It was Christmas 1961. I was teaching in a small town in Ohio where my twenty-seven third graders eagerly looked forward to the great day of gifts giving.

Each day the children produced some new wonder—strings of popcorn, hand-made decorations, and German bells made from wallpaper samples, which we hung from the ceiling.

Through it all she remained distant, watching from a far, seemingly miles away. I wondered what would happen to this quiet child, once so happy, now so suddenly withdrawn. I hoped the celebrations would appeal to her. But nothing did.

We made cards and gifts for mothers and dads, for sisters and brothers, for grandparents, and for each other. At home the students made the popular fried marbles（炸玻璃弹珠）and competed with one another to bring in the prettiest ones. “You put them in a hot frying pan, Teacher. And you let them get real hot, and then you watch what happens inside. But you don’t fry them too long or they break.” So, as my gift to them, I made each of my students little bags for carrying their fried marbles.

And I knew they had each made something for me: bookmarks carefully cut, colored, and sometimes glued together; cards and special drawings; liquid embroidery doilies（桌垫）, to name but a few.

The day of gift-giving finally came. We were amazed at our handiwork as the presents were exchanged. Through it all, she sat quietly watching. I had made a special bag for her, red and green with white lace. I wanted very much to see her smile. She opened the package so slowly and carefully. I waited but she turned away. I thought I had failed to break the wall she had built around herself.

After school, the children left in little groups, talking about the great day yet to come when long-hoped-for gifts would appear beside their trees at home.

She stayed, watching all of the other students get dressed and go out of the door. I sat down in a child-sized chair to take a rest, hardly aware of what was to happen.

She came to me with outstretched hands, bearing a small white box.

In a flash I knew—she had made the fried marble chain for her mother, who had passed away three weeks before.

I was sitting next to Missy in my ninth grade world history class when Mrs. Bartlett announced a new project. In groups, we were to create a newspaper around the culture we were studying.

On a piece of paper, we wrote the names of three friends we wanted in our group. After collecting all the requests, Mrs. Bartlett informed us that she would take into consideration the names we chose and would let us know the results the next day. I had no doubt I would get the group of my choice. There were only a handful of sociably outstanding people in the class, and Missy was one of them. I knew we had chosen each other.

The next day, I anxiously expected the class. After the bell rang, Missy and I stopped talking as Mrs. Bartlett called for our attention. She started to callout names. When she reached group three, Missy’s name was called. So I’m in group three, I thought. The second, third and fourth members of the group were called. My name was not included. There had to be some mistake! Then I heard it. The last group: “Mauro, Juliette, Rachel, Karina.” I could feel the tears well in my eyes. How could I face being in that group—the boy who barely spoke English, the one girl who was always covered by skirts that went down to her ankles, and the other girl who wore weird clothes. Oh, how badly I wanted to be with my friends.

I fought back tears as I walked up to Mrs. Bartlett

As I bravely walked to where the others in my groups at,

There was a girl, Anna, who was studying in Esmarth Vil, a primary school in the United States of America.

She was the most hard-working girl in her class, and her marks were higher than all the other students’. She was the best, but nobody wanted to be her friend. They didn’t want to play with her. Instead, they teased her.

One day, one of their teachers, Mr. Smith, arranged an exam for them and a boy, Robert, signed his exam paper using Anna’s name. And Robert also changed Anna’s name for his own immediately after Anna handed in her exam paper. Robert did all this so quickly that nobody noticed it. So, when the teacher returned all the exam papers, everybody was shocked. Anna was sad to find that she had failed the exam, but all the other kids were happy with this.

The next day when Anna arrived at school, all the kids wanted to be with her and invited her to play with them. Surprised though Anna was, she was glad to enjoy their company. When Anna was playing happily with the other children, all of a sudden, the teacher appeared to inform her that there had been a mistake r and that she hadn’t failed.

The teacher explained to all of them what had happened. On hearing the truth, the other kids all stopped playing with Anna at once.

One day, the First Lady of the United States went to visit the school. She wanted to meet every child in the school. During her visit, the First Lady saw that Anna was crying, so she asked her why she was crying. Anna explained what had happened. She told her how the other kids didn’t like her just because she was the most hard-working at the school ant that she always got good results.

The First Lady was saddened to hear this.

After hearing the First Lady’s speech, all the children realized that they had been rude to Anna.

I was 8 years old then. I had little need of luggage. But something about my grandma’s old leather suitcase, which had been there beneath my bed, appealed to my imagination. The cracked (有裂纹的)handle felt firm in my hand and made me feel like I was going to places. But I hadn’t used the old suitcase before that day.

It was a fall morning in our North Carolina town, and a fine mist dampened the fallen leaves. I was angry. My mother had slighted (冷落) me somehow, though now I have no idea what caused my anger. I wanted to make her pay. I decided to run away.

I said, “Goodbye, Mom.” I stood outside the kitchen door with the suitcase firmly in my hand. “Goodbye, Mom,” I repeated twice more. At last, Mom emerged, wiping her hands on a dish towel. I lifted the suitcase a little just to make sure she didn’t miss it. “I’m leaving home,” I said. The plan was to let her suffer guilt and beg for a minute or two, and then I would agree to stay.

“Did you pack lunch?” Mom’s question knocked me off balance. ”I said I’m leaving. I’m running away. Forever!” I said. Instead, she smiled and said, “Well, would you like me to fix you something? I just made chocolate chip cookies.” “Maybe a cookie.” I hesitated. “All right, I’m off.” As I stepped onto the front walk, fresh-baked chocolate chip cookie tucked (被塞入) into my coat pocket, I looked back at our big yellow house.

Surely, she would follow me. I stared at the front door, waiting for it to be opened. I watched the lace curtains in the living room window for movement. But, no! Not even a flicker (摇曳) of a curtain! My mother didn’t care if I ran away. Had she ever loved me at all? So I had nothing to do but go on walking away. I got to the sidewalk and took a right turn, moving slowly on. I had traveled 150 feet before I stopped. I had no idea what would come next, blank and frustrated. I took a bite of the still-moist cookie, put it back into my pocket, and decided that my mother deserved one last chance. I turned around and moved back to the house, leather suitcase swinging like a swing. A moment later, I was back at home.

“Jack?” my mother’s trembling (颤抖) voice was heard from the dark living room.