On Sunday I had my own Father's Day celebration. Suddenly I 1 about my dad a lot. My dad is 2 the kindest man in the world. He would never 3 anyone in trouble.

    Every Thursday night, my dad would 4 Shreveport, to a church there. I always drove the car for him.

    Although this happened many times, I 5 one incident on one of those trips to Shreveport. That time on the 6 , my dad saw a hitchhiker (搭便车的人 ). Dad asked me to pull the car over and offer him a 7. Dad asked him his name and address, told him ours, and talked to him about all sorts of things.

    At first the hitchhiker was hesitant (迟疑的 ), but he changed his 8 as he could tell we were really listening to him. I did know that it was quite 9 outside and the hitchhiker was very happy to be able to get a lift in our warm car.

    We 10 another forty-five minutes and learned that the hitchhiker was 11 many difficulties in life. Dad told him to keep his head up and said that 12 would become better for him soon. He 13 into his pocket and handed the hitchhiker a twenty-dollar bill, leaving only a ten-dollar bill for himself. The hitchhiker then became very 14 .

    I was always told never to 15 a hitchhiker and yet my dad did it every time he saw one. Dad always gave them money 16 he did not have much of his own.

    From that I've learned a lot about my dad and 17 . I've learned that if you come from a place with 18 , you will show a lot of kindness to people who are 19 . Just one single kind act may 20 someone's life.

    My 4-year-old son now enjoys posting letters. He has formed the 1 of drawing pictures, writing his name on them, and then  2 the artwork in an envelope. He then insists on 3 his handwork to the neighbors, and a mail box he 4 belongs to the elderly couple who live next door. To be 5, I didn't think much of it, but I had 6 to warn my neighbors of the drawings 7 appearing in their letterboxes—I just didn't have the 8 to do so, because I was a little busy recently.

    On Tuesday of last week, I was walking down to school to collect my son when I 9 Mary, my elderly neighbor, 10 at her mail box. She said, “Jodie, is it your little son that has been posting items in my letterbox to me?” I was at once 11, “Oh yes, Mary, it is. I'm sorry. I meant to tell you…” She cut me off, “Jodie, I just love his mail. I've 12 every item he has sent. You don't know how much 13 the letters has made my day. I just love them.” While I was walking down to school after our 14, many thoughts came to me. Mary doesn't have a lot to fill her days, 15 she was a mother to a number of children herself who receives fairly regular visitors. The small 16 of getting some mail—pictures drawn by the hand of a young child—has brought 17 to her days, just as my visit to my grandparents does.

    I have decided that my son should 18 this practice. He should also start sending some items to his grandparents in Perth as well. It will most 19 make their day.

    It's doing the little, simple things that can often make a big 20 in someone's life.

    There was a pet store and the owner had a parrot. One day a 1 walked in and the parrot said to the man ,“Hey you!” The man said, “What!?” The parrot said, “Your 2 is really ugly.” The man got very 3 and went to the store owner and said, “Your bird just  4 my wife. It said she was ugly.”

    The owner stormed over, 5 the bird, took it into the “black room,” shook it a bit, 6 out a few feathers, and said, “Don't ever, ever say anything to  7 my customers again. You got that！！！”

    With that 8 he took the bird and put it back into its cage. The old bird shook out its    9  and relaxed in its cage. A couple of weeks 10 and in walked this guy and his wife again. The parrot said, “Hey you!” The guy said, “What!?” The parrot answered, “You know that.”

    As a child, I started learning to play the piano, my favorite musical 1,but I was forced to give up when I started my middle school 2 I could concentrate more on my studies.

    It's one of my biggest 3to stop practicing the piano when I recall sadly today. During the following years, I kept telling my piano teacher that I would4. However, I didn't keep my promise because I was 5 with my study.6 I lost touch with my teacher. Some years later, my teacher died. I was very sad because I lost such a good teacher. She was a very warm and gentle person. It hurts me to think she may have been 7 that I never returned. I haven't taken lessons since then but to be honest, I 8 to. Sitting at the piano, I couldn't help recalling many9-- times of my practising at home and playing before my teacher and one time my teacher 10 me after I played entire pieces of music wrong in front of her colleagues. I was so11 that I could hardly say anything. But her12 helped me ease my shame. These memories, 13, good or bad, never caused my 14 for playing the piano again.

    This thought then led me to think that15is like music, and that we all try to play different 16 in the instrument of our life. Sometimes the pitch(音高) is 17when we play it well, but sometimes we are out of tone. However, we all continue to create our own 18style of music. No matter what style our music is, it is 19 that we sing the songs of joy, quietness and love. Though I may never make it back to piano lessons, it doesn't20 that I've stopped making music.

    From childhood, Moira loved to write. Throughout school she1writing, but pursuing it2was never a possibility. Her father was a doctor, her mother a nurse. "Medicine was a fairly3choice," Moira says, "and writing was a career where it wasn't a4that you'd have high income."

    She became a doctor but still wanted to write something. However, being a doctor was so5that she didn't take up writing until her thirties. She6a novel – a fictionalized version of her travel in China after university. She got excellent7. Moira sent it off to as many agents as she could find, and found one who wanted to8her. Suddenly, it seemed she was on her9as an author.

    "I had one lengthy phone call with the agent where we10all possible areas that she thought needed11. I worked on those and sent it back to her but didn't hear anything." It wasn't long12Moira found another agent who was13if she was willing to rewrite it from the first person to the third person. She did the hard work and sent it off again. "I got back a really brief letter: 'Thank you, I'm no longer interested.' It was really14."

    A decade went by, and Moira found herself eager to write again, this time15for her own enjoyment. She16herself the challenge of creating a thriller and chose Western Australia as her setting.

    As she was writing just for herself, something surprising began to happen. "The characters17a life of their own; they started doing things I hadn't thought about. It just18." One day, an agent called from Australia. Three weeks later, Moira had a publication deal. Her novel, Cicada, was published in March.

    "19it hadn't been published I still gained so much from the20," says Moira.

From the age of eight or so, I had to contribute my share of labour along with my father and two elder brothers. Kneeling in a rice field, I was up to my thighs in the1 . It splashed all over me, wet, sticky and 2 . When mud splashed into my eyes and onto my lip, I'd stand up, find the kettle of fresh water and try to 3 it away; but it was always a long 4 .

In midsummer, the sun beat upon my back, making me feel like hot bread 5 the side of a pan.6 ran down my mud-covered arms and legs. It felt as if ants were 7 all over me. To prevent the sweat from running into my eyes, I kept my face as8 as possible.

I told myself, be9 ! If my parents and brothers could10 taking it, so could I. A kind of 11 took place of the hurt in me. So thinking, I slowly pulled myself together and I crawled on.

I 12 hard in the countryside, and I am proud of this. Crawling in the mud had taught me to take sweating as part of my life and not to be afraid in the face of 13 . More importantly, I had learnt the 14 of "you reap what you sow". Plant your feet15 on the ground, work hard and you will be rewarded.