Inourdiscussionwithpeopleonhoweducationcanhelpthemsucceedinlife

In our discussion with people on how education can help them succeed in life, a woman remembered the first meeting of an introductory_ 36 _course about 20 years ago. The professor_ 37_ _the lecture hall, placed upon his desk a large jar filled with dried beans, and invited the students to _ 38 _how many beans the jar contained. After _ 39 _shouts of wildly wrong guesses the professor smiled a thin, dry smile, announced the_ 40 _answer, and went on saying, “You have just_ 41 _an important lesson about science.That is: Never_ 42 _ your own senses.” Twenty years later, the_ 43 _could guess what the professor had in mind. He_ 44 _himself, perhaps, as inviting his students to start an exciting_ 45 _into an unknown world invisible to the_ 46 _, which can be discovered only through scientific_ 47 _. But the seventeen-year-old girl could not accept or even_ 48 _the invitation. She was just_ 49 _to understand the world. And she_ 50 _that her firsthand experience could be the_ 51 _. The professor, however, said that it was_ 52 _. He was taking away her only_ 53 _for knowing and was providing her with no substitute. “I remember feeling small and_ 54 _,” the women says, “and I did the only thing I could do. I_ 55 _the course that afternoon, and I havent gone near science since.”36. A.artB.historyC.scienceD.math37. A.search forB.looked atC.got throughD.marched into38. A.countB.guessC.reportD.watch39. A.warningB.givingC.turning awayD.listening to40. A.readyB.possibleC.correctD.difficult41. A.learnedB.preparedC.taughtD.taken42. A.loseB.trustC.sharpenD.show43. A.lecturerB.scientistC.speakerD.woman44. A.describedB.respectedC.sawD.served45. A.voyageB.movementC.changeD.rush46. A.professorB.eyeC.knowledgeD.light47. A.modelB.sensesC.spintD.methods48. A.hearB.makeC.presentD.refuse49. A.suggestingB.beginningC.pretendingD.waiting50. A.believedB.doubtedC.provedD.explained51. A.growthB.strengthC.faithD.truth52. A.firm B.intersting C.wrong D.acceptable53. A.task B.toolC.successD.connection54. A.cruelB.proundC.frightenedD.brave55. A.droppedB.startedC.passedD.missedAs a young boy, I sometimes traveled the country roads with my dad. He was a rural mail carrier, and on Saturdays he would ask me to go with him. Driving through the countryside was always an adventure: There were animals to see, people to visit, and chocolate cookies if you knew where to stop, and Dad did.In the spring, Dad delivered boxes full of baby chickens, and when I was a boy it was such fun to stick your finger through one of the holes of the boxes and let the baby birds peck on your fingers.On Dad' s final day of work, it took him well into the evening to complete his rounds because at least one member from each family was waiting at their mailbox to thank him for his friendship and his years of service. “Two hundred and nineteen mailboxes on my route.” he used to say, “and a story at every one.” One lady had no mailbox, so Dad took the mail in to her every day because she was nearly blind. Once inside, he read her mail and helped her pay her bills.Mailboxes were sometimes used for things other than mail. One note left in a mailbox read, "Nat, take these eggs to Marian; shes baking a cake and doesnt have any eggs. " Mailboxes might be buried in the snow, or broken, or lying on the ground, but the mail was always delivered. On cold days Dad might find one of his customers waiting for him with a cup of hot chocolate. A young girl wrote letters but had no stamps, so she left a few buttons on the envelope in the mailbox; Dad paid for the stamps. One businessman used to leave large amounts of cash in his mailbox for Dad to take to the bank. Once, the amount came to $ 32,000.A dozen years ago, when I traveled back to my hometown on the sad occasion of Dads death, the mailboxes along the way reminded me of some of his stories. I thought I knew them all, but that wasnt the case.As I drove home, I noticed two lamp poles, one on each side of the street. When my dad was around, those poles supported wooden boxes about four feet off the ground. One box was painted green and the other was red, and each had a long narrow hole at the top with white lettering: SANTA CLAUS, NORTH POLE. For years children had dropped letters to Santa through those holes.I made a turn at the corner and drove past the post office and across the railroad tracks to our house. Mom and I were sitting at the kitchen table when I heard footsteps. There, at the door, stood Frank Townsend, Dads postmaster and great friend for many years. So we all sat down at the table and began to tell stories.At one point Frank looked at me with tears in his eyes. “What are we going to do about the letters this