【作文】六年级我最喜欢的季节作文500字：秋天，丰收的季节

镰刀下的金浪

以前我在课本里读秋天，读到的都是好词：金风送爽，五谷丰登。这个十月，学校放农忙假，我跟着爸妈下了三天田，才知道这些词每一个都对应着一身汗。

第一天割稻。稻子熟了，整片田从路边看过去是平的金黄色，风一过，从东头起一道浪，一路压到西头，穗子全弯着腰。我拿的是小镰刀，爸爸教我左手抓一把稻秆，往怀里带，镰刀贴地斜着拉。第一把割得歪歪扭扭，第二把顺手了，到晌午我割了一小条，站起来腰像不是自己的。稻芒扎在手腕上，痒，一挠，一道红印。中午坐在田埂上吃馒头，看那片我们割过的地方，稻茬整整齐齐一排排，比没割的矮一头。我忽然觉得那排稻茬是我写的字，一排一排，写得最认真的一次作业。

第二天摘果子。姑姑家的果园在坡上，苹果红一半，背阴的那一半还青。姑父说摘果子要托着往上拧，不能拽，拽伤了枝，明年就少结。我提小筐，专挑红透的，拧下来放进筐，苹果碰着苹果，一路咔哒咔哒响。下午换成大筐，两个人抬，我在前头，筐一沉，绳子勒进肩膀，走到坡下腿肚子打颤。姑姑数筐，说今年这棵树结得最多，我抬头看那棵树，枝子压得低低的，红果子一嘟噜一嘟噜吊着，像挂了一树的灯笼。

第三天在晒谷场。谷子倒在场院里摊开，我拿木耙推，推成一排一排的，太阳晒一天，谷粒干得咬得崩崩响。我的任务是赶鸡，鸡一进场我就挥胳膊，它们扑棱着退出去，过一会儿又绕进来。傍晚谷子装袋，一个人扛不动，爸爸和爷爷两人一袋滚到库房。我坐在谷堆边，手上全是谷灰，指甲缝里黄的，头发里也沾着，回家一拍，肩膀上一层。

农忙假结束，我在作文里写：我喜欢秋天，不是因为它的词好听。是因为金黄的浪我看过真的，是从东头压到西头的；果子我摘过真的，拧的时候要往上托；谷子我晒过真的，鸡偷吃的时候我追过真的。秋天把一年的力气都收进仓里，我也在里面出了一份力，这就是我喜欢的理由。

Golden Waves Under the Sickle

Before, I read autumn only in textbooks, and every page was full of fine phrases: the cool breeze of harvest, an abundance of grain. This October our school gave a farm-work holiday, and I followed my parents into the fields for three days. Only then did I learn that each of those fine phrases stands for a body full of sweat.

Day one, cutting rice. The rice had ripened, and from the road the whole field lay flat and golden. When wind passed, a wave rose at the east end and rolled all the way to the west, every panicle bowing. I carried a small sickle. Father taught me to grab a handful of stalks with the left hand, pull them toward the body, and draw the sickle slanted along the ground. My first handful came out crooked, the second went smoothly. By noon I had cut a narrow strip, and when I stood up my waist felt like it belonged to someone else. Rice awns pricked my wrists, itchy, and one scratch left a red line. At noon we sat on the ridge eating steamed buns, looking at the patch we had cut, the stubble standing in neat rows, a head shorter than the standing rice. Suddenly those rows looked like my own handwriting, row after row, the most careful homework I had ever written.

Day two, picking fruit. The orchard of my aunt sits on a slope. The apples are red on one half; the shady half is still green. My uncle said when picking fruit you hold it up and twist, never pull, because pulling wounds the branch and the tree bears less next year. I carried a small basket and chose only the fully red ones, twisting them off into the basket, apple knocking against apple, clicking all the way down the row. In the afternoon we switched to the big basket, carried by two people. I was in front. The basket sank, the rope cut into my shoulder, and my calves shook by the time we reached the foot of the slope. My aunt counted the baskets and said this tree bore the most this year. I looked up: its branches hung low, red fruit clustered and dangling, like lanterns hung all over a tree.

Day three, at the grain-drying ground. The grain was poured out on the yard and spread flat. I pushed it with a wooden rake into row after row. Under the sun all day, the kernels dried hard enough to crack between the teeth. My job was chasing chickens. The moment a hen stepped onto the grain I swung my arms, and it fluttered out, only to circle back a while later. In the evening the grain was bagged. One person could not lift a bag, so Father and Grandpa rolled them to the storehouse two at a time. I sat by the grain pile, my hands covered in chaff, the cracks of my nails yellow, my hair dusted too. Back home, one slap on my shoulder raised a small cloud.

When the farm holiday ended, I wrote in my composition: I like autumn not because its words sound pretty. I like it because I have seen the real golden wave, rolling from the east end to the west; I have really picked fruit, holding it up as I twisted; I have really dried grain, and really chased the stealing chickens. Autumn gathers a whole year of labor into the barn, and I gave my share of labor to it. That is my reason for liking it.

晒谷场上的小满

小满是在国庆假期跟着妈妈回老家的。她以前只在课文里见过丰收两个字，这回，她要在地里亲手摸一摸它。

到家第二天一早，爷爷就带她下田。稻子黄得发亮，一眼望不到边，风从对面坡上刮过来，稻浪一层追一层，像有人从田心抖开一匹金布。爷爷的镰刀快，左手拢、右手拉，唰唰唰，一排稻子顺顺当当躺下。小满蹲在后头捆稻个子，把爷爷放倒的稻子拢成一小堆，用稻秆绕一圈，打个死结。她手笨，头几个捆得松，一提散了架；到晌午，她捆的稻个子码在田边，一溜排开，像列队的小兵。太阳晒得后脖颈发烫，她这才发现爷爷的草帽底下全是汗，可他直腰的时候只说了一句：今年穗子沉，是好年成。

第三天，奶奶领她去坡上摘柿子。柿子树上挂满了红灯笼一样的果子，叶子倒落得差不多了。奶奶教她挑软里带硬的，硬的放缸里捂，软的现在就能吃。小满踩着凳子够不着，爷爷过来把她连人带凳子一起挪到树荫最好的那一面。她摘了满满一笸箩，裤兜里还塞了两个，回家路上让硌着腰。

最热闹的是晒谷场。谷子摊了一场，金黄色的，从场东头一直铺到西头，鸡在栅栏外转，狗趴在阴凉里。爷爷拿木耙推谷，推一遍，翻一遍。小满也抢着推，耙子对她来说太重，推两步就歪。爷爷不拦她，只把歪掉的给她推直。傍晚收谷前，她偷偷用树枝在谷子上画了一条线，又在旁边画了个歪歪扭扭的稻穗。奶奶看见了不擦，说留着，让你爷爷看看。

假期结束要走那天，小满在晒谷场边回头看。谷堆在场中央，像一座小小的金山，爷爷站在谷堆旁边，手插在兜里，朝她的车挥手。她忽然想起课文里那句谁知盘中餐，粒粒皆辛苦，以前背的是字，现在她背出的是爷爷弯下去又直起来的腰，是稻浪从田心抖到田边的样子。她跟妈妈说：明年秋天，我还回来。

Xiao Man at the Grain-Drying Ground

Xiao Man went back to the countryside with her mother during the National Day holiday. Before, she had seen the words for a bumper harvest only in her textbook. This time she would touch it with her own hands in the field.

Early on the second morning, her grandpa took her to the paddy. The rice shone yellow, stretching beyond sight. Wind swept over the slope opposite, and wave chased wave through the crop, as if someone were shaking out a bolt of gold cloth from the middle of the field. The sickle of her grandpa was fast: left hand gathering, right hand drawing, swish swish swish, and a row of rice lay down smoothly. Xiao Man crouched behind him, binding the cut rice into sheaves, gathering the fallen stalks into small bundles, winding a stalk around, tying a hard knot. Her hands were clumsy; the first bundles came loose when lifted. By noon the sheaves she had bound stood in a line along the field edge, like little soldiers at attention. The sun burned the back of her neck. Only then did she notice that under the straw hat of her grandpa there was nothing but sweat, yet when he straightened his back he said only one thing: the heads are heavy this year, a good year.

On the third day her grandma took her up the slope to pick persimmons. The tree hung full of fruit like red lanterns; most of its leaves had already fallen. Grandma taught her to choose the ones soft but still firm: the hard ones go into the jar to ripen, the soft ones can be eaten now. Xiao Man stood on a stool and still could not reach. Her grandpa came and moved her and the stool together to the side of the tree with the best shade. She picked a whole tray full, stuffed two more into her trouser pocket, and they dug into her waist all the way home.

The liveliest place was the grain-drying ground. Grain was spread over the whole yard, golden, reaching from the east end to the west. Hens circled outside the fence; the dog lay in the shade. Her grandpa pushed the grain with a wooden rake, one pass pushing, one pass turning. Xiao Man grabbed the rake too, but it was too heavy for her; two pushes and the row went crooked. Her grandpa did not stop her, he only straightened the crooked rows for her. Before gathering the grain in the evening, she secretly drew a line in the grain with a stick, and beside it a crooked rice ear. Her grandma saw it and did not rub it out, saying: leave it, let your grandpa see.

The day they had to leave, Xiao Man looked back from the edge of the drying ground. The grain pile stood in the middle of the yard like a small gold mountain, and her grandpa stood beside it, hands in his pockets, waving at their car. She suddenly remembered the line from her textbook: every grain in the bowl comes from hard work. Before, she recited the words; now what she recites is the back of her grandpa bending down and straightening up, and the wave of rice shaking from the middle of the field to its edge. She told her mother: next autumn, I am coming back.