The clock struck eleven at night. The whole house was quiet. Everyone was in bed except me. Under the strong light, I looked sadly before me at a huge pile of that troublesome stuff they call “books”.

    I was going to have my examination the next day. "When can I go to bed?" I asked myself. I didn't answer, in fact I dared not.

    The clock struck twelve. "Oh, dear!" I cried, "ten more books to read before I can go to bed!” We pupils are the most wretched creatures in the world. Dad does not agree with me on this. He did not have to work so hard when he was a boy ."

    The clock struck one. I was quite desperate now. I forgot all I had learnd. I was too tired to go on. I did the only thing I could. I prayed, “Oh, God, Please help me pass the exam tomorrow. I do promise to work hard afterwards, Amen.” My eyes were so heavy that I could hardly open them. A few minutes later, with my head on the desk, I fell asleep.

    I tried not to be biased, but I had my doubts about hiring Stevie. His social worker assured me that he would be a good, reliable busboy. But I had never had a mentally handicapped employee. He was short, a little fat, with the smooth facial features and thick-togued speech of Down's Syndrome（唐氏综合症）. I thought most of my customers would be uncomfortable around Stevie, so I closely watched him for the first few weeks.

    I shouldn't have worried. After the first week, Stevie had my staff wrapped around his stubby little finger, and within a month my regular trucker customers had adopted him as their official truck stop mascot. After that, I really didn't care what the rest of the customers thought of him. He was like a 21-year-old in blue jeans and Nikes, eager to laugh and eager to please, but fierce in his attention to his duties. Every salt and pepper shaker was exactly in its place, not a bread crumb or coffee spill was visible when Stevie got done with the table. Our only problem was persuading him to wait to clean a table until after the customers were finished.

    Over time, we learned that he lived with his mother, a widow who was disabled. Money was tight, and what I paid him was probably the difference between them being able to live together and Stevie being sent to a group home.

    That's why the restaurant was a gloomy place that morning last August, the first morning in three years that Stevie missed work. He was at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester getting a heart surgery. His social worker said that people with Downs Syndrome often had heart problems at an early age and there was a good chance he would come through the surgery in good shape and be back at work in a few months.

    A ripple of excitement ran through the staff later that morning when word came that he was out of surgery, in recovery, and doing fine. Frannie, my head waitress, did a little dance when she heard the good news. Belle Ringer, one of our regular trucker customers, stared at her and asked, “Okay, Frannie, what was that all about?”

    "We just got word that Stevie is out of surgery and going to be okay."

    "I was wondering where he was. I had a new joke to tell him. What was the surgery about?"

    Frannie quickly told Belle Ringer and the other two drivers sitting at his booth about Stevie's surgery, then sighed: "Yeah, I"m glad he is going to be OK," she said. "But I don't know how he and his Mom are going to handle all the bills. From what I hear, they"re barely getting by as it is."

    Belle Ringer nodded thoughtfully, and Frannie hurried off to wait on the rest of her tables.

    After the morning rush, Frannie walked into my office. She had a couple of paper napkins in her hand.

    "What's up?" I asked.

    "I cleared off that table where Belle Ringer and his friends were sitting after they left, and I found this. This was folded and tucked under a coffee cup."

    She handed the napkin to me, and three $20 bills fell onto my desk when I opened it. On the outside, in big, bold letters, was printed "something For Stevie".

    That was three months ago. Today is New Year's day, the first day Stevie is supposed to be back to work. His placement worker said he had been counting the days until the doctor said he could work, I arranged to have his mother bring him to work, met them in the parking lot and invited them both to celebrate his day back. I took him and his mother by their arms. "To celebrate you coming back, breakfast for you and your mother is on me.”

    I led them toward a large corner booth. I could feel and hear truck customers and the rest of the staff following behind as we marched through the dining room. We stopped in front of the big table. Its surface was covered with coffee cups and dinner plates, all sitting slightly on dozens of folded paper napkins.

    "First thing you have to do, Stevie, is clean up this mess," I said.

    Stevie looked at me, and then pulled out one of the napkins. It had 'something for Stevie" printed on the outside. As he picked it up, two $10 bills fell onto the table. Stevie stared at the money, then at all the napkins peeking from beneath the tableware, each with his name printed on it.

    I turned to his mother. "There's more than $10,000 in cash and checks on that table, all from truckers and trucking companies that heard about your problems. Happy Thanksgiving!"

    While everybody else was busy shaking hands and hugging each other, Stevie, with a big, big smile on his face, was busy clearing all the cups and dishes from the table.

    The summer before my dad died, we moved house. Up until that point, our family had our own space to spread out. Money was tight, so there was no television set, but we owned a turntable on which my dad's records played constantly. Mostly, it played Bob Dylan. Tracks from The Basement Tapes and Desire became an important part of our new life. My brother and I, aged 8 and 10, climbed trees, built hideaways and learned the words of Clothes Line Saga. We would chant over the, lost in our own joy.

    It was January when my dad left us forever because of the cancer. He was 36 going on 37 then, the same age as Dylan. Afterwards, our laughter disappeared, but we kept on playing the records, which became our only ritual of remembrance. The two men became so intertwined in my head, I struggled to tell them apart.

    Dylan was my dad's gift to me. What child wouldn't be fascinated by songs full of pirates and seasick sailors? How did it feel to have No direction home? Farewell, Angelina became my party-piece. I would sing this at church cheese and wines to the assembled audience. A lot of donations were made.

    Growing up, I remained a fan of the music, but I wasn't obsessed with Dylan until one day in early 1995, my brother bought us both tickets to see him play at Brixton Academy. London felt like a long way to go. But finally seeing Dylan step out onto the stage brought a sudden rush of excitement.

    I have seen Dylan a couple of times since. My brother is not around so much these days. But he was up for a visit recently. We passed a happy evening laughing and drinking, while his son, aged nine, performed his party—piece Subterranean Homesick Blues for us. He sang it word-perfect. And so it goes on: Dylan's music as a gift, passed down the generations.

    Like infectious diseases, ideas in the academic world are epidemic (传染的). But why some travel far and wide while equally good ones has been a mystery? Now a team of computer scientists has used an epidemiological model to simulate (模仿) how ideas move from one academic institution to another. The model showed that ideas originating at famous institutions caused bigger "epidemics" than equally good ideas from less famous places, explains Allison Morgan, a computer scientist at the University of Colorado Boulder.

    "This implies that where an idea is born shapes how far it spreads," says senior author Aaron Clauset.

    Not only is this unfair— "it reveals a big weakness in how we're doing science," says Simon DeDeo, a professor of social and decision sciences at Carnegie Mellon university, who was not involved in the study. "There are many highly trained people with good ideas who do not end up at top institutions. They are producing good ideas, and we know those ideas are getting lost," DeDeo says. "Our science, our scholarships, is not as good because of this."

    The Colorado researchers first looked at how five big ideas in computer science spread to new institutions. They found that hiring a new faculty member accounted for this movement a little more than a third of the time--and in 81 percent of those cases, transmissions took place from higher – to lower-prestige (声望) universities. Then the team simulated the spread of ideas using an infectious disease model and found that the size of an idea "epidemic" depended on the prestige of the originating institution.

    The researchers' model suggests that there "may be a number of quite good ideas that originate in the middle of the pack, in terms of universities." Clauset says. There is a lot of good work coming out of less famous places, he says: "You can learn a huge amount from it, and you can learn things that other people don't know because they're not even paying attention."

    In 1973, I was teaching elementary school. Each day, 27 kids entered "The Thinking Laboratory." That was the name students voted for after deciding that "Room 104" was too dull.

    Freddy was an average student, but not an average person. He had the rare balance of fun and compassion(同情). He would laugh the loudest over fun and be the saddest over anyone's misfortune.

    Before the school year ended, I gave the kids a special gift, T-shirts with the words "Verbs Are Your friends" on them. I had advised the kids that while verbs may seem dull, most of the fun things they do throughout their lives will be verbs.

     Through the years, Pd run into former students who would provide updates on old classmates. I learned that Freddy did several jobs after his graduation from high school and remained the same caring person I met forty years before. Once, while working overnight at a store, he let a homeless man sleep in his truck. Another time, he lent a friend money to buy a house.

    Just last year, I was conducting a workshop when someone knocked at the classroom door. A woman excused the interruption and handed me an envelope. I stopped teaching and opened it up. Inside were the "Verbs" shirt and a note from Freddy's mother. "Freddy passed away on Thanksgiving. He wanted you to have this."

    I told the story to the class. As sad as it was, I couldn't help smiling. Although Freddy was taken from us, we all took something from Freddy.

    A Christmas Carol was written by Charles Dickens. The first 6,000 copies of the book were sold out in a week. And the book has inspired many plays and movies. The first play was put on in 1844. The first two movies were silent films made in 1901 and 1908. Since then, the story has been remade more than 60 times for television and cinema. What makes such a tale so attractive? Audiences have always loved a good plot, a villain(反面人物) who harms other people or breaks the law, and the ending of right over wrong. The book offers all three.

    The book tells the story of a man named Ebenezer Scrooge. He is mean and cruel(残忍的) to his clerk and turns away his only living relative. One night, Scrooge is visited by three spirits. The first shows scenes from Scrooge's youth that led to this present state. The second takes him to the homes of his clerk and his nephew. Here Scrooge sees that people can be happy without lots of money. The spirit also shows him the desperate poor people of London. The third spirit shows Scrooge will die alone, and no one will care if he continues to live as he has. At last the message is understood, and Scrooge repents. He becomes generous and caring to all around him, especially to his clerk's sick son, Tiny Tim.

    Every year, thousands of people watch A Christmas Carol. Why? They may be touched by its lessons on the true meanings of wealth and happiness. They may enjoy the special effects and feelings or watching every year may be just a habit. Viewers never seem to grow tired of the old miser(守财奴), Scrooge, and his dramatic message of hope and change.