爱华网近现代兴起的美文,受近代西方美学影响,更是将音乐美(当然,还有绘画、雕塑等多种美学形式)当做文章不可或缺的表现手法。下面是小编带来的1000字英文美文，欢迎阅读!
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The Driftwood QueenThe ocean is， was and always will be a big part of my life. My parents were ocean aficionados， and I was introduced to its beauty and serenity at an early age. I learned to swim before I walked， had a fishing pole placed in my hands at age two and was taught how to pilot a small boating craft by age five-thanks to my father， who allowed me to "assist" in rowing home.
My fascination with the ocean escalated as the family spent the summer on the eastern end of Long Island， on the shore of the Atlantic Ocean. I was an early riser， and by age ten I was permitted to go down to the beach in the morning to collect shells on my own. Every day I would dress quickly， grab my bucket and head for the beach. I would climb the sand dunes that hid the ocean from view and sit quietly at the top and watch the waves roll into shore as I ate my breakfast roll.
One morning I noticed an older， shabbily dressed woman walking along the beach pulling， of all things， a sled. Now and then， she would stop， pick up a piece of driftwood， examine it carefully and either discard it or place it on her sled.
I called out to her.
"Hello，" I said.
She didn't acknowledge me. As only a child can， I took this as an open invitation to join the search. I looked for any driftwood that she had missed and retrieved it for her inspection. She said nothing， but seemed pleased with my company.
After a half-hour， I tapped her on the shoulder， said good-bye and started for home.
After telling my parents about my new acquaintance， my mother explained that I had met， as the town folk called her， The Driftwood Queen， or "Queenie" for short.
Dad said she was a poor soul who lived in a rundown cottage near the Bay. The community left food packages on her doorstep once a week， and the church collected clothing on her behalf. No one knew her real name， and many stories had circulated about where she had come from and why she collected the driftwood. Everyone had a different slant on the story， but the exact truth had never surfaced.
She had become the town enigma， known only by her nickname.
My parents were kind and loving people and saw no problem with my association with Queenie. So each morning I would wait for her to appear and was always delighted at the smile on her face when she spotted me. I now carried an extra breakfast roll with me， and Queenie devoured it with gusto.
We scoured the beach， enjoying the cool ocean breeze and the feel of the ocean mist on our bodies. Although we still exchanged no words， we became friends through our daily enterprise.
One morning I saw a large piece of driftwood floating close to shore and retrieved it before it could be carried out to sea. Queenie was elated. We put the piece on her sled， which was now full， and usually that meant the end of our day together. But Queenie tugged at my sleeve and motioned for me to follow her. Before long we stood in front of a small house that had fallen into disrepair.
Remembering how my father had described Queenie's home， I knew where I was. She deposited the large piece of wood that we had found earlier next to the house， then beckoned me to follow her inside. I couldn't believe what I saw. All the furniture， the cabinets， the pictures on the wall and the many exquisite-looking sculptures-all were made from driftwood.
"Queenie， did you make all these things?" I exclaimed. She nodded her head， smiled a toothless grin and gestured for me to sit down. She left for a second. When she returned， she placed some cookies in front of me and scribbled on a large note pad. Her message said， "Hello Anne， my name is Erma. Welcome to my home."
I smiled and answered， "Hi Erma， these cookies are great， and your house is beautiful."
She reached over and patted my hands with great affection and then began to write again. "I don't talk very well， but I want you to know that I love your company."
"Me， too， Erma."
We continued our daily quests until it was time for the family to return to the city. Summer was almost over， and school beckoned. I saw tears in my friend's eyes as I said good-bye， and I assured her that I would see her next summer. She placed a small package wrapped in newspaper in my hands and kissed me on the cheek. I ran home， not turning to wave， as I knew I would cry. Inside the package was a seagull carved from driftwood. Today， some forty-eight years later， it still stands in my curio cabinet.
Sadly， I never saw Erma again. My parents sat me down after school one day to say a letter had arrived from the chaplain at the hospital on Long Island.
1000字英文美文阅读
Watching Me Go The crayoned picture shows a first-grade boy with shoebox arms， stovepipe legs and tears squirting like melon seeds. The carefully printed caption reads， "I am so sad." It is my son Brendan's drawing-journal entry for September 19. Brendan cried his first day of school， dissolving at his classroom door like a human bouillon cube. The classroom jiggled with small faces， wet-combed hair， white Nikes and new backpacks. Something furry scuttled around in a big wire cage. Garden flowers rested on Mrs. Phillips's desk. Mrs. Phillips has halo status at our school. She is a kind， soft-spoken master of the six-year-old mind. But even she could not coax Brendan to a seat. Most kids sat eagerly awaiting Dick and Jane and two plus two. Not my Brendan. His eyes streamed， his nose ran and he clung to me like a snail on a strawberry. I plucked him off and escaped. It wasn't that Brendan didn't like school. He was the kid at the preschool Christmas concert who knew everyone's part and who performed "Jingle Bells" with operatic passion. Brendan just didn't like being apart from me. We'd had some good times， he and I， in those preschool years. We played at the pool. We skated on quiet morning ice. We sampled half the treat tray at weekly neighbourhood coffee parties. Our time together wasn't exactly material for a picture book， but it was time together. And time moves differently for a child. Now in Grade 1， Brendan was faced with five hours of wondering what I was doing with my day. Brendan always came home for lunch， the only one of his class not to eat at his desk. But once home， fed and hugged， a far-away look of longing would crease his gentle brow--he wanted to go back to school to play! So I walked him back， waited with him until he spotted someone he knew， then left. He told me once that he watched me until he couldn't see me anymore， so I always walked fast and never looked back. One day when I took Brendan back after lunch， he spied a friend， kissed me goodbye， and scampered right off. I went， feeling pleased for him， celebrating his new independence， his entry into the first-grade social loop. And I felt pleased for myself， a sense of well-being and accomplishment that I， too， had entered the mystic circle of parents whose children separated easily. Then--I don't know why--I glanced back. And there he was. The playground buzzed all around him， kids everywhere， and he stood， his chin tucked close， his body held small， his face intent but not sad， blowing me kisses. So brave， so unashamed， so completely loving， Brendan was watching me go. No book on mothering could have prepared me for that quick， raw glimpse into my child's soul. My mind leaped 15 years ahead to him packing boxes and his dog grown old and him saying， "Dry up， Mom. It's not like I'm leaving the country." In my mind I tore up the card every mother signs saying she'll let her child go when he's ready. I looked at my Brendan， his shirt tucked in， every button done up， his toes just turned in a bit， and I though， "OK， you're six for me forever. Just try to grow up， I dare you." With a smile I had to really dig for， I blew him a kiss， turned and walked away.
1000字英文美文学习
The meaning of Happiness
It is a commonplace among moralists that you cannot get happiness by pursuing it. This is only true if you pursue it unwisely. Gamblers at Monte Carlo are pursuing money， and most of them lose it instead， but there are other ways of pursuing money， which often succeed. So it is with happiness. If you pursue it by means of drink， you are forgetting the hang-over. Epicurus pursued it by living only in congenial society and eating only dry bread， supplemented by a little cheese on feast days. His method proved successful in his case， but he was a valetudinarian， and most people would need something more vigorous. For most people， the pursuit of happiness， unless supplemented in various ways， is too abstract and theoretical to be adequate as a personal rule of life. But I think that whatever personal rule of life you may choose it should not， except in rare and heroic cases， be incompatible with happiness. There are a great many people who have all the material conditions of happiness， i.e. health and a sufficient income， and who， nevertheless， are profoundly unhappy. In such cases it would seem as if the fault must lie with a wrong theory as to how to live. In one sense， we may say that any theory as to how to live is wrong. We imagine ourselves more different from the animals than we are. Animals live on impulse， and are happy as long as external conditions are favorable. If you have a cat it will enjoy life if it has food and warmth and opportunities for an occasional night on the tiles. Your needs are more complex than those of your cat， but they still have their basis in instinct. In civilized societies， especially in English-speaking societies， this is too apt to be forgotten. People propose to themselves some one paramount objective， and restrain all impulses that do not minister to it. A businessman may be so anxious to grow rich that to this end he sacrifices health and private affections. When at last he has become rich， no pleasure remains to him except harrying other people by exhortations to imitate his noble example. Many rich ladies， although nature has not endowed them with any spontaneous pleasure in literature or art， decide to be thought cultured， and spend boring hours learning the right thing to say about fashionable new books that are written to give delight， not to afford opportunities for dusty snobbism. If you look around at the men and women whom you can call happy， you will see that they all have certain things in common. The most important of these things is an activity which at most gradually builds up something that you are glad to see coming into existence. Women who take an instinctive pleasure in their children can get this kind of satisfaction out of bringing up a family. Artists and authors and men of science get happiness in this way if their own work seems good to them. But there are many humbler forms of the same kind of pleasure. Many men who spend their working life in the city devote their weekends to voluntary and unremunerated toil in their gardens， and when the spring comes， they experience all the joys of having created beauty. The whole subject of happiness has， in my opinion， been treated too solemnly. It had been thought that man cannot be happy without a theory of life or a religion. Perhaps those who have been rendered unhappy by a bad theory may need a better theory to help them to recovery， just as you may need a tonic when you have been ill. But when things are normal a man should be healthy without a tonic and happy without a theory. It is the simple things that really matter. If a man delights in his wife and children， has success in work， and finds pleasure in the alternation of day and night， spring and autumn， he will be happy whatever his philosophy may be. If， on the other hand， he finds his wife fateful， his children's noise unendurable， and the office a nightmare; if in the daytime he longs for night， and at night sighs for the light of day， then what he needs is not a new philosophy but a new regimen----a different diet， or more exercise， or what not. Man is an animal， and his happiness depends on his physiology more than he likes to think. This is a humble conclusion， but I cannot make myself disbelieve it. Unhappy businessmen， I am convinced， would increase their happiness more by walking six miles every day than by any conceivable change of philosophy.
