Mrs Gill lived next door to Nita．Every afternoon，Mrs Gill took a walk．She said it kept her young．Nita liked to talk with Mrs Gill when Mrs Gill came back．Mrs Gill was always happy after her walk．She often showed Nita something she had found．like a beautiful red leaf．

    One afternoon, Mrs Gill looked sad．Nita asked her why．

    I am sad about all the trash (垃圾)on the street．"she said．"I never saw so much trash in this neighbourhood(街区)!What happened?"

    "Mrs Trent moved．"said Nita．"She often went out each morning and picked up trash before．I often saw her on my way to school．"

    Mrs Gill looked very▲ ． "I thought I knew everything about this neighbourhood!"she said．"But you see more than I do!"

"Well.1 wish I could do Mrs Trent's job．But you know,my back(背)often hurts．It's really hard for me to pick things up，"she said．

    "I could do that．"said Nita．

    Mrs Gill said．"I will carry the trash bag!You can use my gloves so your hands can stay clean．"

    Nita put on the gloves．She picked up pieces of paper．She picked up boxes．And Mrs Gill carried the bag．Lots of people stopped to thank Mrs Gill and Nita．The street looked much better．

    "Thanks, Nita．"said Mrs Gill．"Let's call ourselves the clean-up team!"

根据材料内容选择最佳答案。

    Tina graduated from college. Several days later, she got a new job. She would work in the biggest company(公司)in her city. Her friends admired her very much.

    On her first workday, Tina arrived at 8:45 a. m. She took the lift to the 11th floor(楼层), and a clerk showed her where her desk was. As a green hand, she didn't know what to do, so she tried to talk to the girls who sat near her in the office. However, they were not friendly to her. After a while, a young boss came in. Tina was surprised that the boss was not the old man who interviewed her several days ago. The boss gave her a lot of reports to write. But when she began to write, she found that she had much trouble understanding the reports. She spent almost the whole day trying to do the work. At5:30pm., it was time to go home. Although most of the reports weren't finished, she got into the lift. On the 10th floor, she was greeted by John, the old man who interviewed her several days ago. "Tina!" He said, "Why didn't you work with us today?" All of a sudden, Tina realized she mistook the 11th floor for the 10th floor. "Oh, my God!" She answered, "     " After hearing this, John couldn't help laughing.

    I live in Mentone, a quiet, simple, restful place, where the rich never come. I met Theophile Magnan, a retired, rich, old man from Lyons yesterday. In the Hotel des Anglais. Theophile looked sad and dreamy, and didn't talk with anybody else. Which brought me back to the past.

A long time ago, Francois Millet. Claude, Carl and I were young artists — very young artists — in fact.

    Yes, Francois Millet. The great French artist, was my friend.

Millet wasn't any greater than we were at that time. He didn't have any fame, even in his own village.

    We were all poor though we had stacks and stacks of as good pictures as anybody in Europe painted. Once a person ever offered four francs for Millet's "Angelus", which he intended to sell for eight.

    It was a fact in human history that a great artist would never be acknowledged* until after he was starved and dead. His pictures climbed to high prices after his death.

    Then we made a decision that one of us must die, to save the others and himself.

    Millet was elected to die.

    During the next three months Millet painted with all his might, enlarged his stock all he could, not pictures, not sketches, studies, parts of studies, fragments of studies, of course, with his cipher *  on them.

    They were the things to be sold.

    Carl went to Paris to start the work of building up Millet's name. Claude and I went to sell Millet's small pictures and to build up his name as well.

    We made Millet a master. I always said to my customer, "I am a fool to sell a picture of Francois Millet's at all, for he is not going to live three months, and when he dies his pictures can't be had for love or money."

    Claude and I took care to spread that little fact as far as we could.

Carl made friends with the correspondents, and got Millet's condition reported to England and all over the continent, and America, and everywhere.

    The sad end came at last, Millet died, not really.  He became Theophile Magnan.

    The pictures went up. There's a man in Paris today who owns seventy Millet pictures. He paid us two million francs for them. Do you still remember the "Angelus"? Carl sold it for twenty—two hundred francs. And as for the bushels of sketches and studies which Millet produced in the last six weeks, well, it would astonish you to know the figure we sell them at nowadays.

    We are no longer artists and Millet dead.

    When you are ill, you should go to see a doctor. After the doctor looks you over, he will write you a note to take to the chemist for some medicine. Chemists are usually good at reading doctors' notes. But sometimes doctors write too badly and even the chemist can not read them.

    One day a woman wrote to a doctor to invite him to have dinner with her family in the restaurant. The doctor wrote an answer, but he wrote too badly and the woman could not read it. "What shall I do?" she asked her husband, "I don't know whether he is going to come or not. I don't want to call and say that I don't understand him."

    Her husband thought for a few minutes and then he had an idea. "Take it to the chemist," he said, "He will be able to read it for us."

    "Thank you," the woman said, "That's a good idea." She went to the chemist's shop and gave the doctor's note to him. The chemist looked at it for a long time.

    "Could you wait a moment, Miss?" he said. Then he went to the back of the shop. After a few minutes he came back, carrying a large bottle. He gave the bottle to the woman.

    "Take one spoonful(一匙) every day." He told the woman.

    Joseph was born in an English family. When he was 2 years and 7 months old, his mother started to1him to read every day. And he was very2to learn that.

    When he was three years old, he3tell some stories.

    At that time, he4the level (水平) of a five-grade student. When he was four years old, he began to5books by himself without his mother's help. He often read lots of stories to his parents and his grandparents.

    When he was six, he could tell more than 3,000 stories.

To our6, he could recite (背诵) the stories7once he read them one time. His memory (记忆力) was8good that many reporters can't believe it.

On January 25th, 2015, one reporter let him read an article (文章) 9three hundred words in it and he then recited it freely and he didn't make a mistake. What a10boy he is!

    Now he is called "a child prodigy (天才；奇才) "in the UK.