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5th Grade Stage Performance(五年级舞台表演)
送交者: 天边的红霞 2020年03月25日16:25:53 于 [五 味 斋] 发送悄悄话


【Aiden in English】

        Out of all years our teacher, Mr. Holloran, has worked at Montgomery ES and has never had a 5th grade play before. Unfortunately, the time has finally come for the show, A Visit to Colonial America in the 17th Century. It's in the year of 2014. What a coincidence! That's right, the very year I'm in the 5th grade.

        I'm stuck as an American poet who wrote a ton of famous poems called Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882), wearing a freaking, itchy, blistering hot costume. Although I am certainly not a poet, I like his way of playing with words in his poem "A Psalm of Life". "Art is long, and Time is fleeting", which is absolutely true considering that the life is too short. "In the bivouac of life" also seems to be so wise that life is not permanent (unfortunately).

        Worst of all, I don't even have any funny lines. What's a good actor with a good voice and totally calm during the show but without sense of humor. However, it really didn't matter what lines I had. The true challenge was to survive the night without making a huge embarrassment on me, which is harder than it seems because there were a lot of strict people like Mom in the audience. Luckily, I kept my cool and breezed past my lines easily. But my part wasn't over. I had (Mom had) volunteered (forced me) to play my alto saxophone in the band/orchestra for the songs. And let me tell you this, the music melody lacked of excitement, had dull tone color or timbres and didn't bring out particular subtle rhythmic inflections on the instruments we played together. It just was so simple that it started to get boring. The only thing keeping me awake was the constant flashing of cameras. And when I mean constant, I mean constant! Mom was taking a whirlwind of pictures 24/7. So I guess I would never forget this moment. Well, Mom won't allow it anyway.





A Psalm of Life

--by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

What the Heart of the Young Man said to the Psalmist. 

              Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 

            "Life is but an empty dream! " 

            for the soul is dead that slumbers, 

            And things are not what they seem. 


            Life is real! Life is earnest! 

            And the grave is not its goal; 

            "Dust thou art, to dust returnest, " 

            Was not spoken of the soul. 


            Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

            Is our destined end or way; 

            But to act, that each to-morrow 

            Find us farther than to-day. 


            Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 

            And our hearts, though stout and brave, 

            Still, like muffled drums, are beating 

            Funeral marches to the grave. 


            In the world's broad field of battle, 

            In the bivouac of Life, 

            Be not like dumb, driven cattle! 

            Be a hero in the strife! 


            Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! 

            Let the dead Past bury its dead! 

            Act, - act in the living Present! 

            Heart within, and God o'erhead! 


            Lives of great men all remind us 

            We can make our lives sublime, 

            And, departing, leave behind us 

            Footprints on the sands of time; 


            Footprints, that perhaps another, 

            Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 

            A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 

            Seeing, shall take heart again. 


            Let us, then, be up and doing, 

            With a heart for any fate; 

            Still achieving, still pursuing, 

            Learn to labor and to wait. 
















































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