why i made the decision英文作文【一】
This afternoon I went to the park which was built recently near my home.In the park,I saw many beautiful flowers and trees.The air was quite fresh and brids sang happyly.All the people there were singing,dancing and playing games.What a lovely place!
今天是五天。我去公园与我的家人庆祝这个节日。那里是许多人在公园里。他们中的一些人被拍照，别人是去观光。多么幸福地看着他们。
今天下午我去最近建成的我家附近的公园。在公园里，我看见许多漂亮的`花和树。空气很新鲜，鸟儿地歌唱。所有的人那里是唱歌，跳舞和玩游戏。多可爱的地方！
why i made the decision英文作文【二】
There are many admirable people around us, such as our parents, teachers, polices and so on. But the people I admire most are cleaners. Cleaners work hard silently very day to keep our city clean and beautiful. They get up early in host summer or cold winter when we are sleeping. They don’t work for themselves only, but for us, for our city. Sometimes, we think they are dirty and we don’t want to close to them. It’s not right. They clean our environment by their hard work.
在我们的身边，有许多值得敬佩的人，例如我们的父母、老师、警察等等，但最令我敬佩的人是清洁工。他们每天都默默地辛勤工作，保持城市的干净、美丽。无论是酷暑还是寒冬，我们正在熟睡，而他们去早早起床开始工作。他们不但是为自己工作，也是为了我们大家，为了我们的城市。有的时候，我们会觉得他们很脏，甚至不想靠近他们，这是不对的，他们通过自己的辛勤工作使环境清洁了。
why i made the decision英文作文【三】
你好！
广东的生活你现在一定习惯了，对吧！
最近我都快烦了，之前脑抽和自己打赌，好不我好像快赌输了。脑细胞真不够，左思右想，冥思苦想和日思夜想，天天想还是找不到DA。是吧，你一定刚开始就知道我一定矛盾导致“挂”。我说和自己打赌时你说“厉害了”。这说明什么！哦的天！如此“帅气”的我快要变“衰气”了，我之前认为我一定能以流星划过星空的时间思考，眨眨眼的速度回答的。可都没有。我现在以360度无限回头想的.速度去想，还没找到DA回答个屁！L极度怀疑人生中。
烦心事那么多，故事那么长，即便心中有千言万语想说，可真要说的时候，又哽住了。I，我知道你近来烦心的事比我还多，所以我在QQ上也沉默了。毕竟你们都那么忙我还去打扰就真不对了。哎I，真的觉得Ta很烦就点击“删除好友”，别一整天困自己在那些琐事里。你管那是不是你的风格干什么，先自己轻松再说，一整天因Ta的“神经式烦人”而烦心，你不累我看着也累，替你累，在学校我想的都是你们啊。
一群不让人省心的“娃”。让我一整天瞎操心。没办法唉，遇到了你们，我是得有幸的“操心”的。当初你和Ta反向走时你不一样“脚步自带风，眼泪无一滴”吗！
为你等待晴空的雨宝
20XX年9月28日
why i made the decision英文作文【四】
《I AM》是一部韩国影片，它讲述了一群来自五湖四海的年轻人，为了同一个梦想而努力奋斗、拼搏，最后实现梦想的故事，赞扬了这群年轻人遇到困难不退缩、坚持不懈、积极向上、不怕吃苦的精神。
影片加入了一些喜剧元素，它让我在开怀大笑的`同时还感到一丝惭愧。
我曾经梦想着成为一名拉丁舞者，所以，我要求妈妈给我报名了拉丁舞兴趣班。开始，我学得很带劲、很努力，老师和同学们都夸我跳得好，就这样，铜牌、银牌统统被我轻松拿下。我们该学金牌了，可是，动作很难，而且每天都要练基本功，非常累，所以，我的兴趣逐渐下降，每天心不在焉地学着。一天，我在练舞的时候，不小心扭到脚了，于是，我落下许多课。到考金牌的那天，我勉强通过了，可我对拉丁舞的兴趣已经消失了，于是，我放弃了拉丁舞，也放弃了我的梦想。
现在，我看完《I AM》这部电影后，我感到无比惭愧。为什么那些年轻人可以做到遇到困难不退缩、坚持不懈、积极向上、不怕吃苦，而我做不到？甚至我比他们还要年轻。我以后一定要遇到困难不退缩、坚持不懈、积极向上、不怕吃苦，坚持并实现我的梦想。
why i made the decision英文作文【五】
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 Lodge1on the Pine River in Ossipee, New Hampshire, though the lodge was naught2 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 solitude3abounding4 here. Now we were here, post World War II, post Korean War, Vietnam War on thebrink5. 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 chatter6, in the struggle of pre-dawn animals for the start of a new day, a CooperHawk7 that had smashed down through trees for a squealing8 rabbit, yap of a fox at a youngster, a skunk9 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 growling10 engine, an old solid body van, a Chevy, the kind I had driven for Frankie Pike and the Lobster11 Pound in Lynn delivering lobsters12 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 corrugated13 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 assortment14 of tied flies like a miniature bandoleer ofammunition15 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 bass16 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 aprimal17 plane across the face of a maple18 board. Custom-made, old elegance19, those hands said.
"Barely had coffee," Ed LeBlanc said, the most vocal1 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 pointed2out sitting on a hunk of grill3 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 dents4 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 unearth5 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 demon6 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 glimmers7 of false dawn. I suspect that's where "scrambled8 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, gatherings9, memories, a time and thing not letting go, not being manhandled, not being cast aside.
"You're early enough for eggs and bacon if you need a start." Eddie added, his invitation tossedkindly10 into the morning air, his smile a match for morning sun, a man of welcomes. "We have hot cakes, kulbassa, home fries, if you want." We have the food of kings if you really want to know. There were nights we sat at his kitchen table at 101 Main Street, Saugus, Massachusetts planning the trip, planning each meal, planning the campsite. Some menus were founded on a case of beer, a late night, a curse or two on the ride to work when day started.
"Been there a'ready," the other man said, his weaponry also noted11 by us, a little more orderly in its presentation, including an old Boy Scout12 sash across his chest, the galaxy13of flies in supreme14 positioning. They were old Yankees, in the face and frame the pair of them undoubtedly15 brothers, staunch, written into early routines, probably had been up at three o'clock to get here at this hour. They were taller than we were, no fat on their frames, wide-shouldered, big-handed, barely coming out of their reserve, but fishermen. That fact alone would win any of us over. Obviously, they'd been around, a heft of time already accrued16.
Then the pounding came, from inside the truck, as if a tire iron was beating at the sides of the vehicle. It was not a timid banging, not a minor1 signal. Bang! Bang! it came, and Bang! again. And the voice of authority from some place in space, some regal spot in the universe. "I'm not sitting here the livelong day whilst you boys gab2 away." A toothless meshing3 came in his words, like Walter Brennan at work in the jail in Rio Bravo or some such movie.
"Comin', pa," one of them said, the most orderly one, the one with the old scout4 sash riding him like a bandoleer.
They pulled open the back doors of the van, swung them wide, to show His Venerable Self, ageless, white-bearded, felt hat too loaded with an arsenal5 of flies, sitting on a white wicker rocker with a rope holding him to a piece of vertical6 angle iron, the crude kind that could have been on early subways or trolley7 cars. Across his lap he held three delicate fly rods, old as him, thin, bamboo in color, probably too slight for a lake's three-pounder. But on the Pine River, upstream or downstream, under alders8 choking some parts of the river's flow, at a significant pool where side streams merge9 and phantom10 trout11 hang out their eternal promise, most elegant, fingertip elegant.
"Oh, boy," Eddie said at an aside, "there's the boss man, and look at those tools."Admiration12 leaked from his voice.
Rods were taken from the caring hands, the rope untied13, and His Venerable Self, white wicker rocker and all, was lifted from the truck and set by our campfire. I was willing to bet that my sister Pat, the dealer14 in antiques, would scoop15 up that rocker if given the slightest chance. The old one looked about the campsite, noted17 clothes drying from a previous day's rain, order of equipment and supplies aligned18 the way we always kept them, the canvas of our tent taut19 and true in its expanse, our fishing rods off the ground and placed atop the flyleaf so as not to tempt20 raccoons with smelly cork21 handles, no garbage in sight. He nodded.
We had passed muster22.
"You the ones leave it cleaner than you find it ever' year. We knowed sunthin' 'bout16 you. Never disturbed you afore. But we share the good spots." He looked closely at Brother Bentley, nodded a kind of recognition. "Your daddy ever fish here, son?"
Brother must have passed through the years in a hurry, remembering his father bringing him here as a boy. "A ways back," Brother said in his clipped North Saugus fashion, outlander, specific, no waste in his words. Old Oren Bentley, it had been told us, had walked five miles through the unknown woods off Route 16 as a boy and had come across the campsite, the remnants of an old lodge1, and a great curve in the Pine River so that a mile's walk in either direction gave you three miles of stream to fish, upstream or downstream. Paradise up north.
His Venerable Self nodded again, a man of signals, then said, "Knowed him way back some. Met him at the Iron Bridge. We passed a few times." Instantly we could see the story. A whole history of encounter was in his words; it marched right through us the way knowledge does, as well as legend. He pointed2 at the coffeepot. "The boys'll be off, but my days down there get cut up some. I'll sit a while and take some of thet." He said thet too pronounced, too dramatic, and it was a short time before I knew why.
The white wicker rocker went into a slow and deliberate motion, his head nodded again. Hespoke3 to his sons. "You boys be back no more'n two-three hours so these fellers can do their things too, and keep the place tidied up."
The most orderly son said, "Sure, pa. Two-three hours." The two elderly sons left the campsite and walked down the path to the banks of the Pine River, their boots swishing at thigh4 line, the most elegant rods pointing the way through scattered5 limbs, experience on the move.Trout6 beware, we thought.
"We been carpenters f'ever," he said, the clip still in his words. "Those boys a mine been some good at it too." His head cocked, he seemed to listen for their departure, the leaves and branches quiet, the murmur7 of the stream a tinkling8 idyllic9 music rising up the banking10. Old Venerable Himself moved the wicker rocker forward and back, a small timing11 taking place. He was hearing things we had not heard yet, the whole symphony all around us. Eddie looked at me and nodded his own nod. It said, "I'm paying attention and I know you are. This is our one encounter with a man who has fished for years the river we love, that we come to twice a year, in May with the mayflies, in June with the black flies." The gift and the scourge12, we'd often remember, having been both scarred and sewn by it.
Brother was still at memory, we could tell. Silence we thought was heavy about us, but there was so much going on. A bird talked to us from a high limb1. A fox called to her young. We were on the Pine River once again, nearly a hundred miles from home, in Paradise2.
"Name's Roger Treadwell. Boys are Nathan and Truett." The introductions had been accounted for.
Old Venerable Roger Treadwell, carpenter, fly fisherman, rocker, leaned forward and said, "You boys wouldn't have a couple spare beers, would ya?"
Now that's the way to start the day on the Pine River.
