Mr．Beckman has worked in a company for nearly twenty years．His job is to copy all the documents the manager writes．His office is on the first floor and the light there is always poor unless it’s fine．So his sight became shorter several years later．He has to wear a pair of glasses when he’s working．Of course, it brought him a lot of trouble．He can’t see anything clearly without glasses．Sometimes he can’t recognize his wife when they meet with each other in the street．

　　The man looked tired this evening．After supper he went to bed while his family were watching TV．Mrs．Beckman didn’t turn off the television until the interesting TV play was over．She came into their bedroom in the dark at half past ten．As soon as she lay down, there was a great noise under the bed．She thought a mouse must have come in again．She jumped off and had to turn on the light and tried to beat it with a stick．She made some noise and it made her husband wake up．

　　“You have never worn glasses when you were sleeping before,” the woman said in surprise．“But why are you wearing them this time?”

　　“Well, dear,” said the man．“I dreamed a lot last night．I saw my late(已故的) parents, but I couldn’t see them clearly．So I have to do so!”

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閱讀理解

　　I've loved my mother's desk since I was just tall enough to sit above the top of it．Mother sat writing letters．Standing by her chair, looking at the ink bottle, pens, and white paper, I decided that the act of writing must be a most wonderful thing in the world．

　　Years later, during her final illness, Mother kept different things for my sister and brother．“But the desk,” she said again, “is for Elizabeth．”

　　I never saw her angry, never saw her cry．I knew she loved me; she showed in action．But as a young girl．I wanted to have heart-to-heart talks between mother and daughter．

　　They never happened．And a gulf opened between us．I was “too emotional(易動(dòng)感情的)”．But she lived “on the surface(表面)”．

　　As years passed and I had my own family．I loved my mother and thanked her for our happy family．I wrote to her in careful words and asked her to let me know in any way she chose that she did forgive me．

　　My hope turned to disappointment, then little interest and, finally, peace – it seemed that nothing happened．I couldn't be sure that the letter had even got to Mother．I only knew that I had written it, and I could stop trying to make her into someone she was not．

　　But the present of her desk told me, as she'd never been able to, that she was pleased that writing was my chosen work．I cleaned the desk carefully and found some papers inside – a photo of my father and a one-paper letter, folded and refolded many times．It was my letter．

　　“In any way you choose, Mother, you always chose the act that speaks louder than words．”

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