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窗前的天空,被高楼割成残缺的几块,隐约有孩童的欢笑声从楼下传来,将那阴霾驱赶,唤醒我胸腔中的跃跃欲试,牵引出记忆深处的笑语欢声。儿时,床头堆满花花绿绿的小人书,美妙精致的封面,栩栩如生的画像,通俗易懂的故事,如春天里的一汪清泉,滋润我渐渐萌生的文学之芽。我会在《安徒生童话》里为卖火柴的小女孩而惋惜愤怒;我会在《一千零一夜》中等待着又一个别致的故事;我会在《中华成语故事》中倾听中华远古发出的铿
The window in front of the sky, was cut into tall pieces of incomplete pieces, vaguely childish laughter came downstairs, driving the haze that awakened my chest eager to pull out the memory of laughter cheers. Childhood, the bed filled with colorful books, wonderful exquisite cover, lifelike portraits, easy-to-understand stories, such as a spring in Wangqingquan, moisten my budding sprout of literature. I am sorry for the little girl who sold matches in Andersen’s Fairy Tales; I will wait for another chic story in the “Arabian Nights”; I will listen to the ancient Chinese issue in the “Chinese idiom story” Keng