雪,很大,夜很静。一把火,从他房后烧起,眨眼间,席卷了整个茅屋。他跑出来,随着他的,只有一把二胡。从此,他漂泊异乡。陪伴他的,是那把破旧的二胡,小镇村庄,一路行来。二胡声,在他走过的地方流泻,如一声声低低的诉说,细细的,蛛丝一样。他走过的地方,要一点儿剩饭,或者两个冷馒头。一般他只吃一半,另一半,放在自己寄宿的地方,草堆旁,或者是 Snow, great, very quiet night. A fire, burning from his room, blink of an eye, swept the hut. He ran out, with him, only a pair of erhu. Since then, he wandered abroad. Accompany him, that the old erhu, town and village, all the way to. Erhu sound, pouring in the places he walked, such as a whisper of low, thin, spider silk. Wherever he went, a little leftovers, or two cold buns. He usually only eat half, the other half, on their own boarding places, beside the straw, or is