Treat children without sympathy, and they become unsympathetic; and to treat them with due friendship is a means of cultivating their friendship. Here are the excellent essays for children that I have brought to you for your enjoyment.
Children's excellent prose: a bowl of water
Behind our village are dense woods.
The sun shines through the shade of the trees, illuminating the overgrown vines that climb the stone walls and the damp moss on the walls. Under the stone wall is a very small spring called ? A Bowl of Water?
This eye from the cracks in the stone dipped out of the spring although small to only a bowl, but all year round will not dry up. Interestingly, it is always a full bowl, neither shallow down nor dipping out. You can drink it all in one gulp, and it, in turn, will dip full again without slowing down.
The small spring water is only a bowl, but we love it. When we went up the mountain to cut grass or pick mushrooms, we must come here to rest and drink water. We came to the shade of the trees, sat on the stone abutment, and ate the lunch that each of us had brought with us: poi, gnocchi rice, or set up prickly firewood to burn yams? You eat a little of mine, I eat a little of his. Leaves rolled into ? The cups are filled with clear spring water. were filled with clear spring water, and they raised their cups like grown-ups, shouting: "Cheers! The first thing you need to do is to get your hands on a cup of water, and then raise it as an adult.
Sometimes we see little pine trees coming to drink, magpies coming to drink, a flock of bamboo chickens coming to drink? Believe it or not, even butterflies and bees come to drink! We hide far away from these little masters of the woods.
Look at the little squirrel with its tail up and its little eyes so bright! It takes a sip of water and quickly wipes its mouth with its paws, ? Squeak, squeak!!!? As if to say: ? So sweet, so sweet!?
When the mountain magpies fly, they love to stop at that green pine. One flew down first, ? Magpie, magpie, magpie!? It was greeting its companions: ? Come on, come on, come on!? Everyone flew down and hopped around the spring, leaving their paw prints on the damp sand.
Yo, there were many paw prints on the wet sand, some like bamboo leaves, some like plum blossoms?
This bowl of water, the old people say it is a spiritual spring.
This bowl of water, the old people say it is a spiritual spring. No wonder the birds drank its water, singing so beautiful; squirrels drank its water, so smart; village dolls drank its water, one by one is so smart.
Ah, it is the milk of the mountain, its water is so sweet!
One morning it woke up. The two old birds had gone off to feed. It poked its head out to look, saw the brilliant sunshine, green trees, a good view of the earth; its little brain suddenly full of new ideas, shaking brush shaking brush plume, flew to the branch, put out that praise? Nature? The song of praise for nature. Its voice was filled with a clear and light sound. Lightness? and beauty, and when it sings, it seems to be It seems as if nature is listening with a smile on its face. The company is also smiling and listening to the general.
Many little children under the tree heard the song and looked up at it.
The bird came out to sing every day, and the children came to hear it every day, and at last they tried to catch it.
It came out again! It was about to make a sound, when suddenly, with a snort, a bullet came from below, and it tumbled out of the tree.
Two old birds flew in like arrows, caught it, and carried it to the nest. Its blood fell from the tree to the ground drop by drop.
From then on, the song died down.
The children wanted to look up to it and hear its song, but they could not.
The children wanted to look up and listen to it, but could not. Not the peak tourist season, the Miao village has quieted down and lit up. I stayed in a small family hotel, simple and clean, a sense of home. The hotel is backed by the mountain, across a stream from the mountains, running water gurgling, clattering, is the main theme of the cottage at the moment. The hissing of insects is the harmony of this quiet nocturne. You can't hear the clamor of the city's traffic, as if you're in a paradise.
I'm not sure I want to go to bed so early, but I'm going to walk out of the hotel. The first thing I've learned is that the first time I've ever been to a hotel, I've been to a hotel in the middle of the night, and I've been to a hotel in the middle of the night, and I've been to a hotel in the middle of the night. I stood on the bridge, watching a few children who refused to go home under the bridge, bare buttocks playing in the water. Suddenly a bit of a trance: in front of the children playing in the background of the picture, stars, flickering, up and down fluttering, but is not seen for many years of fireflies.
The memory of the fireflies in my mind instantly became crystal clear.
In my hometown, fireflies have a very visual name: ? night firefly er? The childish sound at the end of the word is an essential embellishment, to say very thick and heavy, if it is removed, it will lose its aura. Adults would hold their newborn children on their laps, catch their right and left index fingers, touch them, separate them, touch them again, then separate them, and so on. They would also teach them children's songs:
? Bugs fly, fly to GaGa (grandmother); GaGa do not chase the dog, the bugs bite; GaGa do not kill the chicken, the bugs do not go back
This is the first children's song I learned from my illiterate mother. My mother said, "That? The bugs? , the mother's good boy, the grandmother's baby bump, is the firefly. I never thought that the fireflies and the grandchildren in the grandmother's home do not want to go have any connection, but just remember the song, and then sung to other children to listen to.
In front of the old house is a big pond.
There was a big pond in front of the old house. In July, the adults finished harvesting the early rice, and then hurriedly inserted the late rice seedlings into the paddy field. The sun is slowly coming down, hiding behind the mountains, and the unbearable heat is receding a little bit. The moon rises slowly in the sound of frogs, and a faint, clear light spreads over the mountains and fields. In the grass by the pond and in the bamboo forest around the sunbathing area, fireflies flickered, lighting up the quiet mountain village. They flew into the grass for a while, as if looking for lost objects; a moment from the bamboo forest, as if in pursuit of the front partner. This little flyer, carrying a yellow-green lantern, in the hazy moonlight, like a group of stars from the night sky fell to earth.
Before dark, my mother brought cool water from the well and threw it on the sunbathing ground to suppress the heat. She and the neighbors cooled off in the sunbed. I took my mother's old bushel fan and carried a glass bottle in my pocket, and chased the fireflies with one foot high and one foot low. They were clumsier than the bees and butterflies, not flying high, and ignored my chase, flying slowly in front of them, unaware of the danger behind them. Approached, take the fan gently flutter, fireflies fall down, lying on the ground, became my captive. I put it into a transparent bottle. It was cowering in a corner of the bottle, perhaps frightened, motionless, only the bright light of the tail, sometimes bright and sometimes dark. I didn't know how to comfort it, capped the bottle tightly, tucked it into my coat pocket, and moved on to the next one. Three, four, five or six, and my glass bottle glowed too, like a big firefly. The moon drilled into the clouds, the mountain village reveals a tired, cool people one after another back to the house to rest. My mother stood at the door and called loudly for me to go home and sleep before I reluctantly left.
My father and my mother, after a long day of labor, had already gone to bed and turned out the lights. I secretly took out the bottle with fireflies and put it on the bedside. The fireflies crawled around in the bottle, and sometimes flew up and touched the wall of the bottle, and then fell down heavily. The weak light, bright and dim, bright and bright, silent and dark room, painted a few warmth. This is my earliest bedside lamp. All the unhappiness and aggression during the day disappeared in the warmth of the light. Sleeping in a haze, dreaming of passing through a dark forest, fireflies fly over, for me to illuminate the road ahead.
After going to school, I read the story of Jin's Che Yin, who reads at night with a bag of fireflies. The family is poor, not often get oil, but the day is farming, no night reading. When the summer months, is to practice for the bag, hold dozens of fireflies to light the book, night after day, diligent study. The teacher said, this diligent study Che Yin, live not far from us here. I also want to learn to try. Turn off the lights at night, put the book to the side of the bottle filled with fireflies, the book's handwriting is blurred, very hard to see, still can't see too clearly. After a while, my eyes became swollen and sore. I rubbed my eyes and tried to open them wider, but they were still blurry. To the teacher said my confusion, she laughed and told me that nowadays the books are all lead characters, much smaller than the ancient bamboo and wooden writing on the lettering, can not see, this is a natural thing.
I remember once, in the bamboo forest chasing a large group of fireflies, I have been chasing to the pond, my feet feel have stepped on the water, wet cloth shoes, only to stop. Those little guys won, flew to the top of the pond, I can not reach. The moonlight is like a transparent veil, softly hanging down from the green and black night sky, irradiating the water of the pond, flooded with shimmering light. The sky was full of stars and moon shadows, reflected in the water. Fireflies dance close to the water, glittering. A gentle breeze whisks by, dispersing a pool of sparkling starlight and moonlight. I stood at the water's edge, watching the infatuation, can not distinguish which are fireflies, which are stars. When I grew up, I read a sentence: "The fireflies do not know when it is late. The fireflies do not know when it is late, still holding the light of the water fly? I thought of this scene in my childhood, and then thought that the person who wrote the poem, must have had the same experience as me.
I asked my mother many times, fireflies this small body, why will emit a beautiful light, she could not answer me. I would like to know exactly, from the bottle to grab a few on the ground, with the foot stepped on, gently grinding a drag, the ground is a good-looking bright light. I got down to look closely at those fluorescent trails, and couldn't see much. Of course, the life of these fireflies also ended in my curiosity. My mother scolded me severely for doing such a cruel thing. She said that fireflies could not be killed, that they were the souls of the dead, coming back to see the village where they once lived, to see their loved ones left behind on earth. They come from another world, so they can only appear at night. I listened to some fear, worrying that there are ghosts to retaliate against me, no longer dare to do things that mutilate fireflies.
In middle school, the biology teacher said, fireflies are not ghosts, not to mention the decay of grass. They are a kind of small insects in nature, the abdomen has a lot of light-emitting cells, so it will shine. And fireflies have a short life of only two weeks. Compared to many other creatures, their life is so tiny that it is less than one. But they are oblivious to the fact that they have a minute of heat and a minute of light to illuminate the darkness. The teacher spoke at the podium for a long time, and everyone listened in peace and quiet. Every student in the classroom, like me from the mountain villages, everyone has done the fireflies involved in the game. I didn't realize that this beautiful little life, which brings us countless fun, has a short, bleak and sad life. I am full of respect for them.
After work, began to recognize the sadness, busy, gradually alienated those days with fireflies.
One lonely night, I watched a cartoon. The storyline and characters, have seen are forgotten. Only remember the dark night, the little heroine tears, running alone in the grass and forest in the countryside. She had lost her parents and friends, and was separated from her only brother. Loneliness is as large and ubiquitous as the night. Suddenly a swarm of fireflies, coming from far away, flew slowly, getting brighter and brighter. The little girl stopped, the fireflies fluttered around her, weak but strong light, shining on her face, digging out a small world of light for her in the boundless darkness of the night, she smiled happily. Seeing this, I also smiled. The joy of the firefly is the same for every child. Childhood can be scary and lonely. The language of that age, it is difficult to explain the ins and outs of this loneliness. Little fireflies, flying from unknown places, came to the front, as if for me to dance, for me to light. Although just a little bit of light, can also dispel the fear and sadness of the young.
Later I bought a house, I like the small garden of the square downstairs, and often go to sit on the bench alone at night. Many moms also played here with their children. A few times I heard a young mother teaching a child a children's song:
? Little fireflies, fly to the west, fly to the east ? It's like a million little lanterns.
Once, a child asked his mom what a firefly looks like. The mom used a lot of words to describe the fireflies, I can not help but smile. I can't help but smile. When we were kids, how did anyone ever describe it to us? The more vivid description, but not as impressive as chasing fireflies in the bushes by the pond.