【推荐2】It feels like every time my mother and I start to have a conversation, it turns into an argument. We talk about something as simple as dinner plans and suddenly my mother will push the conversation into the Third World War. She’ll talk about my lack of (缺乏) bright future because I don’t plan to be a doctor. And much to her disappointment, I don’t want to do any job related to science, either. In fact, when I was pushed to say that I planned to major (主修) in English, she nearly had a heart attack.

“Why can’t you be like my co-worker’s son?” she shouts all the time. Her co-worker’s son received a four-year scholarship and is now earning 70,000 dollars a year as an engineer. I don’t know what to say except that I simply can’t be like Mr. Perfect as I’ve called the unnamed co-worker’s son. I can’t be like him. I am the type of the person who loves to help out in the community, write until the sun goes down, and most of all, wants to achieve something because of loving it, not because of fame or salary.

I understand why my mother is worried about my future major. I’ve seen my mother struggle to raise me on her small salary and work long hours. She leaves the house around 6:30 am and usually comes back home around 5:00 pm or even 6:00 pm.

However, I want her to know that by becoming a doctor, it doesn’t mean I’ll be successful. I’d rather follow my dreams and create my own future.

【推荐3】I was born under the Blue Ridge, and under that side which is blue in the evening light, in a wild land of game and forest and rushing waters. There, on the borders of a creek that runs into the Yadkin River, in a cabin that was chinked with red mud, I came into the world a subject of King George the Third, in that part of his realm known as the province of North Carolina.

The cabin smelt very strongly of corn-pone and bacon, and the odor of pelts. It had two shakedowns(临时床铺), on one of which I slept under a bearskin. A rough stone chimney was raised outside, and the fireplace was as long as my father was tall. There was a crane in it, and a bake kettle; and over it great buckhorns held my father’s rifle when it was not in use. On other horns hung jerked bear’s meat and venison hams, and gourds for drinking cups, and bags of seed, and my father’s best hunting shirt; also, in a neglected corner, several articles of woman’s clothing. These once belonged to my mother. Among them was a gown of silk, of a fine, faded pattern, which I always wondered. The women at the Cross-Roads, twelve miles away, were dressed in coarse butternut wool and huge sunbonnets. But when I questioned my father on these matters he would give me no answers.

My father was—how shall I say what he was? To this day I can only surmise many things of him. He was a Scotchman born, and I know now that he had a slight Scotch accent. At the time of which I write, my early childhood, he was a frontiersman and hunter. I can see him now, with his hunting shirt and leggins (绑腿) and moccasins（莫卡辛鞋）; his powder horn, engraved with wondrous scenes; his bullet pouch and tomahawk and hunting knife. He was a tall, lean man with a strange, sad face. And he talked little except when he drank too many “horns,” as they were called in that country. These little bad behaviors of my father’s were a permanent source of wonder to me—and, I must say, of delight. They occurred only when a passing traveler who hit his fancy chanced that way, or, what was almost as rare, a neighbor. Many a winter night I have lain awake under the skins, listening to a flow of language that held me spellbound, though I understood scarce a word of it.

“Virtuous(有德行的) and vicious(罪恶的) every man must be,

Few in the extreme, but all in a degree.”

The chance neighbor or traveler was no less struck with wonder. And many the time have I heard the query, at the Cross-Roads and elsewhere, “Whar Alec Trimble got his larnin’?”