����y�I can just shut my eyes and think that the shadows are growing darker under the madar tree， and the water in the pond looks shiny black.
If twelve o’clock can come in the night， why can’t the night come when it is twelve o’clock？
十二點鍾
媽媽，我現在不想做功課。我已經讀了整整一上午的書了。
您說，現在才十二點鍾。就算現在沒有超過十二點吧，您就不能把剛剛十二點想成下午嗎？
我可以很容易想象出：此刻，太陽已經照到那片稻田的邊緣了， 那個年邁的漁婦正在池邊采擷草葉作為她的晚餐。
我一閉上眼就能想到，馬塔爾樹下的陰影越發深邃了，池塘裏的水看起來黝黑發亮。
如果十二點鍾能在夜晚來臨，為什麼黑夜不能在十二點鍾的時候到來呢？
Authorship
You say that father writes a lot of books， but what he writes I don’t understand.
He was reading to you all the evening， but could you really make out what he meant？
What nice stories， mother， you can tell us！ Why can’t father write like that， I wonder？
Did he never hear from his own mother stories of giants and fairies and princesses？
Has he forgotten them all？
Often when he gets late for his bath you have to go and call him an hundred times.
You wait and keep his dishes warm for him， but he goes on writing and forgets.
Father always plays at making books.
If ever I go to play in father’s room， you come and call me，“What a naughty child！”
If I make the slightest noise， you say， Don’t you see that father’s at his work？”
What’s the fun of always writing and writing？
作 者
您說爸爸寫了很多書，可是我看不懂他寫的東西。
整個黃昏他都在讀書給您聽，可是您真的明白他的意思嗎？
媽媽，您給我們講的故事，多麼好聽啊！
我納悶，為什麼爸爸不能寫那樣的書呢？
難道他從來沒有聽過自己的媽媽講巨人、精靈和公主的故事嗎？
還是他已經把那些故事徹底遺忘了？
他經常很晚才沐浴，您還得去叫他一百多次。
您等候著，為他把飯菜保溫，但他總是繼續寫作，忘記一切。
爸爸常常視寫書為遊戲。
每當我走進爸爸的房裏去玩耍，您總會過來說我：“真是個調皮的孩子啊！”
每當我稍微弄出一點兒聲響，您就會說：“你難道沒有看見爸爸正在工作嗎？”
爸爸寫呀寫，有什麼樂趣呢？
When I take up father’s pen or pencil and write upon his book just as he does—a， b， c， d， e， f， g， h， i... why do you get cross with me then mother？
You never say a word when father writes.
When my father wastes such heap of paper， mother， you don’t seem to mind at all.
But if I take only one sheet to make a boat with， you say，“Child， how troublesome you are！”
What do you think of father’s sibling sheets and sheets of paper with black marks all over on both sides？