Java学习心得
学习感想——思路决定出路人的学习是无止境的，只有不断的学习，才能给自己更丰富，更开阔的思路，经过两天的学习，让我感悟到很多事情，都是有两面性的，穷则变，变则通，出路在于变通，当目前的想法不能成功，说明你的想法有可能是错的，或者是由于没有改变自己的思路或者是懒于改变自己的思路或者是根本不想改变自己的思路，成功总有方法，想成功就要找方法，而思考是一切正确策略和方法的起源，思考其实就是问与答的过程，当你做一件事情没有达到目标时，问自己一个为什么
问自己问题出在了哪里，然后自己给出答案，学会反思学会换位思考。
“没有不好的孩子，只有不好的教育”，例如，在课堂中，在一日生活中孩子没有如我们所预想的那样做一些正确的事情，不能达到我们所要求的目标时，我们只能对孩子着急吗
与其对孩子发脾气，不如改变自己的教育观点理念，反思自己为什么，不能懒于改变自己的思路，就要求别人去适应自己的思路，我们何不反思自己从事情的另一个角度开始着手，可能会有意外收获，就像我们经常说的，给孩子机会孩子就会给你惊喜。
从中，我还深刻的理解到一个道理，大凡世界上能做大事的人，都能把小事做细，做好，做好了每件小事逐渐积累就会发生质变，小事就会变成大事，任何一件小事只要你把它做规范了，做到位了，做透了，你就会从中发现机会，找到规律，从而成就大事，也就是说，一件事情我会做了，但做好了吗，做精了吗，一个人无论从事何种职业，都应该尽心尽责
Jar of love 什么意思.
jar of love 表面意思是：罐子里的爱。
深入一点，对你的爱只份，用一个可闭的来储存我的爱，是对你的执着。
即使哪一天我们分开了，但那份爱依然存在。
虽然知道不可能再在一起，但对你的感情，依旧留有一份。
致——有爱情，却败给现实的人。
如何使用中文版《鲁滨逊漂流记海难生存》
Oliver TwistAfter reading this book, in my mind a long time can not quell. Poor Oliver, already suffering under the loss of family members, but also has been so much torment.I really do not know, under his thin body, has what will enable him to persevere, so that he was hungry, cold, loneliness, sadness, suffering under the tenacious struggle.Oliver suffers great pain, but his yearning for a better life, longing for life is to support the strength of his progress!We live in a honey jar, Fuk nest, they are still complaining, always satisfied.But we have thought that in the world, there are many children, are suffering great pain; positive and hunger, cold, disease, war; are facing loss of their loved ones, wandering street life.And like them as living things, should we be able to see them? No, we can not! Let us hands and brain, to help them to satisfy their thirst for life!
读巜小眼镜侦探记》有感
天,我读了李毓佩写的一本书,是《小眼镜侦探记》。
这本书讲了:小眼镜这回开了眼界了!他在时间大鹰的带领下,游历了四大文明古国拜访了世界...
夜莺与玫瑰英文原文
NIGHTINGALE AND ROSE She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses, cried young Student, but in all my garden there is red rose. From her nest in the oak tree the Nightingale heard , and she looked out through the leaves and wondered. red rose in all my garden! he cried, and beautiful eyes filled with tears. Ah, on what tle things does happiness depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want (没有) of a red rose is my made wretched. Here at last is a true lover, said the Nightingale. Night after night have I sung of , though I knew t: night after night have I told story to the stars and now I see him. hair is dark as the hyacinth()-- blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his face like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow. The Prince gives a ball (舞会) to-morrow night, murmured the young student, and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I should hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break. Here, indeed, is the true lover, said the Nightingale. What I sing of, he suffers: what is to me, to him is pain. Surely love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds (), and dearer than fine opals (). Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the market-place. It may not be purchased of the merchants, nor can it be weighed out in the balance for gold. The musicians will sit in their gallery, said the young Student, and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose to give her: and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept. Why is he weeping? asked a tle Green Lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air. Why, indeed? said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam. Why, indeed? whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice. He is weeping for a red rose, said the Nightingale. For a red rose? they cried: how very ridiculous! and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic (愤世嫉俗者), laughed outright. But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student’s sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love. Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow and like a shadow she sailed across the garden. In the center of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray. Give me a red rose, she cried, and I will sing you my sweetest song. But the Tree shook its head. My roses are white, it answered; as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial (一种玫瑰), and perhaps he will give you what you want. So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial. Give me a red rose, she cried, and I will sing you my sweetest song. But the Tree shook its head. My roses are yellow, it answered; as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden (美人鱼) who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil (黄水仙) that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student’s window (一种玫瑰), and perhaps he will give you what you want. So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student’s window. Give me a red rose, she cried, and I will sing you my sweetest song. But the Tree shook its head. My roses are red, it answered, as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped (摧残) my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year. One red rose is all I want, cried the Nightingale, only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it? There is a way, answered the Tree; but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to you. Tell it to me, said the Nightingale, I am not afraid. If you want a red rose, said the Tree, you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart’s blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into me veins, and become mine. Death is a great price to pay for a red rose, cried the Nightingale, and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot (战车) of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man? So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove. The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes. Be happy, cried the Nightingale, be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart’s blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy (哲学), though he is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as homey, and his breath is like frankincense. The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books. But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale, who had built her nest in his branches. Sing me one last song, he whispered; I shall feel lonely when you are gone. So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar. When she had finished her song, the Student got up, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket. She had form, her said to himself, as he walked away through the grove—that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good! And he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep. And when the moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang, with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her. She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the topmost spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvelous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river—pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree. But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. Press closer, little Nightingale, cried the Tree, or the Day will come before the rose is finished. So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid. And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose’s heart remained white, for only a Nightingale’s heart’s blood can crimson the heart of a rose. And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. Press closer, little Nightingale, cried the Tree, or the Day will come before the rose is finished. So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb. And the marvelous rose became crimson (猩红), like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby (红宝石) was the heart. But the Nightingale’ voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat. Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea. Look, look! cried the Tree, the rose is finished now; but the Nightingale made not answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart. And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out. Why, what a wonderful piece of luck! He cried; here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name; and he leaned down and plucked it. Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor’s house with the rose in his hand. The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet. You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose, cried the Student. Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you. But he girl frowned. I am afraid it will not go with my dress, she answered; and, besides, the Chamberlain’s nephew had sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers. Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful, said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose onto he street, where it fell into the gutter (阴沟), and a cartwheel went over it. Ungrateful! said the girl. I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I dont believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain’s nephew has; and she got up from her chair and went into the house. What a silly thing Love is! said the Student as he walked away. It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics (玄学). So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.
life of ma parker 读后感
When the literary gentleman, whose flat old Ma Parker cleaned every Tuesday, opened the door to her that morning, he asked after her grandson. Ma Parker stood on the doormat inside the dark little hall, and she stretched out her hand to help her gentleman shut the door before she replied. We buried 'im yesterday, sir, she said quietly.Oh, dear me! I'm sorry to hear that, said the literary gentleman in a shocked tone. He was in the middle of his breakfast. He wore a very shabby dressing-gown and carried a crumpled newspaper in one hand. But he felt awkward. He could hardly go back to the warm sitting-room without saying something--something more. Then because these people set such store by funerals he said kindly, I hope the funeral went off all right.Beg parding, sir? said old Ma Parker huskily.Poor old bird! She did look dashed. I hope the funeral was a--a-- success, said he. Ma Parker gave no answer. She bent her head and hobbled off to the kitchen, clasping the old fish bag that held her cleaning things and an apron and a pair of felt shoes. The literary gentleman raised his eyebrows and went back to his breakfast.Overcome, I suppose, he said aloud, helping himself to the marmalade.Ma Parker drew the two jetty spears out of her toque and hung it behind the door. She unhooked her worn jacket and hung that up too. Then she tied her apron and sat down to take off her boots. To take off her boots or to put them on was an agony to her, but it had been an agony for years. In fact, she was so accustomed to the pain that her face was drawn and screwed up ready for the twinge before she'd so much as untied the laces. That over, she sat back with a sigh and softly rubbed her knees...Gran! Gran! Her little grandson stood on her lap in his button boots. He'd just come in from playing in the street.Look what a state you've made your gran's skirt into--you wicked boy!But he put his arms round her neck and rubbed his cheek against hers.Gran, gi' us a penny! he coaxed.Be off with you; Gran ain't got no pennies.Yes, you 'ave.No, I ain't.Yes, you 'ave. Gi' us one!Already she was feeling for the old, squashed, black leather purse.Well, what'll you give your gran?He gave a shy little laugh and pressed closer. She felt his eyelid quivering against her cheek. I ain't got nothing, he murmured...The old woman sprang up, seized the iron kettle off the gas stove and took it over to the sink. The noise of the water drumming in the kettle deadened her pain, it seemed. She filled the pail, too, and the washing-up bowl.It would take a whole book to describe the state of that kitchen. During the week the literary gentleman did for himself. That is to say, he emptied the tea leaves now and again into a jam jar set aside for that purpose, and if he ran out of clean forks he wiped over one or two on the roller towel. Otherwise, as he explained to his friends, his system was quite simple, and he couldn't understand why people made all this fuss about housekeeping.You simply dirty everything you've got, get a hag in once a week to clean up, and the thing's done.The result looked like a gigantic dustbin. Even the floor was littered with toast crusts, envelopes, cigarette ends. But Ma Parker bore him no grudge. She pitied the poor young gentleman for having no one to look after him. Out of the smudgy little window you could see an immense expanse of sad-looking sky, and whenever there were clouds they looked very worn, old clouds, frayed at the edges, with holes in them, or dark stains like tea.While the water was heating, Ma Parker began sweeping the floor. Yes, she thought, as the broom knocked, what with one thing and another I've had my share. I've had a hard life.Even the neighbours said that of her. Many a time, hobbling home with her fish bag she heard them, waiting at the corner, or leaning over the area railings, say among themselves, She's had a hard life, has Ma Parker. And it was so true she wasn't in the least proud of it. It was just as if you were to say she lived in the basement-back at Number 27. A hard life!...At sixteen she'd left Stratford and come up to London as kitching-maid. Yes, she was born in Stratford-on-Avon. Shakespeare, sir? No, people were always arsking her about him. But she'd never heard his name until she saw it on the theatres.Nothing remained of Stratford except that sitting in the fire-place of a evening you could see the stars through the chimley, and Mother always 'ad 'er side of bacon, 'anging from the ceiling. And there was something- -a bush, there was--at the front door, that smelt ever so nice. But the bush was very vague. She'd only remembered it once or twice in the hospital, when she'd been taken bad.That was a dreadful place--her first place. She was never allowed out. She never went upstairs except for prayers morning and evening. It was a fair cellar. And the cook was a cruel woman. She used to snatch away her letters from home before she'd read them, and throw them in the range because they made her dreamy...And the beedles! Would you believe it?-- until she came to London she'd never seen a black beedle. Here Ma always gave a little laugh, as though--not to have seen a black beedle! Well! It was as if to say you'd never seen your own feet.When that family was sold up she went as help to a doctor's house, and after two years there, on the run from morning till night, she married her husband. He was a baker.A baker, Mrs. Parker! the literary gentleman would say. For occasionally he laid aside his tomes and lent an ear, at least, to this product called Life. It must be rather nice to be married to a baker!Mrs. Parker didn't look so sure.Such a clean trade, said the gentleman.Mrs. Parker didn't look convinced.And didn't you like handing the new loaves to the customers?Well, sir, said Mrs. Parker, I wasn't in the shop above a great deal. We had thirteen little ones and buried seven of them. If it wasn't the 'ospital it was the infirmary, you might say!You might, indeed, Mrs. Parker! said the gentleman, shuddering, and taking up his pen again.Yes, seven had gone, and while the six were still small her husband was taken ill with consumption. It was flour on the lungs, the doctor told her at the time...Her husband sat up in bed with his shirt pulled over his head, and the doctor's finger drew a circle on his back.Now, if we were to cut him open here, Mrs. Parker, said the doctor, you'd find his lungs chock-a-block with white powder. Breathe, my good fellow! And Mrs. Parker never knew for certain whether she saw or whether she fancied she saw a great fan of white dust come out of her poor dead husband's lips...But the struggle she'd had to bring up those six little children and keep herself to herself. Terrible it had been! Then, just when they were old enough to go to school her husband's sister came to stop with them to help things along, and she hadn't been there more than two months when she fell down a flight of steps and hurt her spine. And for five years Ma Parker had another baby--and such a one for crying!--to look after. Then young Maudie went wrong and took her sister Alice with her; the two boys emigrimated, and young Jim went to India with the army, and Ethel, the youngest, married a good-for-nothing little waiter who died of ulcers the year little Lennie was born. And now little Lennie--my grandson...The piles of dirty cups, dirty dishes, were washed and dried. The ink- black knives were cleaned with a piece of potato and finished off with a piece of cork. The table was scrubbed, and the dresser and the sink that had sardine tails swimming in it...He'd never been a strong child--never from the first. He'd been one of those fair babies that everybody took for a girl. Silvery fair curls he had, blue eyes, and a little freckle like a diamond on one side of his nose. The trouble she and Ethel had had to rear that child! The things out of the newspapers they tried him with! Every Sunday morning Ethel would read aloud while Ma Parker did her washing.Dear Sir,--Just a line to let you know my little Myrtil was laid out for dead...After four bottils...gained 8 lbs. in 9 weeks, and is still putting it on.And then the egg-cup of ink would come off the dresser and the letter would be written, and Ma would buy a postal order on her way to work next morning. But it was no use. Nothing made little Lennie put it on. Taking him to the cemetery, even, never gave him a colour; a nice shake-up in the bus never improved his appetite.But he was gran's boy from the first...Whose boy are you? said old Ma Parker, straightening up from the stove and going over to the smudgy window. And a little voice, so warm, so close, it half stifled her--it seemed to be in her breast under her heart-- laughed out, and said, I'm gran's boy!At that moment there was a sound of steps, and the literary gentleman appeared, dressed for walking.Oh, Mrs. Parker, I'm going out.Very good, sir.And you'll find your half-crown in the tray of the inkstand.Thank you, sir.Oh, by the way, Mrs. Parker, said the literary gentleman quickly, you didn't throw away any cocoa last time you were here--did you?No, sir. Very strange. I could have sworn I left a teaspoonful of cocoa in the tin. He broke off. He said softly and firmly, You'll always tell me when you throw things away--won't you, Mrs. Parker? And he walked off very well pleased with himself, convinced, in fact, he'd shown Mrs. Parker that under his apparent carelessness he was as vigilant as a woman.The door banged. She took her brushes and cloths into the bedroom. But when she began to make the bed, smoothing, tucking, patting, the thought of little Lennie was unbearable. Why did he have to suffer so? That's what she couldn't understand. Why should a little angel child have to arsk for his breath and fight for it? There was no sense in making a child suffer like that....From Lennie's little box of a chest there came a sound as though something was boiling. There was a great lump of something bubbling in his chest that he couldn't get rid of. When he coughed the sweat sprang out on his head; his eyes bulged, his hands waved, and the great lump bubbled as a potato knocks in a saucepan. But what was more awful than all was when he didn't cough he sat against the pillow and never spoke or answered, or even made as if he heard. Only he looked offended.It's not your poor old gran's doing it, my lovey, said old Ma Parker, patting back the damp hair from his little scarlet ears. But Lennie moved his head and edged away. Dreadfully offended with her he looked--and solemn. He bent his head and looked at her sideways as though he couldn't have believed it of his gran.But at the last...Ma Parker threw the counterpane over the bed. No, she simply couldn't think about it. It was too much--she'd had too much in her life to bear. She'd borne it up till now, she'd kept herself to herself, and never once had she been seen to cry. Never by a living soul. Not even her own children had seen Ma break down. She'd kept a proud face always. But now! Lennie gone--what had she? She had nothing. He was all she'd got from life, and now he was took too. Why must it all have happened to me? she wondered. What have I done? said old Ma Parker. What have I done?As she said those words she suddenly let fall her brush. She found herself in the kitchen. Her misery was so terrible that she pinned on her hat, put on her jacket and walked out of the flat like a person in a dream. She did not know what she was doing. She was like a person so dazed by the horror of what has happened that he walks away--anywhere, as though by walking away he could escape...It was cold in the street. There was a wind like ice. People went flitting by, very fast; the men walked like scissors; the women trod like cats. And nobody knew--nobody cared. Even if she broke down, if at last, after all these years, she were to cry, she'd find herself in the lock-up as like as not.But at the thought of crying it was as though little Lennie leapt in his gran's arms. Ah, that's what she wants to do, my dove. Gran wants to cry. If she could only cry now, cry for a long time, over everything, beginning with her first place and the cruel cook, going on to the doctor's, and then the seven little ones, death of her husband, the children's leaving her, and all the years of misery that led up to Lennie. But to have a proper cry over all these things would take a long time. All the same, the time for it had come. She must do it. She couldn't put it off any longer; she couldn't wait any more...Where could she go?She's had a hard life, has Ma Parker. Yes, a hard life, indeed! Her chin began to tremble; there was no time to lose. But where? Where?She couldn't go home; Ethel was there. It would frighten Ethel out of her life. She couldn't sit on a bench anywhere; people would come arsking her questions. She couldn't possibly go back to the gentleman's flat; she had no right to cry in strangers' houses. If she sat on some steps a policeman would speak to her.Oh, wasn't there anywhere where she could hide and keep herself to herself and stay as long as she liked, not disturbing anybody, and nobody worrying her? Wasn't there anywhere in the world where she could have her cry out-- at last?Ma Parker stood, looking up and down. The icy wind blew out her apron into a balloon. And now it began to rain. There was nowhere.
