Canadian short story writer Alice Munro wonthe Nobel Prize for Literature. Eighty-two-year-old Munro is only the 13thwoman to win the 112-year-old prize．

Munro didn't publish her first collectionof short stories until she was 37 years old, but her stories have always beenwell-received. Lots of her stories share similar themes and characters, buteach story has its own twists and turns.

Even though she's won Canada's most famousliterary award, the Giller Prize, twice, winning the Nobel Prize for Literatureis the cherry on top of Munro's career. “It brings this incredible recognition，both of her and her career，and of the dedication to the short story,”said one person.

Along with the well-respected title comes1.3 million dollars. Munro said everything was “so surprising and wonderful”and that she was “dazed by all the attention and affection that has been comingmy way.”

Munro knew she was in the running—she wasnamed the second-most likely person to win this year's prize, after HarukiMurakami（村上春树）of Japan—but she never thought that she would win.

Munro's win also represents the long wayCanadian writers have come. “When I began writing there was a very smallcommunity of Canadian writers and little attention was paid by the world. NowCanadian writers are read, admired and respected around the globe,” Munro saidon Thursday.

She is technically not the first Canadianto win the Nobel Prize for Literature, but many like to think that she is．In 1976 Saul Bellow, who was born in Quebecbut moved to Chicago when he was still a child, won the prize. Even though hewas born in Canada, he is mostly considered to be an American writer.

“This is a win for us all. Canadians, byour very nature，are not very nationalistic,” said Geoffrey Taylor. “But things like thissuddenly make you want to find a flag．”

She wasn't sure whether she would keepwriting if she won the prize，saying that it would be “nice to go out with a bang. But this may change mymind.”

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    Sue Hendrickson is a self-taught fossil（化石）hunter. As a kid, Sue Hendrickson often walked with her head down. “People said, 'Look up. Smile!” she says. “Now, I realize I was born to look for things and just didn't know it.”

    Sue Hendrickson does more than look—she finds valuable things: Shipwrecks（沉船）with treasure, ancient sunken cities, and in 1990, she found Sue, the world's largest, most complete Tyrannosaurus rex（霸王龙）. Is Hendrickson lucky? Well, maybe. But she also knows how to look.

    “I limit the area where I'm going to look,” she says. No one knew the location of the sunken ship San Diego in the Philippines. For a year, Hendrickson and other researchers searched papers and sailors' diaries. “The descriptions of the ship's sailors led us to the wreck,” she says. The team also used a tool that can respond to metal. This tool found the San Diego. All the work paid off. The 400-year-old ship was complete, with valuable gold and silver coins.

    To find the dinosaur she calls “the biggest animal that ever walked on earth,” Hendrickson started with maps made to search for oil. What Hendrickson found was the largest and most complete T-rex found to date. The T-rex is 42 feet long with 200 bones! Because it is so complete, scientists were able to infer that Sue walked at about 6 miles per hour and did not run faster than 15 miles an hour. Before Sue was discovered, they thought T-rex was much faster. To learn more about T-rex Sue, go to the Field Museum in Chicago.

    There's plenty left to be found, Hendrickson says, including answers to mysterious such as how T-rex lived. “I tell kids that they need to grow up and work them out because all of us old persons haven't yet!”

    As time went on, Philip's deformity was accepted like one boy's red hair and another's unreasonable obesity. But meanwhile he had grown horribly sensitive. He never ran if he could help it, because he knew it made his limp more noticeable. He stood still as much as he could, with his badly shaped foot behind the other. Because he could not join in the games which other boys played, their life remained strange to him; sometimes they seemed to think that it was his fault if he could not play football, and he was unable to make them understand. He was left a good deal to himself. He had been inclined to talkativeness, but gradually he became silent.

    The biggest boy in his dormitory, Singer, took a dislike to him, and Philip, small for his age, had to put up with a good deal of hard treatment. About half-way through the term there was a game called Nibs. It was a game for two, played on a table or a form with steel pens. Soon nothing was seen but boys playing this game, and the more skilful acquired vast stores of nibs. But in a little while Mr. Watson made up his mind that it was a form of gambling, and forbade the game. Then he ordered all the nibs in the boys' possession be handed in. Philip had been very skilful, and it was with a heavy heart that he gave up his winning; but his fingers itched to play still, and a few days later, on his way to the football field, he went into a shop and bought a pennyworth of J pens. He carried them loose in his pocket and enjoyed feeling them. Presently Singer found out that he had them. Singer had given up his nibs too, but he had kept back a very large one, called a Jumbo, which was almost unconquerable, and he could not resist the opportunity of getting Philip's Js out of him. Though Philip knew that he was at a disadvantage with his small nibs, he had an adventurous disposition and was willing to take the risk; besides, he was aware that Singer would not allow him to refuse. He had not played for a week and sat down to the game now with a thrill of excitement. He lost two of his small nibs quickly, and Singer was jubilant, but the third time by some chance the Jumbo slipped round and Philip was able to push his J across it. He crowed with triumph. At that moment Mr. Watson came in.

    "What are you doing?" he asked.

    He looked from Singer to Philip, but neither answered.

    "Don't you know that I've forbidden you to play that game?"

    Philip's heart beat fast. He knew what was coming and was dreadfully frightened, but in his fright there was a certain exultation. He had never been swished. Of course it would hurt, but it was something to boast about afterwards.

    "Come into my study."

    The headmaster turned, and they followed him side by side. Singer whispered to Philip:

    "We're in for it."

    Mr. Watson pointed to Singer.

    "Bend over," he said.

    Philip, very white, saw the boy quiver at each stroke, and after the third he heard him cry out. Three more followed.

    "That'll do. Get up."

    Singer stood up. The tears were streaming down his face. Philip stepped forward. Mr. Watson looked at him for a moment.

    "I'm not going to beat you. You're a new boy. And I can't hit a cripple. Go away, both of you, and don't be naughty again."

    When they got back into the school-room a group of boys, were waiting for them. They set upon Singer at once with eager questions. But he did not answer. He was angry because he had been hurt.

    "Don't ask me to play Nibs with you again,' he said to Philip. 'It's jolly nice for you. You don't risk anything."

    "I didn't ask you."

    "Didn't you!"

    He quickly put out his foot and tripped Philip up. Philip was always rather unsteady on his feet, and he fell heavily to the ground.

    "Cripple," said Singer.

    For the rest of the term he tormented Philip cruelly, and, though Philip tried to keep out of his way, the school was so small that it was impossible; he tried being friendly and jolly with him; he abased himself, so far as to buy him a knife; but though Singer took the knife he was not placated. Once or twice, driven beyond endurance, he hit and kicked the bigger boy, but Singer was so much stronger that Philip was helpless, and he was always forced after more or less torture to beg his pardon. It was that which rankled with Philip: he could not bear the humiliation of apologies, which were wrung from him by pain greater than he could bear. And what made it worse was that there seemed no end to his wretchedness; Singer was only eleven and would not go to the upper school till he was thirteen. Philip realized that he must live two years with a tormentor from whom there was no escape. He was only happy while he was studying and when he got into bed. And often there recurred to him then that queer feeling that his life with all its misery was nothing but a dream, and that he would awake in the morning in his own little bed in London.

    As a little girl growing up in the early 1960s in a suburb of Pittsburgh, it was not always easy to find role models. But I was lucky. In my childhood, I knew smart, strong women who had accomplished much, one of whom invented the world's first computer compiler (编译器).

    Recently, though, I learned about a role model who was right under my nose—my own mother.

    Growing up, I knew she had worked as a secretary before I was born. I knew that she had joined the WAVES—the Women Accepted for Volunteer Emergency Service branch of the U.S. Naval Reserve (海军预备队)—during World War Ⅱ. And I knew she'd worked in an office that was involved with codes (编码). But when she talked about it—rare, because she had been sworn to secrecy—she described her duties as ordinary, routine. I never questioned it. After all, the woman I knew was a reserved suburban mom.

    Not long ago, a chance conversation with a colleague led me to the book, Code Girls. It tells the story of the WAVES, who decrypted (解码) and encrypted secret messages during the war. They worked around the clock, knowing that the lives of tens of thousands of soldiers—their brothers, husbands, fathers—were on the line.

    Inspired, I began a journey to explore the mystery of my mother's service that continues to this day. I got some of her working records about her unit, OP19. In two years, she was promoted three times. She was no secretary, and her duties were hardly ordinary.

    My mother always encouraged my interest in science and insisted to my father that I go to college. “You're going to grow up to be another Madame Curie,” she told me. She was always pointing at other women. She did not see herself as someone to model on. Neither did I. Now I see her differently.

    "Don't answer it," I said to Sam. Our door in the inner city is constantly knocked on; our previous door in the suburbs rarely so. Sam has a full-time job and cannot spend his days answering requests to fix leaking baths or carry cash to the bank.

    Sam opened the door and it was Mervin.

    "There's a bird on the second floor," he said. "It's in trouble."

    Sam followed Mervin upstairs. Mervin pointed and turned to let Sam look. It was a pigeon, the most common of all birds, the bird most likely to foul (弄脏) your newly washed car. And it wasn't flying away. It was stamping in circles. As Sam bent to look, Mervin coughed, "Number two."

    Sam asked him to repeat that. "Number two," Mervin said. "The pigeon has been sitting in his own number two, and now it's stuck to his foot."

It had rained for five days, and the bird was young. It could have been sheltering in a     wet nest of its own waste, which had then dried on its foot, preventing it from flying away. The pigeon moved in a few more circles. Sam bent to take another look. Mervin said, "All right, then." and walked away.

    "Why does everyone think you must solve the problems around here?" I said to Sam when he returned with his story. "It's a bird. Just leave it on the stairs, and let nature take its course." Sam didn't agree. Then he went to the garage and emptied the cardboard box containing our imported camping mats. He returned with the gray pigeon in the box. He showed the bird to our children and they decided to keep it.

    They put its foot in the warm water bath and got rid of its waste. Immediately the pigeon erupted in a bomb of feathers and began flying.