching.

People have long watched moths （飞蛾） and other flying insects flock to streetlamps, lights and flames. These insects appear attracted by the light. But a new study suggests they may just lose track of which way is up.

Previous theories say light probably blinds flying insects so that they get trapped by the light, or maybe they interpret light at night as a place to fly for a quick escape. Now the new study suggests flying insects instead turn their backs to the sky's light to keep their feet pointing toward the ground. Insects naturally turn their backs toward light. But when that light is from an artificial source, it may affect their sense of direction, leading to them flying in circles or diving toward the ground.

At a field station in Costa Rica, Samuel Fabian, an entomologist from Imperial College London in England and his teammates set up hanging and standing lights, and then used high-speed cameras to track wild, flying insects including moths and flies. Some circled the lights endlessly, and others flew sharply upward, losing speed until they couldn't fly any higher. When the light source pointed up, some insects turned around and headed for the ground. During the flight, the insects always kept the lights at their back even if they'd end up crashing. Crash landings were common when the team lit up a white sheet on the floor. But not when a white sheet—stretched into a height above the floor—was bathed in diffuse （漫射） light, much as the sky would be, insects flew through the area without getting trapped by the light.

The team also observed some species in a lab. Moths and dragonflies generally behaved like the wild insects, and they kept the light at their backs. However, in the lab, fruit flies, like oleander hawk moths—which can fly in the dark—could fly over LED lights without being thrown off course. In the wild, though, the moths still crashed. Maybe this is because, Fabian says, the insects can sometimes control their response to light, or over time, they might learn to avoid artificial light.