题目

Every year, when the air turns sharp, I think about my mother. She was always the first to point out the signs of autumn. There were lessons to be learned from nature in the fall. To mother, autumn was a great book that she’d make up a sea of stories. “You must remember,” she would say, “that the leaves which die in the fall are born again in the spring.”     Balance and counterbalance; harmony and disharmony; lose and renewal. These seemed to be the themes that ran through my mother’s stories ─ and her life.    A memory: when I was seven, on the night of my mother’s fortieth birthday, she took me outside to stand beneath a bright moon. “Look through these,” said my mother, handing me a pair of binoculars(双筒望远镜). “You see that reddish part? That’s the Sea of Tranquility. And the blue shadow to the side? That’s called the Ocean of Storms.” Then she said something about how in life it was necessary to learn to navigate both.    My mother loved the wind. When I was growing up, she would often recite this poem to me:                     Who has seen the wind?                          Neither you nor I,                  But when the trees bow down                          Their heads,                      The wind is passing by.    There’s an old photo of my mother, who is about ten years old, holding the small gray cat. The wind is blowing her long and dark hair. This girl who loved the wind is smiling — perhaps at the feel of the breeze touching her face. As I smiled at the child my mother was, I could think of her without deep feelings of sadness and loss. I thought I could begin to find my new place in the world without her. And so I sat the other night on the floor of my room holding my mother’s handbag. I had brought it home with me from the hospital on the day of her death, but had not been able to open it. Inside, along with the wallet and photos of her grandchildren, I found a folded piece of paper upon which my mother had written these lines from nature writer Wendell Berry:    “Always in the big woods when you step off alone into a new place there will be, along with curiosity and excitement, a little nagging of dread. It is the ancient fear of the unknown, your first bond with the wilderness you are going into.”    Just the sort of thing Mother would say, who could still teach me after all these years.    I went downstairs and opened the door. And suddenly a breeze blew in. “You’ve been six years out of the wind,” I thought. Then I found myself saying, to no one in particular.                       Who has seen the wind?                        Neither you nor I,                    But when the trees bow down                        Their heads,                        The wind is passing by.  51. Why was my mother always the first to point out the signs of autumn?      A. Because she believed autumn was the best season of a year.      B. Because there were lessons to be learned from nature in autumn.      C. Because only then could she make up stories.      D. Because the evening sky was more interesting. 52. What were the themes that ran through my mother’s stories — and her life?      A. Balance and counterbalance.       B. Harmony and disharmony.      C. Loss and renewal.                D. All the above.  53. What did my mother love? A. The sky.          B. Little animals.     C. The wind.       D. The poem.  54. What could I find without my mother?      A. My new place in the world.              B. A folded piece of paper.      C. The poem she loved best.                D. The wallet and the photos. 55. Which do you think is the best title of the passage? A. A great mother, a plain living           B. I’ll never forget my mother      C. A gentle breeze and a cat             D. The girl who loved the wind 答案：BDCAD

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