The child selling popsicles was walking on the winding field ridge with a basket on his back, and passed us. His crisp and clear voice spread: "popsicles~~~~~" I think, even taking a nap in the deepest part of the rice field Did the earthworms hear it too? A section of chrysanthemum protruding out from the water's edge.The rooster was looking around in the bamboo forest. Its comb was red. The hen had just talked to it about something.You can’t help but talk about how when you were young, popsicle sellers always crossed one dam head and then went to another like this. Those green and green houses hidden in different mountain depressions strung together at different times. In a string of clear and sweet cries.
When I was young, the popsicles were made of white sugar, or cane sugar-there were cane groves everywhere, and they were not tall and handsome, and we used to eat up bundles after bundles in winter.
When we walked along the winding field ridges to the road, we could still hear the faint sound of the little boy's "popsicle" from a distance.
There is a well beside our village, the mouth of which is densely covered with cricket grass. They say that an old man with a white beard lives in it. I believe what they say, because they are more courageous than me, so they take more risks.
They said that they saw an old man with a white beard appearing in the classroom in the middle of the night. There was a bluestone slab under the podium in the classroom, and there was a crack in the middle of the slate. He appeared from there and left from there.
When I was very timid, the woods outside the village grew up slowly. When the sun came out, there were many flowers blooming on the sand dunes. I planted henna, morning glory and peacock chrysanthemum in the small yard. One year They were in full bloom. Made me even snub the airplane grass that was growing by itself.
You always take me back to play.The poached eggs made by your mother are very delicious, but I am embarrassed to ask how to do it, because my mother has never made such a delicious taste.My mother is different from your mother. She is very thin. Your mother is fat and has a loud voice.
We lay on the bamboo mat and flipped through the books, learning to sing along with the voice on the tape.Your voice is soft, not what you seem to be.I knew it, you're tone deaf.Later, I never heard you sing a song in its entirety.But I've always wanted to hear it.
There are many small pink flowers blooming on the roof of your house. Tell me, they are sunflowers. After throwing the flower seeds on the roof in spring, they will live without human care. Rain, sunshine, wind, enough day.Many evenings, I only remember a few of them, your father was a stern middle-aged man who scolded you for not finishing two bowls of rice.I watched timidly, but you turned your head and stuck out your tongue.
In those days, I always thought that I was your younger brother.
After the light rain, many cockleburs woke up by the roadside.They pushed open a small door quietly, and stood behind the door by themselves.I kept counting along the way, ah, it turns out that spring is also hiding here, here, and here, so I am not the only one who likes to hide and seek.
After school in the afternoon, we ran all over the sand dunes, smoked the tenderest coriander, smoked a handful of the tenderest and tenderest, peeled it and put it in our mouths for a sweet aroma.Even so, we still haven't been able to remove all the coriander tips on that dune.Day by day, the flowering Imperata japonica shakes its white feathers.They won, occupying the best time of spring, and we are not empty-handed.
When the fog rises, I will pluck the purple green leaves of the broad-leaved poplar by the roadside, and carefully look for the direction of home from the veins of the leaves.Our home is on the back of the leaves.
I said to my kid me: Go, blow bubbles on a sunny afternoon.Pinch a golden straw, find a small medicine bottle, pour some washing powder secretly while mother is not paying attention, mix it with water, and then, quickly hold the straw in your mouth and run outside the gate, the straw dipped in magic water , is the hiding place of the bubbles, gently blowing, watching a multicolored bubble getting bigger and rounder, sticking to the straw and spinning rapidly, with a light pick, it will It trembled away from the straw and flew up. At this time, you just look up and blow it with a smile on your face. It flutters a little higher, then falls again, and then falls again, and the sun shines through the cracks in the trees. Join in the fun, the chicks are watching this behavior curiously, and the lamb is watching in a daze, a butterfly flies over, and seeing this colorful round guy jumps and runs away in a detour.I counted silently in my heart, hoping that a bubble would stay in the air for a longer time, and every time I counted, I would be more happy: Hey, how proud it is, it has been floating in the sun for so long!Of course, after fifty seconds, the most perfect bubble couldn't help but burst into laughter, smoked lightly, and turned into powder.Those colorful brilliance are still just a dream.I didn't give up, so I blew it down one by one, or blew it out one by one, some fell to the ground flickeringly, and some were blown away by a gust of mischievous wind, in a place where I couldn't see, then, it can be worry-free Go on with your travels without worry.
The potato field in your family first grew lushly, like a group of immature hairy children playing in the field.They wore purple flowers on top of their heads, and the youngest one touched his own flower, which hadn't opened yet, and couldn't help but sat on the ground and cried, so they all gathered around him again, talking and singing, and the wind came play games.In your potato field, there are always three or four months every year for the potatoes to sleep in the ground and grow up. When it is time to harvest, butterflies and wasps from far and near come to help, and I follow.This is really amazing. When a potato plant is pulled up, there are a lot of fat potatoes under it. They haven't woken up yet, and one of them still raised his chubby little hand to rub his eyes. Over there, at the very end On the night, one of them turned over the quilt because he liked to sleep on his stomach, and the little buttocks turned green when he was exposed to the sun. Your mother said, this is a birthmark.Then let him continue to sleep soundly on his stomach.In your potato field, the dug potatoes are piled up and placed in piles. When we are interested, we pick up small potatoes and throw them at each other, or pick out a cute fat potato, wipe the mud, and peel off the thin potatoes. Thin skin, take a bite, sweet, cool, and a bit astringent.However, I like your mother's fried potato shreds better. When I get home, I will stay at your house until a plate of delicious potato shreds is brought to the table...
A left-handed boy with a pair of small canine teeth when he smiles. When he writes, he squeezes his lips tightly and uses his left hand.That must be very difficult!But when writing essays, he still wrote profusely and quickly. He must have written like this: I have a younger sister who is one year younger than me. She listens to me very much because I am an older brother.
We had dahlias in the flower beds at our school, which I've always loved since.The morning glory and the red Polygonum were seeds we brought from home, and these flower beds were ours to manage.Build a frame, water it, loosen the soil, and then look around it every day to identify what kind of flower each new bud is.We know a lot of things that we didn't know before, and we have an intimate relationship with Hua'er.
On the mound on the side of the campus, there are euonymus peach leaves, with slender branches hanging down in a green field, and at the end of summer, they bear bright red quadrangular fruits, and small stars twinkle red.We don't have those trees in the house, yes, so I love them, and I've tried to get the seeds back and plant them, but they haven't sprouted once.
