The promise was a long time keeping. And so was the dream.

In the early 1950s in a small Southern California town, a little girl left yet another load of books onto the tiny library’s counter. The girl was a reader. She’d make her weekly long journey to the yellow library with the brown decorations, the little one-room building where the children’s area actually was just a corner. Frequently, she walked out of that corner in search of mental food for the mind.

As the white-haired librarian hand-stamped the due dates in the ten-year-old’s choices, the little girl looked longingly at “The New Book” obviously displayed on the counter. She amazed again at the wonder of writing a book and having it honored like that, right there for the world to see.

That particular day, she spoke out her goal. “When I grow up,” she said, “I`m going to be a writer. I’m going to write books. ”

The librarian looked up from her stamping and smiled, not with the condescension (傲慢) so many children received, but with encouragement.

“When you do write a book,” she replied, “bring it into our library and we’ll put it on display, right here on the counter.”

The little girl promised she would. As she grew, so did her dream.

Years passed. Inside, the librarian welcomed her warmly. She introduced a reporter from the local newspaper, which she’d begged a chance to write for long ago.

Then she presented her books to the librarian, who placed them on the counter with a sign of explanation. Tears rolled down the woman’s cheeks.

Then she hugged the librarian and left, pausing for a picture outside, which proved that dreams can come true and promises can be kept, even if it takes thirty-eight years.

The ten-year-old girl and the writer she’d become posed by the library sign, right next to the reader board, which said:

WELCOME BACK, JANN MITCHELL.

“I don’t do throw-up.” My own words were coming back to haunt (烦扰) me as I heard one of my campers yell, “Ewww, Bridger threw up.” I froze. I forced myself to turn around and look. I glanced quickly, then immediately looked away. I stopped breathing through my nose so I wouldn’t be able to smell it.

Working at Camp Seafarer for the summer was like a dream to me. Being a counselor (夏令营负责人), though, was more work than I had expected. I was always exhausted, and it was hard to keep giving 100 percent of myself twenty-four hours a day. In the end, however, it was worth staying up with a homesick camper or saying a longer goodnight to the shyest girl to help bring her out of her shell. It was just so much responsibility trying to keep twelve ten-year-olds safe, while trying to help them have a great summer. Now my responsibility was spreading to the one thing I hated most, cleaning up throw-up.

I looked around at Bridger who looked like she was in pain. Then I noticed my co-counselor, Jessie standing around. I looked at her, waiting for her to start the work. “I’ll take Bridger to the health center,” Jessie said. I couldn’t believe it! I was stuck with doing the one thing I have always said I would never do. “All right, I can do this,” I said to myself. What to get first? Paper towels! I went into the bathroom to find some. As I approached my enemy, I noticed a lot of girls were crowded around me laughing.

I then squeezed my eyes shut and went in for the kill, picking up the mess. I picked up the        paper towels as fast as I could and threw them into the trash can. I had done it! I could handle            this job. Then I noticed that now all the people were laughing.

“Sarah!” Bridger cried, “The throw-up was fake!”

I learned, that summer, that with responsibility comes great rewards, such as my campers’ laughing over the fake throw-up. Every smile and every hug made the job worth it.

Laurie Horam never thought of himself as musical. At home, his dad never listened to music, while one of his boarding school teachers labelled him tone deaf. But last month he started to busk. And while he accompanies on harmonica (口琴) his guitar - playing friend Alan Eaton, people clap, dance and throw coins into Alan’s guitar case for the local food bank. Horam caught himself thinking: “How, at the age of 80, do I come to be playing music to people on the streets of Brad-ford?”

The question preoccupied him, because, some years ago at a family gathering, Gavin, one of his children, said, “You know what, Dad? It can’t be coincidental. We must have got our natural abilities and interest from you.” He has three sons, two daughters and a stepson from two marriages; between them, they cover a range of instruments and genres from techno to rock. Horam was floored. “There can’t be music in me, because I can’t play!”, he said.

Eight years ago, Horam, a retired civil servant, was driving back from a trip to the Yorkshire coast with his eldest son, Gavin, who was visiting from Canada. Cavin wanted to stop at a music shop. He walked out and said, “Here you are. I bought this for you, Dad. It’s a harmonica. I’ll try to show you how to play a bit.”

They went to a local pub. Gavin played guitar and Laurie sat in the corner with his harmonica, trying to make a sound that no one would hear. After six months, he was invited into the group. Unable to read music, he discovered a talent for improvisation (即兴表演), responding to a note within a millisecond without batting an eyelid. “I don’t play by ear. I play by heart.” Actually, Horam says, “My harmonica plays me - how I feel, what I am, what I’ve been.”

Music has enriched life with friendship and made Horam feel “part of something much bigger” than himself. “At a time when the scope of life might be shrinking, mine is expanding,” he says. “Maybe we never know completely who we are or what we can do.”