Book Report on The Curious Incident of the Dog

This book is interesting; it is a curious incident itself. I tried very hard to find out what is the book mainly talks about when I was reading it. General speaking, this book is a little bit abnormal. Firstly the chapters it has are all in prime numbers. Secondly, the whole book is made up by logical thoughts, almost no personal emotion, except Christopher’s uncomfortable feelings. Then, the book, the stories are in good order. Nothing hard ever been messed up. If once something was messed up, it would soon be put into order. Things that went on are just like those were put into a timetable. The last one is, I didn’t see any sign to show that this book has an ending.
By talking to other people, I found out that this is a book about a kid, who is sick and the illness always makes him to lock himself up. Christopher could always refuse to speak to strangers and touch strange things and like to make and see all things in perfect order. He believed everything has an answer and everything has a formula. When I said, ”this book is interesting”. I also meant, “I like this book”, and Christopher is the main reason why I like it and am familiar with it. Because of that I have a very best friend who is just like Christopher is: Easily get scared, need much more security than normal People, like everything be in order, not very talkative, do not like changing, and very sensitive, except she’s a girl.
I like to be with her, because I know she needs a friend. A real friend to accept her as who she is, to understand her, and so does Christopher.
In the book, in my opinion, Siobhan, his teacher is his closest friend and is trying very hard to help him get along with people.
Still there comes the question, why do people lock themselves up ? What makes them to act like this? They don’t receive enough love or they need more attention focus on them? Usually people, who have sickness in their minds, do not have a happy family background. Christopher, father and mother were always arguing, and his mother was not so patient. My friend, her father had died before she was born, and had been told a lie that his father was in America for 12 yeas before she discovered it herself. Maybe it’s the lie and argument, which made them feel not safe, and so they became sensitive and are afraid of changing. The best way to comfort them and help them is to build up a strong faith that you can be trusted .
I think I am already some help to my friend, and I hope Christopher would be helped out too. Love is always needed.

My Bedroom

I have a small and beautiful bedroom.
In my bedroom, there is a long table. On the table, there is a shelf and many books are on the shelf. I like to read them in my bedroom. There aretwo end tables near the bed. On the end table, there is a lamp, a toy and a photo of mine. The trash bin is under the table. Two closets are near the bed, there are many beautiful clothes in the closets.There is a piano in my bedroom. I often play the piano on the weekend. Over the piano,there is n air-conditioner.
I like my bedroom very much. Do you like it?

Security of ecommerce for Microsoft Retail Management System

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Slot Me Not to Peg In Fields

Slot me not,
To peg in fields...
Appeasing to your comfort,
With a zest to raise your zeal

Not me.
If I want to sneeze out loud!
I'll do it,
When that happens...
In a crowd.

I live not to be so addressed.
Within your limits.
To bring a sweetened peace to your nest.

Not me.
If I want to sneeze out loud!
I'll do it,
When that happens...
In a crowd.

Living with a meaning,
To have others pleased,
Makes that for me a nightmare...
Screamed out from my dreams.

Not me.
If I want to sneeze out loud!
I'll do it,
When that happens...
In a crowd.

You may wish,
To high profile.
Quick to grin...
Or give wide smiles.

But I...
Am not one to do charades.
Or sit pretending,
I'm living to be Grade A.

Not me.
If I want to sneeze out loud!
I'll do it,
When that happens...
In a crowd.

Slot me not,
To peg in fields...
Appeasing to your comfort,
With a zest to raise your zeal.

No not me.
If I want to sneeze out loud!
I'll do it,
When that happens...
In a crowd.

I've earned to do what I please.
And...
If I want to sneeze out loud!
I'll do it,
When that happens...
In a crowd.

Mother & Child

It was Christmas 1961. I was teaching in a small town in Ohio where my twenty-seven third graders eagerly anticipated the great day of gifts giving. A tree covered with tinsel and gaudy paper chains graced one corner. In another rested a manger scene produced from cardboard and poster paints by chubby, and sometimes grubby, hands. Someone had brought a doll and placed it on the straw in the cardboard box that served as the manger. It didn't matter that you could pull a string and hear the blue-eyed, golden-haired dolly say, "My name is Susie." "But Jesus was a boy baby!" one of the boys proclaimed. Nonetheless, Susie stayed. Each day the children produced some new wonder -- strings of popcorn, hand-made trinkets, and German bells made from wallpaper samples, which we hung from the ceiling. Through it all she remained aloof, watching from afar, seemingly miles away. I wondered what would happen to this quiet child, once so happy, now so suddenly withdrawn. I hoped the festivities would appeal to her. But nothing did. We made cards and gifts for mothers and dads, for sisters and brothers, for grandparents, and for each other. At home the students made the popular fried marbles and vied with one another to bring in the prettiest ones. " You put them in a hot frying pan, Teacher. And you let them get real hot, and then you watch what happens inside. But you don't fry them too long or they break."So, as my gift to them, I made each of my students a little pouch for carrying their fried marbles. And I knew they had each made something for me: bookmarks carefully cut, colored, and sometimes pasted together; cards and special drawings; liquid embroidery doilies, hand-fringed, of course. The day of gift-giving finally came. We oohed and aahed over our handiwork as the presents were exchanged. Through it all, she sat quietly watching. I had made a special pouch for her, red and green with white lace. I wanted very much to see her smile. She opened the package so slowly and carefully. I waited but she turned away. I had not penetrated the wall of isolation she had built around herself. After school the children left in little groups, chattering about the great day yet to come when long-hoped-for two-wheelers and bright sleds would appear beside their trees at home. She lingered, watching them bundle up and go out the door. I sat down in a child-sized chair to catch my breath, hardly aware of what was happening, when she came to me with outstretched hands, bearing a small white box, unwrapped and slightly soiled, as though it had been held many times by unwashed, childish hands. She said nothing. "For me?" I asked with a weak smile. She said not a word, but nodded her head. I took the box and gingerly opened it. There inside, glistening green, a fried marble hung from a golden chain. Then I looked into that elderly eight-year-old face and saw the question in her dark brown eyes. In a flash I knew -- she had made it for her mother, a mother she would never see again, a mother who would never hold her or brush her hair or share a funny story, a mother who would never again hear her childish joys or sorrows. A mother who had taken her own life just three weeks before. I held out the chain. She took it in both her hands, reached forward, and secured the simple clasp at the back of my neck. She stepped back then as if to see that all was well. I looked down at the shiny piece of glass and the tarnished golden chain, then back at the giver. I meant it when I whispered," Oh, Maria, it is so beautiful. She would have loved it."Neither of us could stop the tears. She stumbled into my arms and we wept together. And for that brief moment I became her mother, for she had given me the greatest gift of all: herself.