急要,冬天的英语文章!快

急要,冬天的英语文章!快
急要,冬天的英语文章!
快

急要,冬天的英语文章!快
虽然很短,但希望能帮助你! Winter is cold. However the atmosphere is warm enough to light everybody up. We have christmas, new year and the Chinese Lunar new year three big holidays in the winter. So I actually really like winter because we can spend much time visiting each other during these holidays.

The First Snow
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The first snow came. How beautiful it was, falling so silently all day long, all night long, on the mountains, on the meadows, on the roofs of th...

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The First Snow
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The first snow came. How beautiful it was, falling so silently all day long, all night long, on the mountains, on the meadows, on the roofs of the living, on the graves of the dead. All white save the river, that marked its course by a winding black line across the landscape; and the leafless trees, that against the leaden sky now revealed more fully the wonderful beauty and intricacies of their branches. What silence, too, came with the snow, and what seclusion! Every sound was muffled, every noise changed to something soft and musical. No more tramping hoofs, no more rattling wheels! Only the chiming of sleigh-bells, beating as swift and merrily as the hearts of children
First Snow
By John Boynton priestley
When I got up this morning the world was a chilled hollow of dead white and faint blues. The light that came through the windows was very queer, and it contrived to make the familiar business of splashing and shaving and brushing and dressing very queer too. Then the sun came out, and by the time I had sat down to breakfast it was shining bravely and flushing the snow with delicate pinks. The dining-room window had been transformed into a lovely Japanese print. The little plum-tree outside, with the faintly flushed snow lining its boughs and artfully disposed its trunk, stood in full sunlight. An hour or two later everything was a cold glitter of white and blue. The world had completely changed again. The little Japanese prints had all vanished. I looked out of my study window, over the garden, the meadow, to the low hills beyond, and the ground was one long glare, the sky was steely, and all the trees so many black and sinister shapes. There was indeed something curiously sinister about the whole prospect. It was as if our kindly country-side, close to the very heart of England, had been turned into a cruel steppe, At any moment, it seemed, a body of horsemen might be seen breaking out from the black copse, so many instruments of tyranny, and shots might be heard and some distant patch of snow be reddened. It was that kind of landscape.
Now it has changed again. The glare has gone and no touch of the sinister remains. But the snow is falling heavily, in great soft flakes, so that you can hardly see across the shallow valley, and the roofs are thick and the trees all bending, and the weathercock of the village church, still to be seen through the gray loaded air, has become some creature out of Hans Andersen. From my study, which is apart from the house and faces it, I can see the children flattening their noses against the nursery window, and there is running through my head a jangle of rhyme I used to repeat when I was a child and flattened my nose against cold window to watch the failing snow:
Snow, snow faster:
White alabaster!
Killing geese in Scotland,
Sending feathers here!
This morning when I first caught sight of the unfamiliar whitened world, I could not help wishing that we had snow oftener, that English winters were more wintry. How delightful it would be, I thought, to have months of clean snow and a landscape sparkling with frost instead of innumerable gray featureless days of rain and raw winds. I began to envy my friends in such places as the Eastern States of America and Canada, who can count upon a solid winter every year and know that the snow will arrive by a certain date and will remain, without degenerating into black slush, until Spring is close at hand. To have snow and frost and yet a clear sunny sky and air as crisp as a biscuit -- this seemed to me happiness indeed. And then I saw that it would never do for us. We should be sick of it in a week. After the first day the magic would be gone and there would be nothing left but the unchanging glare of the day and the bitter cruel nights. It is not the snow itself, the sight of the blanketed world, that is so enchanting, but the first coming of the snow, the sudden and silent change.
FIRST SNOW
By Jonathan Nicholas
He wasn't sure what had awakened him. Perhaps the child had made some small noise in her sleep. But as he peeked from beneath the covers, his gaze was drawn not to the cradle but to the window.
It was then that he realized what had sneaked through the shield of his slumbers. It was the sense of falling snow.
Quietly, so as not to disturb the child's mother, he rose from the bed and inched toward the cradle. Reaching down, he gently lifted the warm bundle to his shoulder. Then, as he tiptoed from the bedroom, she lifted her head, opened her eyes and - daily dose of magic - smiled up at her dad.
He carried her downstairs, counting the creaks on the way. Together, they settled in at the kitchen table, and the adult in him slipped away. Two children now, they pressed their noses against the glass.
The light from the street lamp on the corner filtered down through the birch trees, casting a glow as green as a summer memory upon the winter-brown back yard. From the distance came the endless echo of the stoplight, flashing its ruby message, teasing like a dawn that would not come.
The flakes were falling thick and hard now, pouring past the window, a waterfall of mystery. Occasionally, one would stick to the glass, as if reluctant to tumble to its fate. Then, slowly, slipping and sliding down the glass, it would melt, its beauty fleeting. Gone.
Within an hour, a white tablecloth was spread upon the lawn. And as gray streaks of dawn unraveled along the black seam of the distant hills, father and daughter watched the new day ripple across the neighborhood.
A porch light came on. A car door slammed. A television flickered.
Across the street, a family scurried into gear. But this day was different. Glimpsed through undraped window as they darted from room to room, the slim figures of the children seemed to grow ever fatter until, finally, the kitchen door flew open and out burst three awesomely bundled objects that set instantly to rolling in the snow.
He wondered where they had learned this behavior. Even the littlest one, for whom this must have been the first real snowfall, seemed to know instinctively what to do.
They rolled in it, they tasted it, they packed it into balls and tossed it at one another. Then, just when he thought they might not know everything, they set about shaping a snowman on the crest of the hill.
By the time the snowman's nose was in place, the neighborhood was fully awake. A car whined in protest, but skidded staunchly out of its driveway. Buses ground forward like Marines, determined to take the hill. And all the while, the baby sat secure and warm in his arms.
He knew, of course, that she wouldn't remember any of this. For her there would be other snowfalls to recall. But for him, it was her first. Their first. And the memory would stay, cold and hard, fresh in his thoughts, long after the snowman melted.

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