初中2年级 - 散文 阅读指导

　　Early spring in the north is dirty, the dirty involve the we ever warm praise, of course, the purity of snow. Long winter, cold in the north has given rise to a another snow, they spread out beautiful tentacles from heaven, tender down
　　to the earth, so that the whole northern drown in a pure world. If you travel in the snow in the street, watching and moist with snow pile tree branches, looking at the church roof snow, looking at silver unlimited extension of the road, your heart will be
　　Is permeated with a passion: for that is unparalleled spectacular or desolate.
　　However the spring is coming. Spring breeze melted the snow, they are in the process of melting appearance old, haggard, as if a namely
　　The old lady died: snow at this time will be its duality exposed without reserve: it's beautiful attached to the cold, so it is a kind of static beauty, fragile beauty; Weather has become the west sunset when cold, and wind shine upon them, it's ugly helplessly.
　　There is no pure beauty of things, and I still love the snow. Love its beautiful, pure, fragile and love it too
　　Forced to disappear. Of course, more love of manufacturing to the earth when they melt the unprecedented muddy.
　　Alley mud all over. Drain because after snow melt increases with the join of sewage flow, spouted ring; The swallow in the moist air with wet mud nest in the eaves. Chicken, duck, goose, dogs will they wander lane paw print back to his owner's yard, the yard with countless claws
　　Mud seal of the form, like pine tree under the moon huge projection; Old man accidentally lost while walking stick, the stick was picked up when I became mud walking sticks; When children running in lane frolicking snatched his mouth with a sugar fell into the mud, he eyed the mud with absence to cry, and learn the scene of the child's mother was pleased to laugh…
　　This is my childhood experience, often it is a small village in the north, the background of time, of course, is muddy
　　Early spring time.
　　I love this kind of mud like nature itself. Dirt often makes me think of this great nation, Russian lomonosov, Tchaikovsky, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, PuNing, pushkin is step by step, through the mud coming towards us
　　. Russia's art is permeated with a noble, is deep and dark and the indomitable spirit of breath, said not related to the spring mud. Mud was born the wayfarers, to put it to the light and power, with peace and courage to the suffering? A great people need muddy hone and exercise, it can make the person's backbone never bend, make the person in the difficult journey to understand the land, the lovely, broad, and we don't lose to know the real meaning of the motherland to man: when we love at the foot of the mud, that we have embraced a kind of spirit.
　　Now in the north of the city feels mud is not as severe as in childhood, but in the melting snow of the season,
　　I was walking on the farmers' market on the dirt road, still can encounter unfolding a muddy. The waste paper, clippings, rotten vegetables leaf, muddyIi　renal organs of the fish and so on sundry loom, a rotten smell swoop in. This feeling, of course, not in a green forever
　　Around the west lake to hold an umbrella in the misty rain chun chun indulge in fantasy is nice, but it still makes me into another
　　Thought, think of with a heavy wooden wheel car ran over it by splashing through the mud bead, think of the people in the north of the hard back, think of the suffering and humiliation we have had, I still can touch your feet to it and be pleased.
　　We don't always look back to history, we also won't deliberately made a kind of let it appear in the muddy road in the future
　　On, but when we are in the drizzle wash the green flag road tired, when we are facing the boundless leaves being vague
　　Know their wits, when we face no longer passionate white paper pen and pale, whether we are longing for the travel time in the mud? To this end, we really should thank the snow, it gave birth to the silent, purity, the beauty of take in everything in a glance, also gave birth to the dirty, make people alert to strength of muddy. So it is the only one like you.
　　Now in the north of the city feels mud is not as severe as in childhood, but in the melting snow of the season,
　　I was walking on the farmers' market on the dirt road, still can encounter unfolding a muddy. The waste paper, clippings, rotten vegetables leaf, muddy
　　Internal organs of the fish and so on sundry loom, a rotten smell swoop in. This feeling, of course, not in a green forever
　　Around the west lake to hold an umbrella in the misty rain chun chun indulge in fantasy is nice, but it still makes me into another
　　Thought, think of with a heavy wooden wheel car ran over it by splashing through the mud bead, think of the people in the north of the hard back, think of the suffering and humiliation we have had, I still can touch your feet to it and be pleased.
　　We don't always look back to history, we also won't deliberately made a kind of let it appear in the muddy road in the future
　　On, but when we are in the drizzle wash the green flag road tired, when we are facing the boundless leaves being vague
　　Know their wits, when we face no longer passionate white paper pen and pale, whether we are longing for the travel time in the mud? To this end, we really should thank the snow, it gave birth to the silent, purity, the beauty of take in everything in a glance, also gave birth to the dirty, make people alert to strength of muddy. So it is the only one like you.