Jenny was the only child in her family. She had a quarrel with her mother that afternoon and she ran out of the house angrily. She couldn’t help weeping sorrowfully when she thought of the scolding from her mother. Having wandered aimlessly in the street for hours, she felt a little hungry and wished for something to eat. She stood beside a stand for a while, watching the middle-aged seller busy doing his business. However, with no money in hand, she gave a sigh and had to leave. The seller behind the stand noticed the young girl and asked, “Hey, girl, you want to have the noodles?” “Oh, yes, but I don’t have money on me.” she replied.

“That’s nothing. I’ll treat you today,” said the man “Come in.” The seller brought her a bowl of noodles, whose smell was so attractive. As she was eating, Jenny cried silently. “What is it?” asked the man kindly. “Nothing. Actually, I was just touched by your kindness!” said Jenny as she wiped her tears. “Even a stranger on the street will give me a bowl of noodles, while my mother drove me out of the house. She showed no care for me. She is so merciless compared to a stranger!” Hearing the words, the seller smiled, “Girl, do you really think so? I only gave you a bowl of noodles and you thanked me a lot. But it is your mother who has raised you since you were a baby. Can you number the times she cooked for you? Have you expressed your gratitude to her?” Jenny sat there, speechless and numb with shock: she remembered her mother’s familiar face and weathered hands. “Why didn’t I think of that? A bowl of noodles from a stranger made me feel indebted. Why haven’t I thanked my mum for what she has done for me?” On the way home. Jenny made up her mind to make an apology to her mother for her rudeness as soon as she arrived home.

Nearing the doorway. Jenny took a deep breath.

A gentle touch on her hair called her mind back.

In order to join the Merchant Marines, I had dropped out of college after my first semester. Using an article from Life magazine as my guide I decided to hitch-hike down to New Orleans and see the world.

My family was relatively poor and my youth had been in the workingman’s section of a large New England mill town. My father and I had a hard time since my mother passed away. As she lay dying, my mother said to me in a weak voice, “Son, remember to ask your father for advice at every juncture of your life.” Yet we seemed more like room-mates rather than father-son. He thought I was foolish for dropping out of school, so I didn’t inform him of my plans.

I left a note on the kitchen table, telling him I was going to New York City for a few days and would be back soon. I walked to a highway near where I lived, stuck my thumb out, and was“on the road”.

My trip to New Orleans was a mistake. The Merchant Marine wasn’t taking on any people for a while. I decided to wait in New Orleans until it did. I lasted over a week, living in a dirty hotel until my money started to run out. I had to stay up in the park for a few days. Life seemed to become a continuous adventure. From New Orleans I went to New York and stayed with a friend for a few weeks, and then went to Martha’s Vineyard, living on the beach in April. Later, I lived in an abandoned house in Nantucket and ended up with a long stop in Boston. There was no word from the Merchant Marine. I felt so desperate.

My close friend Jimmy called me one day and asked me how everything was going. I had to tell him the truth and he persuaded me to go back soon.

When I returned to my father’s, I had been away for more than two months.

Finally, he said something about his childhood.

One day, I found a wallet on the street. The wallet contained only three dollars and a very old letter. The envelope was worn and the only thing on it was the return address. I started to open the letter, hoping to find some information. Then I saw the date-1990, and the signature-Beatrice. The letter was written several decades ago.

Then I made every effort and found out that Beatrice was now working in a hospital. I showed her the letter. The second she saw the letter, she took a deep breath and said, “Young man, this letter was the last contact I ever had with Henry. He is my only brother. I loved him very much. I was only 16 at the time and my brother is two years younger than me. If you can find him, tell him I'm still looking for him,” she said and tears began to well up in her eyes. “Mother is waiting for him to come back home.”

When I walked out of the building with the wallet in my hand, the guard of the building recognized the wallet, and with his help, I finally found its owner, Henry. I handed the wallet to Henry and he said, “Yes, that's mine! It must have dropped out of my pocket this afternoon.”

“I read the letter in the hope of finding out who owned the wallet.” I said. The smile on his face suddenly disappeared. He asked, “You read that letter?” “Not only did I read it, but also Beatrice read.” I replied. He suddenly became excited. “Beatrice? You know where she is? How is she? Please tell me,” he begged. “She's fine. She has been looking for you.” I said softly.

He grabbed my hand and said, “Sir, you know she is my only sister in this world. I've always missed her.”

Henry and I took the elevator (电梯) down to Beatrice's room. I walked over to her. “Beatrice,” I said softly, pointing to Henry, who was waiting with me in the doorway. “Do you know the man?”

Beatrice adjusted her glasses, looked for a moment, but didn't say a word．

About three weeks later I got a call at my office from Beatrice．

One day when I was 12, my mother gave me an order: I was to walk to the public library, and borrow at least one book for the summer. This was one more weapon for her to defeat my strange problem, my inability to read.

In the library, I found my way into the “Children’s Room”. I sat down on the floor and pulled a few books off the shelf at random. The cover of a book caught my eye. It presented a picture of a beagle. I had recently had a beagle, the first and only animal companion I ever had as a child. He was my secret sharer, but one morning, he was gone, given away to someone who had the space and the money to care for him. I never forgot my beagle.

There on the book’s cover was a beagle which looked identical to my dog. I ran my fingers over the picture of the dog on the cover. My eyes ran across the title, Amos, the Beagle with a Plan. Unknowingly, I had read the title. Without opening the book, I borrowed it from the library for the summer.

Under the shade of a bush, I started to read about Amos. I read very, very slowly with difficulty. Though pages were turned slowly, I got the main idea of the story about a dog who, like mine, had been separated from his family and who finally found his way back home. That dog was my dog, and I was the little boy in the book. At the end of the story, my mind continued to the final scene of reunion, on and on, until my own lost dog and I were, in my mind, running together.

My mother's call returned, me to the real world. I suddenly realized something.

And years later, she was proud that her son had read thousands of books, and was awarded a PhD in literature.