四六级考试网

While talking on the homophoneI heard the strangest thing.I heard a girl named Summer Winterfall into a spring.I heard a knight who mournedfor Eve and Dawn one afternoonwas later weakened in a dazeby April, May and June.I heard a baker pinched some doughand pitched the batter too.But when the owner fired himthe loafer wouldn’t shoo.I heard a psychic wagered stakesand gamboled as she won.It’s rare to see a mediumwho’s ever so well done.I heard the toast made butter fly.The reason? It was plain.I heard the king was always wet.He blamed his lifetime reign.But now he’s dry; at eight feet tallhis crown was over throne.I guess that’s what I getfor talking on the homophone.

Alex had an allergythat no one could explain.It made him wheeze and cough and sneezeand moan and groan in pain.A single slight exposure,and he’d start to squawk and squeal.A second time ensuredthat he’d be barking like a seal.He’d salivate and slobberas his nose began to twitch.He’d squirm and say his body feltlike one gigantic itch.At last they found the cause,which Alex thought was pretty cool.So now he stays at home;he is allergic to his school.

I look inside my lunch box,and, oh, what do I see?A peanut butter sandwichstaring glumly back at me.I know I had one yesterday,and, yes, the day before.In fact, that’s all I’ve eatenfor at least a month or more.I’m sure tomorrow afternoonthe outlook’s just as bleak.I’ll bet I’m having peanut butterevery day this week.I’m getting sick of peanut buttersandwiches for lunch.Why can’t I have baloneyor potato chips to munch?I wish I had lasagnaor a piece of pumpkin pie.Another day of peanut buttermight just make me cry.But still this awful sandwichis in every lunch I take.You see, it is the only thingthat I know how to make.

I bought my mom an applebut it wasn’t red or green;it was more like bluish-purpleor some color in-between.I wouldn’t call the blueberriesI bought her very blue;they were rather reddish-orangelike a dark vermilion hue.The oranges I got for herweren’t orange as you’d think;they were turquoise on the insideand the outer peels were pink.The strawberries I purchasedweren’t particularly red;They were white with purple polka dotsand silver stripes instead.I got all these by shoppingwhere I’d never shopped before.That’s the last time I buy groceriesat the Rainbow Grocery Store!

I’m Roddy RapscallionI’m rowdy and rude.I’m coarse and I’m callous.I’m crabby and crude.I’m gross and uncivil.I’m hardly a joy.There never was known a more boisterous boy.I screech and I squabble.I bellow and bawl.I haven’t got friends’cause I argue and brawl.I’m nasty and noxious.I rant and I rave.I’m always in trouble.I never behave.I like to throw tantrumsfrom morning till night.Except when my mom’s around;then I’m polite.

An elephant followed me home todayafter waiting outside my class.He patiently puttered around all dayplaying hopscotch and munching grass.He followed me out to the parking lotand then rode with me on the bus.He squeezed in the back near my normal spotwhile the other kids stared at us.He came in my house like a dog or cat,after smashing in through the door.At dinner he pulled up a chair and sat,and then fell through the kitchen floor.I’m trying to sleep, but it’s really toughwith an elephant in my bed.He’s heavy and huge and his skin is rough,and his trunk is across my head.So though it may not seem relevantplease remember to heed this warning.Don’t ever give nuts to an elephantif he follows you in the morning.

My cat likes to sleep in the morning.She naps on my pillow till ten.She’ll then grab a nibble of breakfastand move to the couch in the den.She’ll snooze on the sofa till noontime,and then, for the rest of the day,she’ll drowse in a puddle of sunshineand slumber the daylight away.At sundown she strolls to my bedroom,and spends the whole evening in bed.Her rest is important, for she’s gota long night of sleeping ahead.

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe.With so many children, the place was a zoo.The windows were broken, the roof was a leaker.But that’s what you get when you live in a sneaker.

Mrs. Gordon’s garden growsnot a radish nor a rose.Not a beet or blade of grassin the bed beside our class.Not a truffle. Not a tree.Not a pepper nor or pea.Not a pansy, peach or pear.No azaleas anywhere.Not a pumpkin, parsnip, plum,carrot or chrysanthemum.No forget-me-not or fig.Not a single sprout or twig.No carnations, cabbage, corn.Not a thistle, thatch or thorn.Not a berry. Not a bean.Nothing yet remotely green.Watering and sprinkling seeds,watching warily for weeds,Mrs. Gordon rakes and hoes.Still her garden never grows.But she doesn’t seem to mind.That’s the way it was designed.Mrs. Gordon’s quite contentgardening upon cement.