I taught my cat to clean my room,to use a bucket, brush and broom,to dust my books and picture frames,and pick up all my toys and games.He puts my pants and shirts away,and makes my bed, and I should sayit seems to me it’s only fairhe puts away my underwear.In fact, I think he’s got it made.I’m not too happy with our trade.He may pick up my shoes and socks,but I clean out his litterbox.
My car is constructed of pickles.It’s wonderfully crunchy and sweet.If ever I’m hungry while drivingI pull off a pickle to eat.The engine is made out of gherkins.The dashboard’s an extra-large dill.The windows and wipers are kosher as well as the bumpers and grille.The hood’s made of hamburger slices.The gas tank is brimming with brine.The doors are delectably salty.The stickshift is simply divine.There’s one little problem I’m having.I’m sure you would know what I meanif ever you saw this contraption;my marvelous pickle machine.I guess I’ve included my autoin just a few too many mealsand now it won’t budge when I start it;it seems I have eaten the wheels.
I’d like to sail to Singapore,Jakarta or Rangoon,but our boat is barely movingon this windless afternoon.I’d steer my ship to Stockholm,set a course for Southern Spain,I’d be guided by a lighthou搜刮引擎优化ff the rocky coast of Maine.I’d cut past Krakatauand chart a course to Katmandu.I would voyage into Venice,and I’d cruise around Corfu.I’d glide through the Galapagos,and drift through the Bahamas,where I’d navigate by starlightin my mariner’s pajamas.I’d skim the seven salty seasand plow the briny waves.I would circumnavigate the globeexploring coastal caves.I’ll shortly start my journey.I’ll begin my travels soon,in this boat parked in our drivewayon this windless afternoon.
I cloned myself on Friday night.By Saturday at threemy clone had made another clone.They both looked just like me.They walked like me and talked like me.They acted like me too.They wore my clothes and used my stuffand did the things I do.But worst of all they made more cloneswho then made even more,and soon my house was overrunand I was getting sore.They wouldn’t do my homework,clean my room or make my bed.They wouldn’t wash the dishesor do anything I said.Instead they sat and watched TVand played computer games.They ate up all my favorite snacksand called each other names.And now they like to stay up lateand keep me wide awake.My life is wrecked, but still I hopeyou’ll learn from my mistake.Don’t ever try to clone yourself.But, if you ever do,you’d better hope your clones are notexactly just like you.
Our homework assignment was simply to write downthe capitals of every state.I wrote down MONTANA, NEW YORK, INDIANA.I thought I was doing just great.I wrote down ALASKA, WYOMING, NEBRASKA,VIRGINIA, VERMONT, SOUTH DAKOTA.I also wrote MARYLAND, UTAH, RHODE ISLAND,CONNECTICUT, MAINE, MINNESOTA.I wrote down all fifty and just to make certain,I checked them and then double-checked them.I handed mine in with the rest of the classfor the teacher to go and correct them.I guess I must not have been paying attention,or maybe I’m just a bit deaf.Whatever the reason, I misunderstood,so I got a capital “F.”
I cannot find my elephant.He must have run away.He isn’t on the sofawhere he promised he would stay.I’ve looked around the living room,the kitchen and the hall.My elephant is missingand I’m not sure who to call.I’ll need to get a bloodhoundwho can track him by his scent,or hire a house detectiveto discover where he went.He isn’t in the basementor the attic or the yard.You’d think, to find an elephantwould not be quite so hard.Perhaps I’ll make some posters,and I’ll offer a reward.I’d make it more, but fifty centsis all I can afford.If you should see my elephant,he answers to “Jerome.”Please tell him that I miss himand I wish he’d come back home.He knows the way. It’s up the streetand down our garden path.And next time I won’t warn himwhen it’s time to take his bath.
Our family vacationed in Europe.We flew to the beaches of Spain.We hopped on a ferry to England.We traveled through France on a train.We lugged all our luggage to Denmark.We dragged all our baggage to Greece,We hoisted our backpacks and handbags,our suitcase, our trunk and valise.We rambled through dozens of ruins.We wandered through castles galore.We must have seen hundreds of statues –cathedrals and mosques by the score.We pored over paintings in Paris.We tramped through museums in Rome,and all of the while I was thinkinghow much I would rather be home.At last we are done with our travels!We’ve seen every kingdom and nation.But we’re so completely exhaustedthat we need another vacation!
Melody Ring has a musical family.A musical family has Melody Ring.Her mother likes opera and symphony music,and frequently joins in a chorus to sing.But Melody Ring doesn’t know how to sing.She’s unable to utter a hum or a chirp.She opens her mouth with the best of intentionsbut all she can manage to make is a “BURRRP!”Her father is partial to country and western.He plays his harmonica all through the day,then strums on his banjo or pounds the piano;there’s hardly an instrument father can’t play.But Melody Ring doesn’t play any instruments;not an accordian, trumpet or flute.She’ll pick up a piccolo planning to playbut before she can blow it she’ll let out a “TOOOOT!”Her brother plays drums and electric guitarand he jams with his friends in a rock-and-roll band.He also spins turntables, scratching and rappingand loves to play music his parents can’t stand.But Melody isn’t as cool as her brother.She can’t spin a record. She can’t even rap.She picks up the microphone, ready to rockbut the best she can do is a “PHHHHHT” and a “BRAAAAP!”Melody’s parents are truly embarrassed.They simply don’t know what to say or to do.And so they’ve decided to not say a word…at least until next year, when Melody’s two.
This here is the story of Jed Beaudelay,who once was the head of the Cow Town Ballet,the greatest of all of the old western sights,for Jed would take milk cows and dress them in tights.In tutus and slippers his cows would sashay,they’d spin pirouettes, they’d glissade and plié.And cowpokes from Boston to Monterey Baywould journey to Cow Town to see the ballet.And every night how his cattle would dance!They’d act out a musical cattle romance,with skill and precision, with grace and with flair,they’d glide ‘cross the stage and they’d leap through the air.And when it was over the cowpokes would cheerand even the manliest men shed a tearfor nowhere on Earth but the Cow Town Ballethad anyone ever seen cattle sashay.Old Jed Beaudelay would still run the ballet,if not for the fact that when cattle sashay,and all of their tutus are flapping aroundtheir costumes make sort of a shuffling sound.And some no-good cowpoke, on hearing that sound,grewy rather unhappy; he stopped and he frowned,then ran to the sheriff, deciding to tattle,so Jed was arrested for rustling cattle.
