In the middle of the 20th century people were worried about whales.The number of whales killed worldwide came up to 66,000 per year.However,people weren't worried about the whale as an endangered animal.Instead,they were worried about the whale industry,which would disappear if there were no whales.In 1946,the International Whaling Commission was established.It limited the whale hunting for every country and controlled the whale industry.But the commission recognized that the limitation wasn't enough.They set a worldwide law against hunting whales with only two exceptions: the hunt for scientific research and "aboriginal whaling".Aboriginal whaling allows some countries to hunt a limited number of whales because it is a part of their culture.Some countries like Japan and Norway don't care about the law;they make excuses to hunt whales and sell the products.They only care about the money.

    Many fishermen complain that dolphins,also a kind of whale,steal their fish.Therefore,they kill thousands of them.In fact,this is not the truth.In reality there are so many fishermen who steal the fish from each other.Some whale hunters say that they catch the animals for scientists.They have to research what whales are eating.For that, they kill them and look into their stomach.The truth is that they only want to sell the meat.Today scientists want to observe live whales for their research.

    Many whale families are not protected and thousands of them are killed.Nobody knows if all whale families would survive,even if humans end all whale hunting today.The pollution of the oceans increases fast and the poison gets into the bodies of the animals.Many of them get sick and die.The human being has killed 90%-95% of many whale families.Others are already extinct.

    Today some international organizations try to protect whales.They make reports to explain how important and endangered whales are.Now people are becoming more interested in whales and a complete new industry has developed,whale watching,which you may want to learn about.

    A few years ago, Darla Hoff painted a pumpkin face onto a round straw bale(捆)at A1 and Karen Goldman's farm in Idaho Palls to advertise her U-pick pumpkin field. While Darla has stopped growing pumpkins, the annual tradition of straw bale art lives on at the farm and has drawn friends and neighbors to participate in it. Past creations have included an owl, Minions, tractors and a teddy bear.

    To make the tractors, A1 baled round straw bales in two different sizes smaller ones for the tractor's front tires and larger ones for the rear(尾部). Large square bales made up the bodies. Jerry Kienlen used his farming equipment to arrange the bales in the shape of two tractors. Then it was time to bring the tractors to life. Karen and her daughter. Lana Hedrick, secured some green paint, and A1 got some red paint. Darla's husband, James, sprayed the creation with a paint gun. For the finishing touches, Steven donated two shiny exhaust stacks (排气管),and A1 and Karen donated two steering wheels from their farm parts.

    The farm's annual straw bale art projects have now become a way for everyone to celebrate the end of another growing season. It's just something fun to do together after harvest. This neighborhood has always been close. Generations of these families have grown crops in this soil. Raised on the farms where they live now, they grew up together as their elders did before. A1 and Karen are truly super neighbors. Every year they also grow about two acres of corn to give away. Anyone can pick some, or A1 and Karen will even deliver. And during long Idaho winters, everyone gathers at the farm to enjoy fresh coffee and cookies.

    This year's straw hale creation theme is Straw Wars. And all eyes will be on A1 and Karen's farm as their creation takes shape.

    I do not know Sybrina Fulton. Nor can I claim to understand the depth of her pain. Yet, we share a deep connection. A common feature experienced by those women who face the challenge of raising a Black male child in a nation that far too often views Black male bodies through fear. You see, Ms. Fulton is living my nightmare (恶梦). A constant worry that has stayed in the back of my mind since the birth of my eldest son, some sixteen years ago.

    Through the years, I have witnessed the world's reaction to my son evolve as he has grown from a small boy to a young man. In his early years, his easy smile and lovable character were nothing less than magnetic (有磁性的). Complete strangers would approach him in the street, draw him into conversation, and find themselves easily struck by his lively spirit. Even at that time I worried, how would my son react when in the years to come some of those who found themselves so impressed by this cute, intelligent boy, might grasp their purse tighter as he walked by.

    Over the years I have sought to protect his spirit from the hurt that comes from undeserved hatred. I have also sought to arm him with the knowledge that could one day save his life. He knows, for example, that if he is ever pulled over by the police, that he is to keep both hands on the wheel at all times and only reach for his license when the officer is specifically observing his actions. He knows, even in less threatening situations, that rough play and loud interactions with his buddies of any color will be viewed very differently when he does it, than when his white friends display the very same behavior. Still, the truth of the matter is, no amount of advice or voiceless behavior overcomes the physical, immovable fact of the color of his skin. His intelligence, easy smile, and lovable character won't protect him from unfounded assumptions of criminality.

    What makes the Trayvon Martin travesty (歪曲) of justice so painful to me, personally, is the knowledge that Trayvon's mother loved her baby no less than I love mine. The various pictures of moments throughout a happy childhood that have now found a home on nationwide newscasts provides clear evidence of that. Yet no amount of love and care, and no words of advice could have saved her son from the cruel killing he faced at the hands of a self-appointed neighborhood watch-dog. And perhaps even worse, nothing could have prepared her for the inhuman way her son has been treated by officials even in death. To think for three long days, his parents searched for him while officials failed to inform them of his fate and instead, performed drug and alcohol tests on his lifeless body, while failing to do the same for his attacker—the only one of the two who indeed had a criminal past is frankly, unforgivable. To know that the words of her son's killer were given more weight than eye-witnesses and taped evidence of her child's screams and eventual death must be heartbreaking. But to also have to live with the fact that his attacker still breathes free while her son lays buried underground is certainly more than any sorrowful parent should have to endure (忍受).

    It is this type of pain that is not unfamiliar to the Black experience in America, for this is the Black mothers' burden. A burden we have endured for centuries. We know the pain of having our newborn babies grabbed from our loving arms to be sold into lifelong servitude (奴役) and to never again experience the warmth of a mother's loving hug. Yet, there is still the rightful expectation, that in modern-day America, the wheels of justice would not be stopped.

    So today, it is my hope that Trayvon's mother, father, family and friends can take some comfort in the fact that millions of Americans of every color stand with them in their fight for justice. This is a burden no family should have to endure alone.

    We will not give up.

    We will not forget.

    We will continue the fight until justice is done.

    When he was young, Louis Armstrong was taking what was called “Creole jazz”, which was also called dance music, and combining it with trumpeter (小号手) Buddy Bolden, to create what would eventually become today's jazz.

    Armstrong accomplished that with almost no formal training. He received little training before he was placed in the New Orleans Colored Waif's Home at the age of 12, after a run-in (小争执) with the police. The punishment turned out to be a mixed blessing, for he also had the opportunity to play in a real band.

    While at the Waif's, Armstrong also got the chance to hear some of the city's finest musicians. Cornetist Freddie Keppard performed in a nearby club. So did trumpeter and bandleader, King Joe Oliver, who took the boy under his wing and taught him how to read music and work on his playing technique.

    When Oliver left for Chicago, Armstrong chose to stay in New Orleans and work with some of the other top musicians of the day. In Chicago, King Oliver offered him a place in his band in 1922. It became Armstrong's biggest challenge yet — the band had no parts written for trumpet, so he was forced to listen to King Oliver and improvise (即兴创作).

    Soon, Armstrong's undeniable talent was getting notice. Even classically trained musicians would come to hear the incredible sounds this young man created.

    Lil Hardin, the bands piano player and the future Mrs. Armstrong, explains that Oliver kept Armstrong in the second trumpet-chair so that Oliver would still be “King”. Hardin convinced him to leave the band.

    Armstrong moved to New York City in 1924 to join Fletcher Henderson's band and then flew solo. In 1925, Armstrong put together the Hot Five, expanding his popularity even more. Armstrong recorded his first composition, Cornet Chop Suey, one of the most copied jazz solos of all time. This monumental 1928 recording blends (混合) artistry, endurance and showmanship that has rarely, if ever, been matched in Jazz.

    "IF ALIENS are so likely, why have we never seen any？" That is the Fermi Paradox（悖论） named after Enrico Fermi, a physicist who posed it in 1950.

    Fermi's argument ran as follows. The laws of nature supported the appearance of intelligent life on Earth. Those laws are the same throughout the universe. The universe contains zillions of stars and planets. So, even if life is unlikely to arise on any particular astronomical body, the sheer abundance of creation suggests the night sky should be full of alien civilizations. Fermi wondered why aliens had never visited the earth. Today, the paradox is more usually cast in light of the inability of radio﹣telescope searches to detect the equivalent（相等的） of the radio waves that leak from Earth into the universe, and have done for the past century.

    Thinking up answers to this apparent contradiction has become something of a scientific parlour（客厅）game. Perhaps life is really very unlikely. Perhaps the priests are right: human beings were put on Earth by some creator God for His own unknown purposes, and the rest of the universe is merely background scenery. Perhaps there are plenty of aliens, but they have decided that discretion is a safer bet than gathering together. Or perhaps galactic（银河的） society avoids communicating with Earth specifically. One frightening idea is that technological civilizations destroy themselves before they can make their presence known. They might blow themselves up after inventing nuclear weapons （an invention that, on Earth, Fermi had been part of）, or cook themselves to death by over﹣burning fossil fuels.

    In a paper published last month on arXiv, an online repository（文献库） , a group of three astronomers at Pennsylvania State University have analyzed the history of alien hunting and come to a different conclusion. In effect, they reject one of the paradox's main theory. Astronomers have seen no sign of aliens, argue Jason Wright and his colleagues, because they have not been looking hard enough.

    When I was about 12 years old, my older brother, James, smuggled a BB gun into the house. Our parents had told us many times that we were not allowed to bring home guns or knives, even if they were just toys. Having any form of weaponry in our home was strictly forbidden.

    James brought me to his room. He opened his closet door and took out a shoebox that was buried beneath a heap of clothes. The BB gun was inside. I was immediately enamored by the shiny barrel.

    "Can I shoot it, Jamesie?" I asked, hopefully.

    "Noway,"James said, taking it from me and putting it back.

    One day, when no one was home, I went into James' closet and took it out. For some in explicable reason - I have no idea what I was thinking - I went to the front window of the second floor in our row house. I cracked the window open. I pointed the gun outside and shot. I quickly shut the window and peeked outside.

    In a matter of seconds, old Mr. Schlosberg came out of his grocery store. He looked back at his store window. He looked up the street. He looked down the street. Then he looked straight across to our house.

    Thankfully, Jamesie made it home before Mother or Father.

    As he stepped through the door, I could hear old Mr. Schlosberg call his name. "James, James," he called. "Come here, son."

    After several minutes, James ran back across the street and into the living room. I had retreated into the kitchen. "Alma!" he screamed. "Get out here! You cracked Mr. Schlosberg's window with my BB gun!"

    "Oh, please, Jamesie," I begged. "Don't let him tell Mother. She will whip my bottom real good!" Jamesie sighed. He wiped my tears and went back across the street to Mr. Schlosberg's. I don't know what James said to that man, but there was never a mention of the incident again.

    Years later, I found out Jamesie had used the money he got from his newspaper route to pay for Mr. Schlosberg's cracked window. He only got one cent for every paper he delivered. He managed to pay back the debt just before he went off to fight in World War II.

    Since that day, I have never touched a gun: a BB gun, a water gun, a real gun, or any other type.