Not all bodies of water are so evidently alive as the Atlantic Ocean, an S-shaped body of water covering 33 million square miles. The Atlantic has, in a sense, replaced the Mediterranean as the inland sea of Western civilization. Unlike real inland seas, which seem strangely still, the Atlantic is rich in oceanic liveliness. It is perhaps not surprising that its vitality has been much written about by ancient poets.

     “Storm at Sea”, a short poem written around 700, is generally regarded as one of mankind's earliest artistic representations of the Atlantic.

    When the wind is from the west

    All the waves that cannot rest

    To the east must thunder on

    Where the bright tree of the sun

    Is rooted in the ocean's breast.

    As the poem suggests, the Atlantic is never dead and dull. It is an ocean that moves, impressively and endlessly. It makes all kinds of noise—it is forever thundering, boiling, crashing, and whistling.

    It is easy to imagine the Atlantic trying to draw breath—perhaps not so noticeably out in mid-ocean, but where it meets land, its waters bathing up and down a sandy beach. It mimics(模仿) nearly perfectly the steady breathing of a living creature. It is filled with symbiotic existences, too: unimaginable quantities of creatures, little and large alike, mix within its depths in a kind of oceanic harmony, giving to the waters a feeling of heartbeat, a kind of sub-ocean vitality. And it has a psychology. It has personalities: sometimes peaceful and pleasant, on rare occasions rough and wild; always it is strong and striking.

    If you see a group of people dancing and singing on the street or in the railway station, you don't need to feel surprised. They are a flash mob(快闪族). Who are they Are they mobs? Don't be confused by their name. Actually, a flash mob is a group of people who gather suddenly in a public place, do something unusual for a brief period of time, and then quickly disappear.

    They are usually organized with the help of the Internet or other digital communications networks. The messages may be sent to friends, who send to more people. At a predetermined time, they gather and perform some activities such as exchanging books, coming together to look at the sky, waving their hands and yelling something at the top of their voice for 30 seconds. Then, they quickly disappear before the police can arrive Using mobile phones, the flash mob can change its place if the first one has been cancelled for any reason.

    Bill Wasik, senior editor of Hamper's Magazine, organized the first flash mob in Manhattan in May 2003 and the first successful flash mob gathered on June 3, 2003. Wasik claimed that he created the flash mob as a social experiment designed to laugh at fashion seekers and stress the cultural atmosphere of wanting to be an insider or part of "the next big thing”.

    Flash mob gatherings can sometimes shock people. Such an activity might seem amusing and magical, but it also might frighten people who are not aware of what is taking place. Undoubtedly, flash mob can serve as good political tools and have great potential, such as using flash mob to advertise a product.

    The flash mob is now becoming more and more popular. People use it to do many things. Flash mobs give people from all walks of life an opportunity to come together to create a memory.

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    Four days after Dad's 67th birthday, he had a heart attack. Luckily, he survived. But something inside him had died. His enthusiasm for life was gone. He refused to follow doctor's orders, and his sour attitude made everyone upset when they visit him. Dad was left alone.

    So I asked Dad to come to live with me on my small farm, hoping the fresh air would help him adjust. Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. He criticized everything I did. I became frustrated. Something had to be done.

    One day I read an article which said when given dogs, depressed patients would be better off. So I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. As soon as I got there, a pointer's eyes caught my attention. They watched me calmly.

    A staff member said: “He got here two weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow.”

    I turned to the man in horror. “You mean you're going to kill him?”

    “Ma'am,” he said gently. “We don't have room for every unclaimed dog.”

    The staff member's calm brown eyes awaited my decision. “I'll take him,” I said.

    I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. I was helping it out of the car when Dad walked onto the front porch. “Look what I got you!” I said excitedly.

    Dad wrinkled his face. “I don't want it,” he muttered, turning back towards the house. Then, suddenly, the dog pulled free from my grasp. He sat down in front of my Dad.

    Dad's anger melted, and soon he was hugging the dog.

    This was the beginning of a warm friendship. Dad named the dog Cheyenne. Together they spent long hours walking down dusty lanes and relaxing on the banks of streams.

    Dad's bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne went on to make many friends. Then, late one night two years later, I felt Cheyenne's cold nose burrowing(搜寻) through my bed covers. He had never before come into my bedroom at night. I ran into my father's room and found that he had passed away.

    Two days later, my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad's bed. As I buried him near their favorite stream, I silently thanked the dog for restoring Dad's peace of mind.

    Whenever we're introduced to strangers, we make snap decisions about them according to our first impressions. Are they attractive or how much do they earn?

    For most Brits, simply asking someone how much they're worth' financially is considered very impolite. Thankfully, most people are kind enough to drop several hints (暗示)about their relative wealth or successful careers They always post on social media about flying to a meeting for work. They're always wearing clothes with labels big enough to silently scream about how rich they are and how well they're doing.

    It's a worrying trend, and I'm not immune to it. I've felt the warm happiness of knowing I earned more than somebody, and the baseless grey irritation of knowing that I earn less than another. I've checked into places while I know full well that anybody reading it will get jealous.

    It seems as though self-worth is increasingly being tied to the careers we choose and the money we earn. A study in 2013, for example found that nearly 17% of unemployed Americans were depressed compared to almost 6% of those who had a permanent job.

    We need to stop placing so much value on what a person earns. Don't get me wrong-being ambitious is not a fault, and achievements should always be celebrated. But when a person uses their success to judge you negatively it becomes a problem.

    If you want to know what you're really worth, here's a tip: It doesn't have anything to do with your bank account. It's about how many times you've been there for your friends. It's how many times you've been kind to a stranger It's every time you did something unselfish, or told your partner you loved him/her, or treated someone with respect no matter where they were in their own life.

One fine day, a bus driver went to the bus garage, started his bus, and drove off along his route. No problems for the first few stops—a few people got on, a few got off, and things went generally well.

At the next stop, however, a big hulk of a guy got on. Six feet eight, built like a wrestler, arms hanging down to the ground. He glared at the driver and said, "Big John doesn't pay!" and sat down at the back. The driver was five feet three, thin, and basically mild-mannered. Naturally, he didn't argue with Big John, but he wasn't happy about it.

The next day the same thing happened—Big John got on again, made a show of refusing to pay, and sat down. And the next day, and the one after that, and so forth.

This grated on the bus driver, who started losing sleep over the way Big John was taking advantage of him. Finally he could stand it no longer. He signed up for body building courses, karate, judo, and all that good stuff. By the end of the summer, he had become quite strong—what's more, felt really good about himself.

So on the next Monday, when Big John once again got on the bus and said. "Big John doesn't pay!" the driver stood up, glared back at the passenger, and screamed, "Oh, yeah? And why not?" With a surprised look on his face, Big John replied, "Big John has a bus pass."