Born into a farmer’s family, life was not easy when I was a kid. We were so poor that we often did not know where our next meal was coming from. I had to sell cabbages at the marketplace to support my family.
A storyteller once came to the marketplace, and I went to listen to him. My mother was unhappy with me for forgetting my job. But that night, while she was making clothes for us under the weak light of an oil lamp, I couldn't help retelling stories I'd heard that day. She listened impatiently at first, since in her eyes professional（职业的） storytellers were smooth-talking men—nothing good ever came out of their mouths. But slowly she was attracted by my retold stories, and from that day on, she never gave me any task on market days, unspoken agreement to enjoy new stories. As a repayment（回报）for Mother's kindness and a way to show off my memory, I'd retell the stories for her in lively detail. Soon, she wasn't the only member of my audience, which later included my elder sisters, my aunts, even my stubborn grandmother.
I knew she was worried about me. Talkative kids are not well thought of in our village, for they can bring trouble to themselves and to their families when they talk too much. Mother often reminded me not to talk so much, wanting me to be a silent and modest teenager. However, my natural desire（渴望）to talk never went away, and that is what makes my name – Mo Yan, which means ‘no speaking’. This strong wish to talk also improved my ability to express myself, which is important for writers who are also considered as storytellers.
【小题1】Mo Yan lived a/an ________ life when he was young.

 
Born into a farmer’s family, life was not easy when I was a kid. We were so poor that we often did not know where our next meal was coming from. I had to sell cabbages at the marketplace to support my family.
A storyteller once came to the marketplace, and I went to listen to him. My mother was unhappy with me for forgetting my job. But that night, while she was making clothes for us under the weak light of an oil lamp, I couldn't help retelling stories I'd heard that day. She listened impatiently at first, since in her eyes professional（职业的） storytellers were smooth-talking men—nothing good ever came out of their mouths. But slowly she was attracted by my retold stories, and from that day on, she never gave me any task on market days, unspoken agreement to enjoy new stories. As a repayment（回报）for Mother's kindness and a way to show off my memory, I'd retell the stories for her in lively detail. Soon, she wasn't the only member of my audience, which later included my elder sisters, my aunts, even my stubborn grandmother.
I knew she was worried about me. Talkative kids are not well thought of in our village, for they can bring trouble to themselves and to their families when they talk too much. Mother often reminded me not to talk so much, wanting me to be a silent and modest teenager. However, my natural desire（渴望）to talk never went away, and that is what makes my name – Mo Yan, which means ‘no speaking’. This strong wish to talk also improved my ability to express myself, which is important for writers who are also considered as storytellers.
【小题1】Mo Yan lived a/an ________ life when he was young.

When I was a child, my parents often took me to an old house in a thick forest. No other children ever stayed there. I didn’t even have the choice of playing with a brother or sister.
I could never understand what the attraction(吸引) of the house was, even for my parents, who enjoyed nothing better than to sit in silence with a good book. The woman in the house, my father’s distant cousin, was a terrible cook and her food was inedible.
One day, when I was wandering around the garden behind the house, I noticed a wooden house which had clearly been abandoned(被遗弃的). As I walked towards it, I heard a noise, like an animal moving hurriedly away. Then I saw a man with a long beard standing at the door. I was greatly surprised.
“Please don’t tell them you saw me,” he said. “They never use this place, and I have nowhere else to live.” “Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t tell anyone. But are you all right out here? I mean—do you have enough to eat?” The old man shook his head.
The same evening, I took a small plastic bag into the dining room and, while no one was looking, emptied some of the food into it. Later, I got out of the back door secretly and gave the food to the old man, whose name I had discovered was Taff.
I had never seen anything else as lovely as the smile of satisfaction on Taff’s face when he ate the food. From then on, my visits to the old house had a purpose, and I enjoyed every minute of the rest of my stay.
【小题1】 How did the writer feel about staying in the old house at first?