Every year on my birthday, from the time I turned 12, a bunch of white flowers was put to my house.
作者&投稿：匡韩 （若有异议请与网页底部的电邮联系）
41.B 42.C43.D 41.解析：这是一道主旨题。这篇短文讲述了一个关于母爱的故事，充分表现了母亲对子女的爱。42.解析：这是一道细节推断题。根据第三段“In fact，my mother wanted her children to see themselves much like the gardenia—lovely，strong and perfect with perhaps a bit of mystery.”可判断出她想让自己的孩子幸福、强壮。43.解析：根据最后一句“That was the year the gardenia stopped coming.”可判断出是作者的母亲在她每个生日送给她一枝白色的栀子花。
我从12岁时，每一年我的生日，都会有一朵白色的栀子花送到我家。没有卡片跟它一起，到花店铺去问也没得到答案。过了一些日子，我不再试图去发现发件人的名字，只是很高兴的看着在柔软的粉色纸里的美丽的白花。
但我一直在想象谁可能是送礼者。我最快乐的时光，有些是花在了思考有关发件人。我的母亲鼓励这些想象。她问我是否有为他做了特别的善良的事，也许是在冬天里帮助过的一位过街老人。作为一个女孩，虽然，我更喜欢想象，这可能是个我遇到的男孩子
-Marsha Arons
Every year on my birthday from the time I turned 12, a white gardenia was delivered to my house in Bethesda, MD. No card or note came with it. Calls to the florist were always in vain—it was a cash purchase. After a while I stopped trying to discover the sender‘s identity and just delighted in the beauty and heady perfume of that one magical, perfect white flower nestled in soft pink tissue paper.
But I never stopped imagining who the anonymous giver might be. Some of my happiest moments were spent daydreaming about someone wonderful and exciting but too shy or eccentric to make known his or her identity.
My mother contributed to these imaginings. She’d ask me if there were someone for whom I had done a special kindness who might be showing appreciation. Perhaps the neighbor I‘d help when she was unloading a car full of groceries. Or maybe it was the old man across the street whose mail I retrieved during the winter so he wouldn’t have to venture down his icy steps. As a teen-ager, though, I had more fun speculating that it might be a boy I had a crush on or one who had noticed me even though I didn't know him.
When I was 17, a boy broke my heart. The night he called for the last time, I cried myself to sleep. When I awoke in the morning, there was a message scribbled on my mirror in red lipstick: “Heartily know, when half-gods go, the gods arrive.” I thought about that quotation from Emerson for a long time, and until my heart healed, I left it where my mother had written it. When I finally went to get the glass cleaner, my mother knew everything was all right again.
I don’t remember ever slamming my door in anger at her and shouting, “You just don‘t understand!” Because she did understand.
One month before my high school graduation, my father died of a heart attack. My feelings ranged from grief to abandonment, fear and overwhelming anger that my dad was missing some of the most important events in my life. I became completely uninterested in my upcoming graduation, the senior class play and the prom. But my mother, in the midst of her own grief, would not hear of my skipping any of those things.
The day before my father died, my mother and I had gone shopping for a prom dress. We’d found a spectacular one, with yards and yards of dotted Swiss in red, white and blue. It made me feel like Scarlet O‘Hara, but it was the wrong size. When my father died, I forgot about the dress.
My mother didn’t. The day before the prom, I found that dress—in the right size—draped majestically over the living room sofa. It wasn't just delivered, still in the box. It was presented to me—beautifully, artistically, lovingly. I didn’t care if I had a new dress or not. But my mother did.
She wanted her children to feel loved and lovable, creative and imaginative, imbued with a sense that there was magic in the world and beauty even in the face of adversity. In truth, my mother wanted her children to see themselves much like the gardenia—lovely, strong and perfect—with an aura of magic and perhaps a bit of mystery.
My mother died 10 days after I was married. I was 22. That was the year the gardenias stopped coming.
Every year on my birthday from the time I turned 12, a white gardenia was delivered to my house in Bethesda, MD. No card or note came with it. Calls to the florist were always in vain—it was a cash purchase. After a while I stopped trying to discover the sender‘s identity and just delighted in the beauty and heady perfume of that one magical, perfect white flower nestled in soft pink tissue paper.
But I never stopped imagining who the anonymous giver might be. Some of my happiest moments were spent daydreaming about someone wonderful and exciting but too shy or eccentric to make known his or her identity.
My mother contributed to these imaginings. She’d ask me if there were someone for whom I had done a special kindness who might be showing appreciation. Perhaps the neighbor I‘d help when she was unloading a car full of groceries. Or maybe it was the old man across the street whose mail I retrieved during the winter so he wouldn’t have to venture down his icy steps. As a teen-ager, though, I had more fun speculating that it might be a boy I had a crush on or one who had noticed me even though I didn't know him.
When I was 17, a boy broke my heart. The night he called for the last time, I cried myself to sleep. When I awoke in the morning, there was a message scribbled on my mirror in red lipstick: “Heartily know, when half-gods go, the gods arrive.” I thought about that quotation from Emerson for a long time, and until my heart healed, I left it where my mother had written it. When I finally went to get the glass cleaner, my mother knew everything was all right again.
I don’t remember ever slamming my door in anger at her and shouting, “You just don‘t understand!” Because she did understand.
One month before my high school graduation, my father died of a heart attack. My feelings ranged from grief to abandonment, fear and overwhelming anger that my dad was missing some of the most important events in my life. I became completely uninterested in my upcoming graduation, the senior class play and the prom. But my mother, in the midst of her own grief, would not hear of my skipping any of those things.
The day before my father died, my mother and I had gone shopping for a prom dress. We’d found a spectacular one, with yards and yards of dotted Swiss in red, white and blue. It made me feel like Scarlet O‘Hara, but it was the wrong size. When my father died, I forgot about the dress.
My mother didn’t. The day before the prom, I found that dress—in the right size—draped majestically over the living room sofa. It wasn't just delivered, still in the box. It was presented to me—beautifully, artistically, lovingly. I didn’t care if I had a new dress or not. But my mother did.
She wanted her children to feel loved and lovable, creative and imaginative, imbued with a sense that there was magic in the world and beauty even in the face of adversity. In truth, my mother wanted her children to see themselves much like the gardenia—lovely, strong and perfect—with an aura of magic and perhaps a bit of mystery.
My mother died 10 days after I was married. I was 22. That was the year the gardenias stopped coming.
Every year on my birthday, from the time I turned 12, a white gardenia (栀子花) was delivered to my
house. No card ever came with it. Calls to the flower-shop were not helpful at all. After a while I stopped
trying to find out the sender’s name and was just pleased with the beautiful white flower, in soft pink
paper.
I never stopped imagining who the giver might be, though. Some of my happiest moments were
spent daydreaming about the sender. My mother encouraged these daydreams. She’d ask me if I had
been especially kind to someone. Perhaps it was one of my classmates. Perhaps it was the old man. He
lived across the street. I’d delivered his mail during the winter. As a girl, though, I had more fun imagining
that it might be a boy that I had met.
One month before my high school graduation, my father died. I was so sad that I became
completely uninterested in my upcoming graduation dance, and I didn’t care whether I had a new dress
or not. My mother, in her own sadness, however, would not let me miss any of those things. She wanted
her children to feel loved. In fact, my mother wanted her children to see themselves much like the
gardenia: lovely, strong and perfect, with perhaps a bit of mystery.
I got married at the age of 22. My mother died ten years after I was married. That was the year the
gardenia stopped coming.
26. From the passage we know that .
A. the writer was not pleased with the flower
B. the white gardenia was in soft pink paper
C. the gardenia was sent to the writer’s mother
D. the father helped the writer find out the sender
27. Why did the writer think the old man might be the sender of the gardenia?
A. Because he lived just across the street.
B. Because the writer once delivered his mail.
C. Because the old man was very kind to the writer.
D. Because the old man often encouraged the writer.
28. The writer was very sad because .
A. she missed her high school graduation dance
B. she didn’t know who sent her the white flower
C. her father died one month before her graduation
D. she didn’t have a new dress for the graduation dance
29. Who was the real giver of the white gardenia?
A. Her mother. B. Her classmate. C. The old man. D. A boy.
30. Which of the following would be the best title for the passage?
A. A Childhood Dream.
B. A Graduation Party.
C. A Mother’s Love.
D. A Special Birthday.
Mystery of the White Gardenia
-Marsha Arons
Every year on my birthday from the time I turned 12, a white gardenia was delivered to my house in Bethesda, MD. No card or note came with it. Calls to the florist were always in vain—it was a cash purchase. After a while I stopped trying to discover the sender‘s identity and just delighted in the beauty and heady perfume of that one magical, perfect white flower nestled in soft pink tissue paper.
But I never stopped imagining who the anonymous giver might be. Some of my happiest moments were spent daydreaming about someone wonderful and exciting but too shy or eccentric to make known his or her identity.
My mother contributed to these imaginings. She’d ask me if there were someone for whom I had done a special kindness who might be showing appreciation. Perhaps the neighbor I‘d help when she was unloading a car full of groceries. Or maybe it was the old man across the street whose mail I retrieved during the winter so he wouldn’t have to venture down his icy steps. As a teen-ager, though, I had more fun speculating that it might be a boy I had a crush on or one who had noticed me even though I didn't know him.
When I was 17, a boy broke my heart. The night he called for the last time, I cried myself to sleep. When I awoke in the morning, there was a message scribbled on my mirror in red lipstick: “Heartily know, when half-gods go, the gods arrive.” I thought about that quotation from Emerson for a long time, and until my heart healed, I left it where my mother had written it. When I finally went to get the glass cleaner, my mother knew everything was all right again.
I don’t remember ever slamming my door in anger at her and shouting, “You just don‘t understand!” Because she did understand.
One month before my high school graduation, my father died of a heart attack. My feelings ranged from grief to abandonment, fear and overwhelming anger that my dad was missing some of the most important events in my life. I became completely uninterested in my upcoming graduation, the senior class play and the prom. But my mother, in the midst of her own grief, would not hear of my skipping any of those things.
The day before my father died, my mother and I had gone shopping for a prom dress. We’d found a spectacular one, with yards and yards of dotted Swiss in red, white and blue. It made me feel like Scarlet O‘Hara, but it was the wrong size. When my father died, I forgot about the dress.
My mother didn’t. The day before the prom, I found that dress—in the right size—draped majestically over the living room sofa. It wasn't just delivered, still in the box. It was presented to me—beautifully, artistically, lovingly. I didn’t care if I had a new dress or not. But my mother did.
She wanted her children to feel loved and lovable, creative and imaginative, imbued with a sense that there was magic in the world and beauty even in the face of adversity. In truth, my mother wanted her children to see themselves much like the gardenia—lovely, strong and perfect—with an aura of magic and perhaps a bit of mystery.
My mother died 10 days after I was married. I was 22. That was the year the gardenias stopped coming.
甄盆百宁：[答案]1. C 2. D 3. B
永康市17655129358： 英语翻译Every year on my birthday,from the time I turned twelve,a white gardenia was delivered to my house.No card or note came with it.1 to the flower shop ... - ？
甄盆百宁：[答案] 1-5CBDBC 6-10ADCCD 10-15BDBCB 16-19CCDB 我有几个不太确定1.18.19.,别人如果也有答案你可以照着对比一下选择你觉得正确的噢
永康市17655129358： 完形填空 (共15小题,每小题2分,满分30分)阅读下面短文,从短文后所给各题的A、B、C、D四个选项中,选出最佳选项.Every year on my birthday, a ... - ？
甄盆百宁：[答案]1B 2C 3A 4C 5D 6A 7C 8A 9D 10A 11A 12B 13D 14B 15D 1. B. 栀子花被送到我家. 2. C. 给花店打电话总是无济于事(in vain). 3. A. delighted意为“高兴的”.自己沉陷于这束发出芳香的花中. 4. C. 本段第二句的imagine对本选项有提示作用...
永康市17655129358： Every year on my birthday …完形答案 - ？
甄盆百宁： 完形填空 Every year on my birthday, from the time I turned twelve, a white gardenia was delivered to my house. No card came with it. Calls to the flower shop were not 1 at all. After a while I stopped trying to 2 the sender's name and just delighted in ...
永康市17655129358： 阅读理解. Every year on my birthday since I was 11, a white gardenia(栀子花)was sent to my house. No card ever came with it. Calls to the flower ... - ？
甄盆百宁：[答案] 1-3 ADC
永康市17655129358： Every year on my birthday, from the time I turned 12.？
甄盆百宁： 这句话应该后面还有内容才对,正确的解释是,从我12岁时,每年我的生日,
永康市17655129358： Every year on my birthday,from the time I turned 12.这句话好像有问题,什么是每年我生日,我刚满12岁啊 - ？
甄盆百宁：[答案] 这句话应该后面还有内容才对,正确的解释是, 从我12岁时,每年我的生日,
永康市17655129358： every - year - on - my - birthday - from - the - time是什么意思 - ？
甄盆百宁： every-year-on-my-birthday-from-the-time 每年从我生日的时候 every-year-on-my-birthday-from-the-time 每年从我生日的时候
永康市17655129358： Every year on my birthday, from the time I turned 12, a white gardenia was delivered to my hous... - ？
甄盆百宁： 41.B 42.C43.D 41.解析:这是一道主旨题.这篇短文讲述了一个关于母爱的故事,充分表现了母亲对子女的爱. 42.解析:这是一道细节推断题.根据第三段“In fact,my mother wanted her children to see themselves much like the gardenia—...
永康市17655129358： 帮帮我翻译才汉语!急？
甄盆百宁： 从十二岁开始,每年的生日我都会收到一束白色栀子花,从来都没有署名或者留言.打电话去花店也无济于事,因为那对于花店来说只是笔交易而已.过了一段时间,我不再去找那个送花的人,而是享受着那白色的栀子花的美丽芬芳.我一直在...
