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　　It was Sunday and Tom was at home．After breakfast, he went out into the garden and played quietly by himself．There were no kids around and he was used to playing alone quietly．He played with Bobby, a dog．He climbed up and down the trees．Sometimes a bird would come down to rest on the top of the doghouse．Then Tom would have fun by throwing a stone or something at it．Though he never made it, he did like doing this kind of things．

　　Now Tom had been in the garden for half an hour．Suddenly, a crack(破裂声)was heard and the little boy began crying．“What’s the matter, Tom?” his mother looked through the kitchen window．Tom ran into the kitchen “Mum” he cried “I broke Bobby’s plate．I didn’t know it was so fragile(易碎的)”．

　　His mother put her arms round him and said “Don’t feel too bad, Tom．We have other plates for Boddy．But how did you break that one?”

　　“I threw this at a bird but missed and it went straight to the plate．” In Tom’s hand was his father’s gold pocket watch．

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阅读理解

　　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'd said again, “it's 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(易动感情的)”．But she lived “on the surface”．

　　As years passed 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 present of her desk told, 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(折叠)and refolded many times．

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

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