Children have their own rules in playing games. They seldom need a referee(裁判) and rarely trouble to keep scores. They don't care much about who wins or loses, and it doesn't seem to worry them if the game is not finished. Yet, they like games that depend a lot on luck, so that their personal abilities cannot be directly compared. They also enjoy games that move in stages, in which each stage, the choosing of leaders, the picking-up of sides, or the determining of which side shall start, is almost a game in itself.

    Grown-ups can hardly find children's games exciting, and they often feel puzzled（迷惑的）at why their kids play such simple games again and again. However, it is found that a child plays games for very important reasons. He can be a good player without having to think whether he is a popular person, and he can find himself being a useful partner to someone of whom he is ordinarily afraid. He becomes a leader when it comes to his turn. He can be confident, too, in particular games, that it is his place to give orders, to pretend to be dead, to throw a ball actually at someone, or to kiss someone he has caught.

    It appears to us that when children play a game they imagine a situation under their control. Everyone knows the rules, and more importantly, everyone plays according to the rules. Those rules may be childish, but they make sure that every child has a chance to win.

    What makes a gift special? Is it the price you see on the gift receipt? Or is it the look on the recipient's face when they receive it that determines the true value? What gift is worth the most?

    This Christmas I was debating what to give my father. My dad is a hard person to buy for because he never wants anything. I pulled out my phone to read a text message from my mom saying that we were leaving for Christmas shopping for him when I came across a message on my phone that I had locked. The message was from my father. My eyes fell on a photo of a flower taken in Wyoming, and underneath a poem by William Blake. The flower, a lone dandelion standing against the bright blue sky, inspired me. My dad had been reciting those words to me since I was a kid. That may even be the reason why I love writing. I decided that those words would be my gift to my father.

    I called back. I told my mom to go without me and that I already created my gift. I sent the photo of the cream-colored flower to my computer and typed the poem on top of it. As I was arranging the details another poem came to mind. The poem was written by Edgar Allan Poe; my dad recited it as much as he did the other. I typed that out as well and searched online for a background to the words of it. The poem was focused around dreaming, and after searching I found the perfect picture. The image was painted with blues and greens and purples, twisting together to create the theme and wonder of a dream. As I watched both poems passing through the printer, the white paper coloring with words that shaped my childhood, I felt that this was a gift that my father would truly appreciate.

    Christmas soon arrived. The minute I saw the look on my dad's face as he unwrapped those swirling black letters carefully placed in a cheap frame, I knew I had given the perfect gift.

    Half a century ago, Japan built the world's first high-speed rail network—a network that remains the gold standard in train travel today. Currently the country is now helping Texas build its own bullet train, a potential game-changer for transportation in the state.

    When it launched on October 1, 1964, the world's first high-speed rail network was known as the “super-express of dreams.” The first line in Japan's now world-famous shinkansen network was built against all odds, in the face of fierce public opposition, technical difficulties and astronomical costs.

    Half a century ago, the system was far humbler. In 1964, the first track was a 320-mile-long link between Tokyo and Osaka that reduced the trip from six-and-a-half hours (on conventional trains) to three hours and 10 minutes, traveling at a maximum speed of 200 miles per hour. For the first time, workers could get to meetings in one city during the day and be back home drinking a beer in the local pub that night.

    Not only did the train expand mobility profoundly, but also businesses appeared around the major stops as a growing emphasis on productivity swept across Japan. Today, the shinkansen network has 1,487 miles of track, with more set to open in the coming years. It seems that everything the shinkansen touches turns to city, and regions that are off the beaten track, so to speak, benefit greatly from the economic jumpstart brought by the train. New shinkansen lines are often proceeded by aggressive marketing campaigns promoting tourism in those areas, a strategy that seems to work.

    Despite its astronomical costs, it actually has saved more. Today, over 350,000 annual trips transport tens of millions of passengers all over Japan with efficiency—the average delay time is less than a minute. A research report titled 30 Years of High-Speed Railways: Features and Economic and Social Effects of The Shinkansen by Hiroshi Okada, estimates that the economic impact from the shinkansen train network, based on the time saved from faster travel, is approximately ¥500 billion ($4.8 billion USD) per year. Okada stresses that the cultural impact is also significant, a shinkansen offers people living far from urban centers “easy access to concerts, exhibitions, theaters, etc., enabling them to lead fuller lives.”

    Japan has a plan, known as the One-Day Travel Initiative. Its goal: regardless of where you are in Japan, it should only take you three hours to get to the nearest major regional city (Tokyo, Osaka, Nagoya, Sapporo or Fukuoka). The planned impact of this hyper-mobility is to discourage the tide of migration toward urban centers, like Tokyo, and encourage decentralization.

    Darwin noted that some human emotional expressions might have started as part of a physiological function: for example, exposing the teeth to bite food. The function, however, took on meaning and became a form of communication which signals anger.

    The same may be true for the animals. Baby monkeys cry for attention. They also cry to signal to an adult that they want to be carried.

    “Chimpanzees do make upset voice when they are being weaned (断奶) by their mothers or have lost their mothers or another individual,” says Anne Pusey, a professor at the University of Minnesota. “They whimper (呜咽) and cry and scream. When we hear these calls, the emotion involved seems obvious. However, they do not weep in the sense of producing tears. I have seen an adolescent male whimpering when he lost sight of his older brother with whom he had been traveling.”

    Babies of many mammalian species, including rats, cry. Moreover, when a baby rat cries, often his mother brings the fallen pup back into the nest. This is probably a straightforward communication, as it is with humans. However, psychologists at the University of Iowa aren't convinced.

    The Iowan researchers can cause the same crying sounds by producing large decreases and then increases in blood flow. The blood flow also goes down when baby rats get cold. Thus, they conclude baby rats cry in the same way that we sneeze. Of course the rat baby could be crying because he's cold and wants his mother to know.

    “All young mammals make cries when separated from their mother,” says Jaak Panksepp, a psychologist at Bowling Green State University. “If you're willing to call this crying, then certainly other animals show this emotional response.” he says, “Some of us take seriously that animals do have emotions.”

    Languages have been coming and going for thousands of years, but in recent times there has been less coming and a lot more going. When the world was still populated by hunter-gatherers, small, tightly knit(联系) groups developed their own patterns of speech, independent of each other. Some language experts believe that 10,000 years ago, when the world had just five to ten million people, they spoke perhaps 12,000 languages between them.

    Soon afterwards, many of those people started settling down to become farmers, and their languages too became more settled and fewer in number. In recent centuries, trade, industrialization, the development of the nation-state and the spread of universal compulsory education, especially globalization and better communications in the past few decades, all have caused many languages to disappear, and dominant languages such as English, Spanish and Chinese are increasingly taking over.

    At present, the world has about 6,800 languages. The distribution of these languages is hugely uneven. The general rule is that mild zones have fewer languages spoken by many people while hot, wet zones have more, often spoken by small numbers. Europe has only around 200 Languages: the Americas about 1,000, Africa 2,400; and Asia and the Pacific perhaps 3,200, of which New Guinea alone accounts for well over 800. The median number(中位数) of speakers is a mere 6,000, which means that half the world's languages are spoken by fewer people than that.

    Now over 400 of the total of 6,800 languages are close to extinction(消亡), with only a few elderly speakers left. None of these seems to have chances of survival.

Elizabeth Bishop is considered one of the best American poets of the 20th century. She was born in Worcester, Massachusetts in 1911. Her dad died when she was just a baby and her mom never recovered from the loss; she went to live with her grandparents in Nova Scotia, Canada when she was five. Eventually Bishop attended Vassar College, where she began to write poetry.

At Vassar she discovered Marianne Moore's poetry and met "Ms. Moore" and began their life-long friendship. She later met poet Robert Lowell. She wrote tons and tons of letters to both of them, which is good for us because we would otherwise know very little of her personal life. Bishop's poetry is sometimes considered objective and cold because it shows almost nothing about the poet or her life.

Bishop published her first book of poetry in 1946 and wrote until her death in 1979. She would spend years working on a single poem. Her poems are not the result of hasty scribbling (匆忙乱写) on paper while eating breakfast. Over a lifetime of writing, she only published about 275 pages of poetry, and about 40 of those are translations. She would look through drafts of poems again and again and improve them until they were as close to perfect as she could get them.

Reading Elizabeth Bishop is like being transported to the very place, the very moment she's writing about. She leads us to a microscope so we can see every smallest part of the scene. It seems she's always asking us to notice more, and more until the poem is so clear in our minds that it's almost painful — like a light that's too bright. It might take your eyes a while to get used to it, but once they do, you'll like what you see.