英语六级美文练习阅读
当前英语教学在我国获得了快速的发展。伴随着这种快速发展,英语学习资料也经历着不断地发展,以适应不断变化的具体的教学环境。下面是本站小编带来的英语六级美文阅读，欢迎阅读!
The Perfect Christmas Tree
In winter's twilinght， the lower branches were parted，and with the first strokes of the saw the scent of pine pitch rose like incense in nature's cathedral.
When I was about 11， the responsibility for finding the family Christmas tree became mine.
My mother and I lived in rural Massachusetts. The old homestead was surrounded by acres of wood lots and scrubby wilderness where evergreens， hardwoods， forgotten orchards， and wild blackberry vines all grew together. There were plenty of young pines and cedars available. No one I knew ever bought a Christmas tree in those Depression years.
The tree soon became my own personal gift to Christmas， an offering as it were. Thus it had to be as perfect as Christmas itself， perfect as the star， perfect as a silent night， perfect as the notes as of bells in winter. It was a matter of boyish pride.
So earnest was my quest for the perfect that I often began my search on golden， warm days in October， when maple leaves were scarlet and the grasses of summer were still green. This first reconnaissance was usually a swift survey of my territory——through the fields， then around the edges of the deepest woods; past Fales' pond， where there would be skating by Christmas; then on to the former cow pastures， now overgrown with wild carry and young evergreens.
My specifications were demanding， yet simple： the tree must be a white pine. Nothing else would do. White pine was soft in my hands ，the bark smooth; there were five silky needles to the cluster， bluishgreen when healthy. Translucent bubbles of sap oozed here and there， crusted over like gumdrops， bitter or taste， essence of Christmas. No pruning would be allowed. The top might be cut just enough to permit fitting the Tree Top Krystal Star， but nothing more.
By November， the choice was usually narrowed to， say， that tree growing near the old graver pit or the somewhat rounder one in the birches near the spring.
“Found our tree yet， Charles?” my mother would ask when December arrived. She knew the game I played， but whether she ever understood how serious I was about it， I don't know. I would answer， matter-of-factly， that I had my eye on one or two， but I didn’t say more. You can't describe a perfect tree， I thought.
About a week before Christmas was the time for the final decision. The woods were cold by then and quiet. The trees looked different in winter's twilight than in the sunshine of autumn. Freezing temperatures blackened their green needles and stiffened the movement of branches.
One last judging of the finalists and I would set a course for the chosen tree. I should say to myself that it had been a close contest this year， as it should be.
I always cut with a small， sharp saw， never risked hacking my prize with an ax. I would drop down to my knees， parting the lower branches， feeling for the trunk where it entered the earth， pawing aside dry needles with my hands， making way for the blade. With the first strokes of the saw， the scent of pine pitch rose like incense in nature's cathedral. Creamy-white sawdust spurted from the cut. Back and forth， back and forth; then lean on the trunk， pressing hard with one hand， still cutting with the other until， with a rush of whispers， the white pine would fall.
“It's not heavy; it’s my tree，” might have been my comment if anyone had asked me how a youngster could carry a seven-foot p8ine. I'd drag it for a while， then， afraid of breaking branches， I’d shift it to my back， feeling the needles brush my face as I walked.
Outside our kitchen window， I would put the tree down and call ort to my mother. She would come to the window and nod while I pivoted the tree around， 360 degrees， in a preview of its perfection.
For the stand we used a cross of two-by-fours my late father had nailed together for my first tree. It had been in service ever since.
“It's a beautiful tree!” my mother would say.“ It’s perfect， son.”
“Almost ，” I'd agree with professional restraint， but in my fantasy， I could almost see a headline in our local paper： FRANKLIN BOY FINDS PERFECT TREE FOURTH YEAR IN A ROW.
When my first wartime Christmas came， I was in basic training in New Jersey and not sure if I could make it home for the holiday. Only on the afternoon of December 23 was the list of men who would have three-day passes posted. I was one of the lucky ones.
It was Christmas Eve when I arrived， and a light snow had fallen. Mother opened the front door. I could see beyond her， into the corner of the living room where the tree had always stood. There were lights， all colors， and ornaments shining against the green of a pine.
“Where did it come from?” I asked， my old proprietary feeling returning.
“I asked the Gates boy to cut it，” my mother said.“ I wouldn't have had one just for myself， but when you called——oh， such a rush! He just brought it in this afternoon…”
The pine reached to the proper height， almost to the ceiling， and the Tree Top Krystal Star was in its place. A few green boughs reached about a little awkwardly at the sides， I thought， and there was a bit of bare trunk showing in the middle. But for all its minor imperfections， the tree filled the room with warm light and the whole house with the aroma of Christmas.
“It's not like the ones you used to find，” my mother went on. “ Yours were always so shapely. I suppose the Gates boy didn’t know where to look. But I couldn't be fussy.”
“Don't worry，” I told her. “It’s perfect.”
It wasn't， of course， not by the rules of the old game. But at that moment I realized something for the first time; all Christmas trees are perfect.
英语六级美文阅读篇二失而复得的圣诞节
Christmas was a quiet affair when I was growing up. There were just my parents and me. I vowed that someday I'd marry and have six children， and at Christmas my house would vibrate with energy an love.
I found the man who shared my dream， but we had not reckoned on the possibility of infertility. Undaunted， we applied for adoption and， within a year， he arrived.
We called him our Christmas Boy because he came to us during that season of joy， when he was just six days old. Then nature surprised us again. In rapid succession we added two biological children to the family - not as many as we had hoped for， but compared with my quiet childhood， three made an entirely satisfactory crowd.
As our Christmas Boy grew， he made it clear that only he had the expertise to select and decorate the Christmas tree each year. He rushed the season， starting his gift list in November. He pressed us into singing carols， our froglike voices contrasting with his musical gift of perfect pitch. Each holiday he stirred us up， leading us through a round of merry chaos.
Our friends were right about adopted children not being the same. Through his own unique heredity， our Christmas Boy brought color into our lives with his irrepressible good cheer， his bossy wit. He made us look and behave than we were.
Then， on his 26th Christmas， he left us as unexpectedly as he had come. He was killed in a car accident on his way home to his young wife and infant daughter. But first he had stopped by the family home to decorate our tree.
Grief-stricken， his father and I sold our home， where memories clung to every room， and moved away.
In the 17 years that followed his death， his widow remarried; his daughter graduated from secondary school. His father and I grew old enough to retire， and in December 1986 we decided to return home.
The streets were ablaze with lights. Looking away from the glow I fixed my gaze on the distant mountains， where our adopted son had loved to go in search of the perfect tree. Now in the foothills there was his grave - a grave I could not bear to visit.
We settled into a small， boxy house， so different from the family home where we had orchestrated our lives. It was quiet， like the house of my childhood. Our other son had married and begun his own Christmas traditions in another part of the country. Our daughter， an artist， seemed fulfilled by her career.
While I stood staring toward the mountains one day， I heard a car pull up， then the impatient peal of the doorbell. There stood our grand-daughter， and in her gray-green eyes and impudent grin I saw the reflection of our Christmas Boy.
Behind her， lugging a large pine tree， came her mother， stepfather and ten-year-old half brother. They swept past us in a flurry of laughter; they decorated the tree and piled gaily wrapped packages under the boughs.
"You'll recognize the ornaments，" said my former daughter-in-law. "They were his. I saved them for you."
When I murmured， in remembered pain， that we hadn't had a tree for 17 years， our cheeky grand-daughter said， "Then it's time to have one!"
They let in a whirl， shoving one another out the door， but not before asking us to join them the next morning for church and for dinner at their home.
"Oh，" I began， "we just can't."
"You sure can，" ordered our granddaughter， so bossy as her father had been. "I'm singing the solo and I want to see you there."
We had long ago given up the poignant Christmas services， but now， under pressure， we sat rigid， in the front pew， fighting back tears.
Then it was also time. Our granddaughter's magnificent soprano voice soared， clear and true， in perfect pitch. In a rare emotional response， the congregation applauded in delight. How her father would have relished that moment.
We had been alerted that there would be a lot of people for dinner - but 35! Assorted relatives filled every corner of the house; small children， noisy and exuberant， seemed to bounce off the walls. I could not sort out who belonged to whom， but it didn't matter. They all belonged to one another. They took us in， enfolded us in joyous camaraderie. We sang carols in loud， off-key voices， saved only by that amazing soprano.
Sometime after dinner， before the sunset， it occurred to me that a true family is not always one's own flesh and blood. It is a climate of the heart. Had it not been for our strangers who would help us hear the music again.
Late， our granddaughter asked us to come along with her. "I'll drive，" she said. "There's a place I like to go." She jumped behind the wheel of the car and zoomed off toward the foothills.
Alongside the headstone rested a small， heart-shaped rock， slightly cracked， painted by our artist daughter. On its weathered surface she had written. "To my brother， with love." Across the crest of the grave lay a holly-bright Christmas wreath. Our No. 2 son， we learned， sent one every year.
As we stood by the headstone in the chilly but somehow comforting silence， we were not prepared for our unpredictable granddaughter's next move. Once more that day her voice， so like her father's， lifted in song， and the mountainside echoed on and on into infinity.
When the last pure note had faded， I felt， for the first time since our son's death， a sense of peace， of the positive continuity of life， of renewed faith and hope. The real meaning of Christmas had been restored to us.
英语六级美文阅读篇三帝国之都-New York
New York is full of tourist locations, and thankfully, nearly 100% of them are conveniently walkable from each other, frequented by taxi cabs, or linked up by the nexus of subway lines which enmesh[9] Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx. (Grab a free map at any subway station. Sorry, Staten Island is not part of the subway system in any significant way.)
Subways are body-to-body crowded during rush hour, and are generally safe into the late evening. Later at night, express stations and those near nightlife destinations tend to be more populated and safer than others. Don't take chances, however. A cab ride is cheaper than getting mugged and a lot easier on the nerves. Also, much faster. Subways run less frequently at night, causing some extended, boring waits on station platforms. Make it easy: take cabs after dinner.
Speaking of cabs, they carry up to four people at a time. They all have meters, so there's no need to negotiate a price. Cabs with their rooftop lights lit are available, those with no lights on up top have a fare already. To hail a cab (they're all yellow), simply raise a hand from the sidewalk or from a few steps into the street. If there are available cabs driving by, they'll swarm. If you'd like them to drive faster, smoother, slower, etc, just ask. Cabs are most easily found where there are people working, playing, touristing, etc. They can be sparse elsewhere. Tips are expected. Anything that's not yellow and has no meter is not a sanctioned cab.
You can pick up a taxi or bus at any of the local airports, or, for a more elegant ride, try calling for a pick up by a car service.
If you plan to spend significant time outside of Manhattan, you should consider renting a car. Though there are subways in Brooklyn, Queens and the Bronx, the lines essentially run in and out of Manhattan, making traveling within the outer boroughs or among them impractical. Buses make up for this, and can get you where you want to go, but are no replacement for a rental car.
North and East of the city, commuter train lines such as the Long Island Rail Road and MetroNorth, like the subways, are oriented towards moving folks in and out of the city. Between them and local buses, you can eventually get where you need to go, but they are highly inconvenient[10] for tourism; unless you're on a backpacking budget, rent a car.
And a good road map. The good thing about the New York Metro Area highways is that there are many ways to get from Point A to Point B. The down side is that they're all crowded with traffic. Avoid rush hour and overly complicated routes. Each highway switch is another opportunity to get lost. Most destinations can provide advisable driving directions.
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