英语作文 篇4
小学的记忆还没有来得及回忆。有那么一会儿，我已经上了一年中学。回忆起我初中的生活是一种惆怅。我仍然记得那个老师。
与小学和初中相比，年级水平处于低谷。
不知何故，我的成绩直线下降，我被中学吸引住了。它拥有丰富的教育资源、设备和设施.但是当我拿到成绩单时，我仍然记得很清楚。我的老师是一名数学老师，但是激励我的是一名和我联系最少的英语老师。
她的性格善解人意，她和她的同学相处得很好，她偶尔的愤怒很快就会减轻。像往常一样，我有一次像开玩笑一样漫不经心地完成了一篇英语作文。我悄悄地把它放在老师的桌子上，没注意就溜走了。我不想看到老师失望和谴责的眼神。
每隔一个周末，我直到星期二下午才拿到作文。我胆怯地一步一步爬上楼梯。太好了，我敢在没有老师的情况下大胆地走进教室。然而，当我拿起笔记本打开我的作文页时，突然出现了一个晴天霹雳。我作文的背面充满了语法错误，用红色写满了许多英语单词。
我藏在一个没有人的角落里。我打开笔记本，一行一行地看着这些单词。这些话仍然铭刻在我的心里。“我知道你是个聪明的男孩，你认为考试无关紧要，但你想让这个世界变得毫无意义吗？我认为你是一个聪明的男孩，所以振作起来！”我甚至认为这句话是最重要的:“要学好，首先要有乐观向上的学习态度。没有学习态度，怎么能学习呢？”字里行间没有一点知识，都是学习的建议。
当我得到一个合理的分数时，我发现她激励了我。收到那篇文章后，我开始尝试改变我学习的自主性和创造性。我终于发现学习仍然可以这样。
在我的学习中，我总是虚心请教老师和同学，而不是傲慢自大，所以我觉得有一股力量在推动我前进。这股力量给了我前进和跃上顶峰的力量。结果，我赢得了许多奖项。
无论未来发生什么，我都会以不变的动力继续前进，实现更美好的生活。然而，这位英语老师很少和我说话。无论如何，我会用汗水来证明她的鼓励。我仍然想说“谢谢你！”一千句话抵不上这三句真诚的话。
英语作文 篇5
There were three of them. There were four of us, and April lay on the campsite and on the river, a mixture of dawn at a damp extreme and the sun in the leaves at cajole. This was Deer Lodge on the Pine River in Ossipee, New Hampshire, though the lodge was naught but a foundation remnant in the earth. Brother Bentley's father, Oren, had found this place sometime after the First World War, a foreign affair that had seriously done him no good but he found solitude abounding here. Now we were here, post World War II, post Korean War, Vietnam War on the brink. So much learned, so much yet to learn.
Peace then was everywhere about us, in the riot of young leaves, in the spree of bird confusion and chatter, in the struggle of pre-dawn animals for the start of a new day, a Cooper Hawk that had smashed down through trees for a squealing rabbit, yap of a fox at a youngster, a skunk at rooting.
We had pitched camp in the near darkness, Ed LeBlanc, Brother Bentley, Walter Ruszkowski, myself. A dozen or more years we had been here, and seen no one. Now, into our campsite deep in the forest, so deep that at times we had to rebuild sections of narrow road (more a logger's path) flushed out by earlier rains, deep enough where we thought we'd again have no traffic, came a growling engine, an old solid body van, a Chevy, the kind I had driven for Frankie Pike and the Lobster Pound in Lynn delivering lobsters throughout the Merrimack Valley. It had pre-WW II high fenders, a faded black paint on a body you'd swear had been hammered out of corrugated steel, and an engine that made sounds too angry and too early for the start of day. Two elderly men, we supposed in their seventies, sat the front seat; felt hats at the slouch and decorated with an assortment of tied flies like a miniature bandoleer of ammunition on the band. They could have been conscripts for Emilano Zappata, so loaded their hats and their vests as they climbed out of the truck.
"Mornin', been yet?" one of them said as he pulled his boots up from the folds at his knees, the tops of them as wide as a big mouth bass coming up from the bottom for a frog sitting on a lily pad. His hands were large, the fingers long and I could picture them in a shop barn working a primal plane across the face of a maple board. Custom-made, old elegance, those hands said.
"Barely had coffee," Ed LeBlanc said, the most vocal of the four of us, quickest at friendship, at shaking hands. "We've got a whole pot almost. Have what you want." The pot was pointed out sitting on a hunk of grill across the stones of our fire, flames licking lightly at its sides. The pot appeared as if it had been at war, a number of dents scarred it, the handle had evidently been replaced, and if not adjusted against a small rock it would have fallen over for sure. Once, a half-hour on the road heading north, noting it missing, we'd gone back to get it. When we fished the Pine River, coffee was the glue, the morning glue, the late evening glue, even though we'd often unearth our beer from a natural cooler in early evening. Coffee, camp coffee, has a ritual. It is thick, it is dark, it is potboiled over a squaw-pine fire, it is strong, it is enough to wake the demon in you, stoke last evening's cheese and pepperoni. First man up makes the fire, second man the coffee; but into that pot has to go fresh eggshells to hold the grounds down, give coffee a taste of history, a sense of place. That means at least one egg be cracked open for its shells, usually in the shadows and glimmers of false dawn. I suspect that's where "scrambled eggs" originated, from some camp like ours, settlers rushing west, lumberjacks hungry, hoboes lobbying for breakfast. So, camp coffee has made its way into poems, gatherings, memories, a time and thing not letting go, not being manhandled, not being cast aside.
英语作文 篇6
Today is the beginning of seven， I went to town with cousin， the Zhuo flag hill of watching a wonderful acrobatic Festival " to celebrate Chinese New year "。
We arrived， to find a show place， find a place to sit down， and then patiently waited for the show to start。
" The beginning of the show "， do not know who is shouting。 We immediately back to god。
The first program is， little monkey riding old goat go rope。 I saw the old goat carrying small monkey step by step on the rope， hey， too。 Is really amazing！ The next program is more splendid！ For example： wire walking， the tiger jumped the ring of fire， lions and tigers， bears swing across the beauty slip exercise， air swing 。 And this " new acrobatic show" the protagonist is mainly animal。
This " new acrobatic show" is really meaningful！