It was 7:00 am in Paris,France,and the taxi company had just called a second time to say they couldn't find my house.Once again I spelt out1even a blind person could follow.I glanced2at my watch,and waited.Only two hours remained3my flight left—and it was one and a half hours4to the airport.

    Outside,heavy rains were5.My house was so far north in the city that buses6only three times a day.

    The telephone rang again."Terribly sorry,"began the man at the taxi company.Then I realized that the taxi company,flooded with calls,could only7in-city runs.I had heard this happens when the8gets bad.I9into the phone that I had a10to catch and I would meet the taxi outside my house.

    Standing in the wind-driven rain,I looked11the road.No taxi.A car went by,the driver and passenger staring at the12foreigner in the downpour.

    13a white car appeared and14to a stop.A young man threw open the door,waving to me to get in.Shaking with cold and15,I climbed in.

    In the most16French,the man said he was called Will,with whom I had spoken three times that morning.He had left his post in the office and17here in his personal car.He18again,but didn't explain why no taxi would pick me up19me straight to the airport,he refused the 2,000 franc I pressed into his hand.

    A few hours later,as the storm-delayed plane20,I opened the newspaper.On the second page my eyes caught the headline of a short article: Taxi Strike Begins This Morning in Paris.

    I used to believe in the American Dream, which meant a job, a mortgage (按揭), credit cards, and success. I wanted it and worked toward it like everyone else, all of us 1 chasing the same thing.

    One year, through a series of unhappy events, it all fell 2. I found myself homeless and 3. I had my truck and $ 56. I 4 the countryside for some place I could rent for the 5 possible amount. I came upon a shabby house four miles up a winding mountain road over the Potomac River in West Virginia. It was 6, full of broken glass and rubbish. I found the owner, rented it, and 7 a corner to camp in.

    The locals knew nothing about me, 8 slowly, they started teaching me the 9 of being a neighbor. They dropped off blankets, candles, and tools, and began sticking around to 10. They started to teach me a belief in a 11 American Dream – not the one of individual achievement but of 12 .

    What I had believed in, all those things I thought were 13for a civilized life, were nonexistent in this place. Up on the 14 , my most valuable possessions were my 15 with my neighbors.

    Four years later, I moved back into 16. I saw many people were having a really hard time, 17 their jobs and homes. I managed to rent a big enough house to 18 a handful of people. There are four of us now in the house, but over time I've had nine people come in and move on to other places. We'd all be in 19 if we hadn't banded together.

    The American Dream I believe in now is a shared one. It's not so much about what I can get for myself; it's about 20 we can all survive together.

    Valerie was very worried about her dad. For some time now she had noticed he was1his hair. One day, she asked him, "Daddy, every day you have less hair, 2 is that?" Her father smiled and said, “It's the hair thief. He visits my 3during the night when I' m asleep. One by one he pulls out my hair, and there's no way to 4 him.”

    This worried Valerie, but she was 5to help her dad. That night she stayed6as long as she could. When she was 7 her dad and mom had fallen asleep, she took a hammer and went to their bedroom slowly and8.She didn't want the hair thief to 9 her. When she arrived at her father's side, she carefully inspected her father's head in order to catch the hair thief as soon as he 10 . Before long, she saw a shadow on her father's head and she11 it with the hammer

    Her father 12 a loud cry and got out of bed at once. He turned the 13on, and trembling with14, he saw Valerie waving her hammer in the air. Daddy. I 15got him. But it looks like he 16! "said Valerie. Meanwhile the mother17She burst into 18when she knew what had happened

    So Valerie's father had to explain that the hair thief didn't exist, and that losing hair is something that just happens naturally to most fathers. Valerie still 19 about her daddy, but she no longer waited for the hair thief. 20, she bought her father a very nice sleeping hat.

    Some teachers seem to be bad teachers, but they are not. Take my football coach for example. One day, we were doing some 1 practicing catching the football. He threw me a pass and I dropped it. He started 2 me. I went back in line, 3. My friend was up next. He dropped it, too. But the coach said nothing. Annoyed, I whispered, "Why 4 against me?"

    After practice he came 5 to me and told me the reason he shouted at me 6 the other guy was that he expected more out of me. If he 7 my mistakes, it meant he had quit on me.

    Another teacher 8 my mind was my PhD supervisor, Ken Crowe. He had a(n) 9 for making grown men cry when they disappointed him, but I was 10 by the topic he was working on.

    He gave me a(n)11: to figure out what caused muons to get depolarized (去极化) in liquids. After a week I came to Ken's office to tell him about it. He listened for a few minutes and then 12: "You have no idea what you're talking about! Get out and don't come back until you do!" Now I was starting to get 13, complaining about him as cold-hearted.

    Bent on changing his attitude and 14 more relevant knowledge, I really got into it. 15, I understood it so well that to this day it is my most proud 16. Then I went back to tell Ken what I had figured out. Again he interrupted me a few minutes into my 17, but I carried on. When I finished, he praised me for doing some very original research. From that day forward, he supported and promoted me 18 we became great friends and respected colleagues.

    So don't ever complain about your "19" teachers. They may 20 you to make greater achievement you will be proud of decades later.

    Whitson, 44, set out on June 13 with his ninth-grade son and his wife, Ramirez, eager to show them the wild beauty of the Arroyo Seco (a river) in central California. The first night, they built a 1 and pan-fried a steak, 2 it with chocolate bars for dessert. The last thing any of them 3 was that they would become 4. A 5 that was supposed to be secured at the top of the slide—the only safe way down—was 6. There was no way to climb out of the gorge (峡谷).The rope had been 7 to the slippery rock wall when Whitson had made the same journey seven years before. At the time, he'd 8 lowered himself down the side of the waterfall and continued his9.

Thoughts raced through Whitson's mind: 10 spring rains had likely washed the rope away. There was no other way to safely get down. Friends knew they were in Arroyo Seco, but it might be several days 11a search party was 12 There was no cell service. He desperately 13 a plan. Whitson looked at his water bottle and he suddenly had an idea: He 14"HELP!" on each side of the bottle and wrote an SOS note on a piece of paper with the 15, June 15, and their whereabouts —then put it inside. The bottle 16 into the pool, then 17 through the narrow passageway. It was a very long 18. Remarkably, they didn't wait long. About a quarter-mile downstream, two hikers had19the bright green bottle right away; read the 20and hiked to the Arroyo Seco Campground to alert (向……报警) the manager to call a search and rescue team.

When I lived in Boston, I taught English as a second language to adult students from around the world. On the last day, they threw a nice party. I was amazed they had learned enough English {#blank#}1{#/blank#} （arganize） such an event altogether. At the end of the party, they proudly handed me a gift box. After the box {#blank#}2{#/blank#} （open）, I gently lifted a beautiful coat from it. "We went shopping for a new coat!" they all shouted {#blank#}3{#/blank#} wonderfully perfect English.