A Canadian man is asking forgiveness for a birdbrained thing he did 17 years ago: inadvertently（无心地） encouraging seagulls to trash his hotel room.

    Back in 2001, Burchill checked into the Fairmont Empress Hotel in Victoria, B.C, for a business meeting. He brought a small suitcase full of Brothers Pepperoni from his hometown to share with former Navy buddies in the area. But his room had no fridge so he opened a window to keep it cool. And then he went for a long walk. That was when things got messy. Really messy. The result was such a housekeeping nightmare that the hotel permanently banned him.

    “I remember walking down the long hall and opening the door to my room to find an entire flock of seagulls in my room. There must have been 40 of them and they had been eating pepperoni for a long time.” Burchill said.

    When he walked into the room, Burchill recalled he frightened the birds. They “immediately started flying around and crashing into things as they desperately tried to leave the room.” The result was a tornado of seagull feathers, pepperoni chunks and fairly large birds whipping around the room. The lamps were     falling. The curtains were trashed. The coffee tray was just disgusting.

    Eventually, Burchill called the front desk and requested help cleaning up the room. “I can still remember the look on the lady's face when she opened the door. ”said Burchill. A short time later, he received a note from the hotel saying he'd been banned for life.

    Recently, Burchill visited the hotel to apologize in person, in hope of making amends with the woman who had to clean the seagull-and-pepperoni-trashed room, but was told she was no longer there.

    “When I was talking to the people at the desk and the manager, they did say that they had heard this story from a long-term employee that works there,” said Burchill, “I was just kind of in and out. I didn't     want to overstay my welcome.” So he apologized and was forgiven. Burchill left them a present of about a pound of Brothers Pepperoni as a peace offering. It seemed to have worked.

    I've loved my mother's desk since I was just tall enough to see above the top of it as mother sat doing letters. Standing by her chair, looking at the ink bottle, pens and white paper, I decided that the act of writing must be the most wonderful thing in the world.

    Years later, during her final illness, mother kept different things for my sister and brother. "But the desk," she said again, "is for Elizabeth."

    I never saw her angry, never saw her cry. I knew she loved me; she showed it in action. But as a young girl, I wanted heart-to-heart talks between mother and daughter.

    They never happened. And a gulf opened between us. I was" too emotional". But she lived "on the surface".

    As years passed and I had my own family. I loved my mother and thanked her for our happy family. I wrote to her in careful words and asked her to let me know in any way she chose that she did forgive me.

    I posted the letter and waited for her answer, none came.

    My hope turned to disappointment, then little interest and, finally peace. It seemed that nothing happened. I couldn't be sure that the letter had even got to Mother. I only knew that I had written it, and I could stop trying to make her into someone she was not.

    Now the presence of her desk told me, as she'd never been able to, that she was pleased that writing was my chosen work. I cleaned the desk carefully and found some papers inside—a photo of my father and a one-page letter, folded and refolded many times.

    Give me an answer, my letter asks, in any way you choose. Mother, you always choose the act that speaks louder than words.

    Every summer, the Serengeti plains (平原) of Africa are worth visiting. Millions of wild animals begin their 1,800-mile journey northwards on their annual migratory (迁移的) route.

    In the month of November, polar bears in their thousands cross the Canadian Arctic, as they head towards the ice sheets of Hudson Bay. The sea ice that forms every winter is the key to the bear's managing to exist, for here they hunt for seals (海豹).

    The Great Bustard, one of the heaviest flying birds, migrates each year across Europe and Asia to its wintering grounds. Unluckily, these and other migratory animals are in danger from human activity.

    We have written several articles on climate change and the effect of rising ocean temperatures. Since 1979, ice sheets in the Arctic have gone down by 30 percent. What does this mean for polar bears? They are forced to stay on land for longer periods of time, which delays their search for food. As a result, bears today are 60 pounds lighter than what they were. Besides, smaller bears also produce weaker babies, and their chances of survival are at risk. In the plains of Africa, migratory animals like gazelles are traveling long distances for food, just to avoid falling prey (牺牲品) to humans who hunt them.

    In an unusual step, experts from 120 countries have agreed to protect 31 migratory mammals, fish and birds. The United Nation's 11th annual Conservation of Migratory Species of Wild Animals (CMS) was held in Quito, Ecuador. For the first time, 900 experts attended the conference, and the enthusiastic support shows the world is united in conservation (保护) efforts.

    What does getting on a protected list mean? Countries that have signed the agreement will be required to pass laws locally and work with other countries that fall within the animal's migratory path. Only one animal did not make the list. The African lion was rejected (拒绝) for lack of information of the countries where it lives.

    The impression you make at the beginning of an interview is very important. Employers often decide to hire someone in the first three minutes of the interview. They judge you by your appearance, attitude and manners.

    A friendly smile when you walk into the room is important. A smile shows a confident and positive attitude.

    When you introduce yourself, make eye contact with the interviewer. Some interviewers offer a handshake. Others don't.

    Try to be as natural as possible. But pay attention to your body language. The way you sit, walk, gesture, use your voice and show feelings on your face is all part of your body language. It makes the interviewer know how you feel about yourself and the situation you are in. Are you feeling positively about yourself? Your abilities? Your interest in the job?

    Speak clearly and loudly enough. Show interest and enthusiasm in your voice. When you speak, look at the interviewer. Also, don't say negative things about yourself, or former employer.

    Listen to questions carefully. If you don't understand a question, ask the interviewer to repeat or explain:

    "I'm sorry, but I didn't catch that."

    "I'm not sure exactly what you mean."

    Almost everyone is nervous in a job interview. Interviewers know that. They don't expect you to be totally calm and relaxed. But they expect you to try to control your nervousness. They expect you to show confidence in your ability to do the job.

    At the end of the interview, thank the interviewer for her or his time.

    It's a good idea to send a short thank-you letter right after the interview, or deliver it by hand.

    Phone the company if you have not heard anything after one week. Ask if they have made a decision about the job.

    Good luck!

    When I was six, Dad brought home a dog one day, who was called "Brownie". My brothers and I all loved Brownie and did different things with her. One of us would walk her, another would feed her, and then there were baths, playing catch and many other games. Brownie, in return, loved each and every one of us. One thing that most touched my heart was that she would go to whoever was sick and just be with him/her. We always felt better when she was around.

    One day, as I was getting her food, she chewed up (咬破) one of Dad's shoes, which had to be thrown away in the end. I knew Dad would be mad and I had to let her know what she did was wrong. When I looked at her and said "bad girl", she looked down at the ground and then went and hid. I saw a tear in her eyes.

    Brownie turned out to be more than just our family pet. She went everywhere with us. People would stop and ask if they could pet her. Of course she'd let anyone pet her. She was just the most lovable dog. There were many times when we'd be out walking and a small child would come over and pull on her hair. She never barked (吠叫) or tried to get away. The funny thing is she would smile. This frightened people because they thought she was showing her teeth. Far from the truth, she loved everyone.

    Now many years have passed since Brownie died of old age. I still miss the days when she was with us.

    I'm a storyteller. And I would like to tell you a few personal stories.

    I grew up reading British and American children's books. When I began to write, I wrote exactly the kinds of stories I was reading: All my characters were white and blue-eyed, they ate apples and talked a lot about the weather, despite the fact that I lived in Nigeria. We ate mangoes, and we never talked about the weather. Because all I had read were books in which characters were foreign, I had become convinced that books by their very nature had to have foreigners in them. Things changed when I discovered African books. Because of writers like Chinua Achebe and Camara Laye, I went through a mental shift in my idea of literature. I realized that people like me, girls with skin the color of chocolate, could also exist in literature. I started to write about things I recognized. So what the discovery of African writers did for me was this: It saved me from having a single story of what books are. The year I turned eight, we got a new house boy Fide from a nearby rural village. The only thing my mother told us about him was that his family was very poor. And when I didn't finish my dinner, my mother would say，"Finish your food! Don't you know? People like Fide's family have nothing." So I felt enormous pity for Fide's family. Then one Saturday, we went to his village to visit, and his mother showed us a beautifully patterned basket that his brother had made. I was astonished. It had not occurred to me that anybody in his family could actually make something. Their poverty was my single story of them.

    Years later, when I left Nigeria to go to university in the United States, my American roommate asked where I had learned to speak English so well, and was confused when I said that Nigeria happened to have English as its official language. What struck me was this: She had felt sorry for me even before she saw me. My roommate had a single story of Africa: a single story of catastrophe.

    Of course, Africa is a continent full of catastrophes. But there are other stories that are not about catastrophe, and it is very important, it is just as important, to talk about them. The consequence of the single story is this: It robs people of dignity. It makes our recognition of our equal humanity difficult. It emphasizes how we are different rather than how we are similar.

    So what if my mother had told us that Fide's family was poor and hardworking? What if we had an African television network that broadcast diverse African stories all over the world? What if my roommate knew about my Nigerian publisher, Muhtar Bakare, a remarkable man who left his job in a bank to follow his dream and start a publishing house? What if my roommate knew about my friend Funmi Iyanda, a fearless woman who hosts a TV show, and is determined to tell the stories that we prefer to forget?

    My Nigerian publisher and I have just started a non-profit called Farafina Trust, and we have big dreams of building libraries and providing books for state schools, and also of organizing lots of workshops in reading and writing, for all the people who are eager to tell our many stories.

    Stories matter. Many stories matter. Stories can break the dignity of a people, but stories can also repair that broken dignity. When we realize that there is never a single story about any place, we regain a kind of paradise.