Elizabeth walked on to the patio, carrying a bunch of roses. “Beautiful flowers for…for…oh, I’ll never get it right!” she cried, throwing the roses on the ground.

Elizabeth had been practising her speech for a week. She’d presented flowers to the dog, the cat, and the statue in the garden. Part of her couldn’t wait. This Saturday, the great Ana Wolff, famous pianist, would perform at the concert hall in town. For four years, Elizabeth had taken piano lessons. She’d listened to Ms. Wolff’s recordings over and over again, loving the way the notes tumbled like a rushing mountain stream.

Part of Elizabeth was terrified. Her music teacher at school, Mr. Leaf, had asked Elizabeth to present the flowers to Ms. Wolff after the performance. Why did he have to choose her? Elizabeth hated oral reports, plays at the synagogue—anything where she had to talk in front of people. Some of her classmates liked giving speeches. Myron gave a speech every time Mr. Leaf called on him. Melissa always volunteered to make announcements. Let one of them present the flowers!

“How’s the speech coming?” asked Elizabeth’s mother from the back door. “Want to practise on me?”

“No, thanks,” said Elizabeth. “Mum, I can’t do this! I’ll forget. I might even pass out!”

“No, you won’t, honey. Think about it... sharing the stage with Ana Wolff. What an honour!”

“Not if I do something dumb.”

But Elizabeth kept practising. ”Beautiful flowers for a beautiful performance...“

Then the big day when Ms. Wolff gave a concert finally came. Elizabeth and her mother took their seats. She held a bunch of red roses.

“All set, Elizabeth?” Mr. Leaf asked.

Her stomach tightened, but she nodded at him. Mum squeezed Elizabeth’s hand.

As the lights dimmed, Ms. Wolff walked onstage and bowed, smiling.

Ms. Wolff smiled and bowed again before she was about to walk offstage.

There were two woodcutters called Tom and David. Every morning, they would go to the forest and cut wood to sell at a nearby market. Although they didn’t make much money, they lived happily.

One day, they were sitting under a tree to have lunch after working all the morning when a thin beggar walked to them. “My name is Bill, now I’m very hungry. Can you give me something to eat?” said the beggar.

Seeing the poor man, David reached into his bag for some food which he had prepared for the afternoon. He was about to hand the food to the angular(瘦骨嶙峋的)beggar when Tom rushed to grab his hand and stopped him from handing over the food.

“We don’t have any food to spare,” Tom said to the beggar. “We both work hard all day long and we only have enough food to get us through the day. However, if you want, I can lend you my ax(斧头)and teach you how to cut firewood. And then you can go to the market with us and sell what you have cut. In that case, you may have enough money to buy yourself food.”

Bill looked very annoyed. He had been looking forward to the food that David had been about to give him. But after a second thought, he took the ax offered by Tom and watched very carefully as Tom taught him how to cut firewood. At first, he worked slowly and even hurt his fingers. But several hours later, he began to cut more quickly.

At the end of the day, the three men walked to the market, carrying the firewood that they had cut.

“Oh, look at this!” Bill shouted excitedly to Tom and David.

July 1971, I was taking a summer class in Black-American literature on the campus of SUNY Oneonta in northern New York. Professor James walked into the classroom and announced that he had invited a special guest to class, but his guest was delayed. The class stirred with curiosity and anticipation.

“Who’s coming?” someone asked.

“All I will tell you is that he is the author of one of the books you have read for this class,” he said. “I need a volunteer to meet him in the hall of the administration building and take him here.”

To my amazement, my right hand shot up as though it had a mind of its own. “What am I doing?” I thought. I never volunteered for anything. I was shy and uncomfortable meeting new people. In fact, I was absolutely the wrong person for this job. Realizing my mistake, I pulled my hand down quickly, but it was too late.

“Thank you, David,” Professor James said. “You’d better leave now. He’ll be arriving any minute.”

Seeing no way to back out, I reluctantly got out of my seat and headed for the classroom door. When I reached it, I stopped.

“Umm,” I said. “If I don’t know who this person is, how will I recognize him? I’d hate to bring back the wrong guy.”

Professor James laughed. “Good point,” he said. He pulled me aside and whispered a name in my ear. “Alex Haley,” he said.

“Really?” I said. I gave a thumbs-up to the class and left the room.

As I entered the empty hallway, I criticized myself for volunteering. “Why didn’t you let someone else do this?” Alex Haley was the author of The Autobiography (自传) of Malcolm X. He was also famous for his diligence, perseverance and in-depth thinking.

As I walked across the campus, my anxiety grew. I feared that I was about to embarrass myself in front of this famous gentleman by asking stupid questions, or worse, accompanying him in painful silence. I reached the front steps and climbed them slowly.

As I pulled open the heavy glass door, I realized why I raised my hand to volunteer for this job.

“I’d like to become a writer, but I don’t know if I have the talent,” I said.