完形填空

　　As a child, I had a bad fall, leaving a big scar(伤疤)in my eye．Thus my scarred, 　　1　　 and gray eye lived on with me．

　　I walked with my face looking at 　　2　　 so that people wouldn’t see my ugly face．Sometimes people laughed at me．I grew up imagining everyone 　　3　　 me．

　　Yet Mama would say to me,“Hold your head high and 　　4　　 the world．If you do so, people will see your 　　5　　 soul．”She continued this message 　　6　　 I wanted to hide．

　　Those words have meant 　　7　　 things to me over the years．As a 　　8　　, I thought Mama meant,“Be careful or you will 　　9　　 or bump into something because you are not looking．”As a youth, though I tended to look down to 　　10　　 my shame, I found sometimes when I held my head high and let people know me, they 　　11　　 me．Mama’s words helped me begin to realize that by letting people look at my face, I let them recognize the intelligence and 　　12　　 behind both eyes even if they couldn’t see it on the 　　13　　．

　　In high school I did well both academically and socially, 　　14　　 inside I still felt like a freak(怪物)．All I really wanted was to 　　15　　 anyone else．When things got really bad, I would cry to Mama and she would look at me with 　　16　　 eyes and say,“Hold your head high．Let them 　　17　　 the beauty inside．”

　　My mother’s love and 　　18　　 helped me overcome my own sense of inferiority(自卑)．I learnt to face the fact and 　　19　　 myself．

　　Now I have my own family, and“Hold your head high”has been heard many times in my home．Each of my children has felt its inspiration．The gift my mother gave me 　　20　　 in another generation．

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阅读理解

　　When he thought of the past, my grandfather would sometimes show us photographs of himself at school．They were brown and faded, and it was hard to believe that the blurred figure of the little boy in the short trousers and socks could ever have been Grandfather．Besides, he wore a cap－all the boys in the photographs wore caps pulled so far forward that half of their faces were obscured．When Grandfather asked us to pick him out from the group, we would surely point to the wrong boy．

　　On one such occasion my younger sister, aged six, burst into tears when Grandfather proudly guided her finger to the right boy．“How could that boy be you?”she cried．“He should have a beard．”We were, of course, all convinced that grandfathers should have beards, preferably white and bushy, like our own grandfather's．

　　“I was a good scholar,”Grandfather would say, wagging his beard over the photographs．“I should have been top of the class if I hadn't had to get up at six every morning to milk the cows and chop the wood, and again when I came home from school．”

　　“But Saturdays? What did you do on Saturdays?”

　　“Saturdays, if it was fine, I'd be out all day in the fields with the men,”replied Grandfather．“And if it was wet, I'd be helping my mother with odd jobs round the house．There wasn't much time for studying．”

　　We all tried hard to imagine what it would have been like to have seen Grandfather getting up at crack of dawn and never, obviously, having a moment for himself．It seemed we had learnt something from what Grandfather had said about his childhood．

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