I arrived at my mother's home for our Saturday family dinner. The smells of food flew over from the kitchen. My mother was pulling out quilt after quilt from the boxes, proudly showing me their beauties. I knew they were all made herself. She was preparing for a quilt show on TV. When we began to fold and put them back into the boxes, I noticed something at the bottom of one box. I pulled it out.

    "What's this?" I asked.

    "Oh?" Mom said, "That's Mama's quilt."

    I spread the quilt. It looked as if a group of school children had made the pieces together. "Grandmother made this?" I asked in surprise. My grandmother was a master at making quilts. This certainly didn't look like any of the quilts she had made.

    "Yes, right before she died. I brought it home with me last year and made some changes," Mom said, "I'm still working on it. See, this is what I've done so far."

    I looked at it more closely. She had made a line straight. At the center of the quilt, she had stitched a piece of cloth with these words: "My mother made many quilts. She didn't get all lines straight. But I think this is beautiful. I want to see it finished. Her last quilt."

    "Oh, this is so nice, Mom." I said. I was sure now that by completing my grandmother's quilt, my mother was honoring her own mother. I realized that I held in my hands a family treasure. It started with the loving hands of one woman, and continued with the loving hands of another.

    My name is Dora. I'm American and I'm thirteen. I'm a student in No. 7 Middle School. I like music very much. I can play two instruments — the guitar and the piano. I play them very well and I'm on the school art club.

    Jeff and Michael are my brothers. They are students, too. But we aren't in the same school. They like sports. Jeff plays basketball and soccer very well. Michael swims and plays ping-pong very well. I am not good at sports. They help me with sports after school.

    We live in London with our parents now. My mother is an English teacher and my father is a musician. My mother swims well. My father can play the violin.

    The designer of the Apple Computer, Steve Jobs, was not quite successful in his early years. He was not among the best students at school, and from time to time he got into trouble with either his schoolmates or his teachers. But he was full of new ideas, which few people saw the value of. Things remained the same when he went up to college and he dropped out halfway.

    Steve Jobs worked first as a video game designer at Atari. He worked there for only a few months and then he set out to tour India He hoped that the trip would give him more ideas and give him a change in life for the better.

    After he returned from India, he began to live on a farm in California. And then, in 1975, Steve Jobs set about making a new type of computer. Along with his friend Stephen Wozniak, he designed the Apple Computer in his bedroom and built it in his garage(车库). He chose the name 'Apple' because it reminded him of a happy summer he once spent on an orchard(果园) in Oregon. His Apple Computer was so successful that Steve Jobs soon became worldwide famous. But unluckily, he died of illness in 2012.

    I entered St Thoma's Hospital as a medical student at the age of 18 and spent five years there. I was an unsatisfactory student, for my heart, as you might have guessed, was not in it. I wanted, I had always wanted to be a writer, and in the evening, after my high tea, I wrote and read. Before long, I wrote a novel, called "Liza of Lambeth", which I sent to a publisher and was accepted. It appeared during my last year at the hospital and had something of a success. It was of course an accident, but naturally I did not know that. I felt I could afford to give up medicine and make writing my profession; so, three days after I graduated from the school of medicine, I set out for Spain to write another book. Looking back now and knowing as I do the terrible difficulties of making a living by writing, I realize I was taking a fearful risk. It never even occurred to me.

    The next ten years were very hard, and I earned an average of £100 a year. Then I had a bit of luck. The manager of the Court Theatre put on a play that failed; the next play he arranged to put on was not ready, and he was at his wits' end. He read a play of mine and, though he did not much like it, he thought it might just run for the six weeks till the play he had in mind to follow it with could be produced. It ran for fifteen months. Within a short while I had four plays running in London at the same time. Nothing of the kind had ever happened before. I was the talk of the town. One of the students at St Thomas's Hospital asked the famous surgeon with whom I had worked whether he remembered me. "Yes, I remember him quite well," he said. "One of our failures, I'm afraid."