【作文】三年级快乐的课间作文400字：走廊上的跳房子游戏

踩了线不算数，这是我们定的规矩

下课铃响了，走廊一下子成了我们的游乐场。我们三年级的教室走廊又长又宽，靠墙那一溜地方，一下课就被我们征用，用来跳房子。

画格子的是马小跳。他从文具盒里摸出半截白粉笔，蹲在地上，先画一个单格，再画两个并排的格子，1、2、3、4，一路画到走廊尽头，最后画一个大大的半圆当房子。粉笔灰在他膝盖上落了一层白。他一边画一边叮嘱：格子要一样大，不然不公平。我负责监督，我蹲在旁边一格一格地看，发现第5格画大了，就让他用粉笔在旁边补一个小三角，把大的地方填出来。

轮流跳开始了。规则是我们自己定的：扔沙包，沙包落在哪一格，就跳到哪一格跟前，单脚跳单格，双脚落双格，踩线不算数，踩了线就得从头再来。谁也不许改规则，谁也不许耍赖。这条规矩是上学期吵出来的。上学期有人踩了线不认账，大家吵成一团，好好的课间十分钟不欢而散。后来我们开了个短会，把规矩一条条说清楚，写在教室后面的小黑板上。

这一轮轮到我。我把沙包往第6格一扔，单脚跳过去，跳得又轻又快，眼看就要跳到房子了，结果最后一步，我的鞋底压在了半圆的线上。马小跳立刻喊：踩线了！不算！我心里咯噔一下，真想装作没听见，接着往下跳。可是小黑板上的规矩在我脑子里晃了一下。我退回起点，把沙包重新扔出去。马小跳在后面喊：这才对嘛，再来，我看好你！

第二遍我稳稳跳完了全程。跳进房子那一刻，我两只脚落在半圆里，高兴得差点在走廊里蹦起来。围观的同学哗哗地拍手，粉笔灰被拍手的震波震得飘起来，在从窗户照进来的阳光里打转。

上课铃响了。铃声又急又响。马小跳抓起粉笔头，沿着格子跑了一趟，把格子一个一个擦掉。擦到第3格，粉笔只剩指甲盖大的一点了，他舍不得扔，塞进文具盒最里面的小格。走廊恢复了原来的样子，干干净净，好像我们从没画过格子一样。

回到座位上，我还在想刚才那一步踩线。说实话，踩线不算数的时候我有一点点难过，可更多的高兴是后来才来的：我们定的规矩，我们自己都认。这样的课间，玩得痛快，也玩得服气。下节课间，格子还会再画出来，1到8，一个都不会少。

Stepping on the Line Does Not Count

The end-of-class bell rang, and the corridor instantly became our playground. The corridor outside our third grade classroom is long and wide. The strip of floor along the wall is taken over by us the moment class ends, because that is where we play hopscotch.

The one who draws the grid is Ma Xiaotiao. He fishes out half a piece of white chalk from his pencil case, squats on the floor, and draws one single square first, then two squares side by side. One, two, three, four. He draws all the way to the end of the corridor, and finally draws a big semicircle as the house. A layer of white chalk dust settles on his knees. While drawing, he keeps reminding everyone: the squares must be the same size, otherwise it is not fair. I am in charge of checking. I squat beside him and inspect square by square. When I find that square five is drawn too big, I make him add a small triangle beside it with chalk, to fill up the oversized part.

Then the turn-taking begins. The rules were made by ourselves: throw the beanbag. Whichever square it lands in, you jump up to that square. One foot for a single square, two feet for a double square. Stepping on the line does not count. If you step on the line, you start over. Nobody may change the rules, and nobody may wriggle out of them. These rules came out of a quarrel last term. Last term someone stepped on a line and refused to admit it, and the whole group argued. The ten minutes of recess ended unhappily. Later we held a short meeting, spelled out the rules one by one, and wrote them on the small blackboard at the back of the classroom.

This round it is my turn. I throw the beanbag into square six. I hop there on one foot, light and fast. I am about to reach the house when, on the very last step, the sole of my shoe presses on the line of the semicircle. Ma Xiaotiao shouts at once: You stepped on the line! It does not count! My heart gives a jolt. I really want to pretend I did not hear it and keep jumping. But the rules on the small blackboard flash through my mind. I walk back to the starting line and throw the beanbag again. Ma Xiaotiao calls out behind me: That is the right way. Try again. I am rooting for you!

The second time, I finish the whole course steadily. The moment I land in the house with both feet inside the semicircle, I almost bounce up in the corridor. The watching classmates clap and clap. The clapping shakes the chalk dust into the air, and it swirls in the sunlight coming through the windows.

The start-of-class bell rings, sharp and loud. Ma Xiaotiao grabs the chalk stub and runs along the grid once, erasing the squares one by one. By square three, the chalk is only the size of a fingernail. He cannot bear to throw it away, so he tucks it into the innermost compartment of his pencil case. The corridor returns to its original look, clean and spotless, as if we had never drawn any grid at all.

Back at my seat, I am still thinking about that last step on the line. To be honest, when it did not count, I felt a little sad. But the bigger happiness came afterward: the rules we made, we all accept. A recess like this is played with joy and with fairness. At the next recess, the grid will be drawn again, from one to eight, not a single square missing.

我摔在格子上，朋友把轮次让给了我

下课铃响了，我抓起书包侧兜里的沙包就往走廊跑。今天轮到我们组先玩跳房子，格子是朵朵画的。她蹲在地上，用白粉笔一笔一笔描出八个格子，描完还用手把粉笔灰抹匀，说：这样线清楚，谁也赖不掉。

我们轮流跳。朵朵跳的时候像只小山羊，单脚落地，稳稳的，沙包每次都落在她想要的那一格。轮到我了，我心想一定要跳进房子，就扔得用力了些。沙包弹了一下，落在第7格和第8格的线上。有人喊：压线了，重扔！我有点不服气，蹲下去看，沙包确实骑在线上。我重新扔，这次落在第6格。

我单脚往前跳，跳到第5格的时候，走廊里跑过一个低年级的弟弟，从我身边擦过去，带得我晃了一下。我脚下一软，脚踝扭在格子线上，整个人坐倒在地。疼。我抱着脚，眼泪在眼眶里打转，走廊里一下子安静了。

朵朵第一个跑过来。她蹲下，眉头皱得紧紧的：别动别动，我看看。她轻轻碰了一下我的脚踝，我嘶了一声。她立刻站起来，冲后面喊：快去叫老师！然后她做了一件谁都没想到的事，她跑回格子跟前，冲排队的人说：我的轮次让给她，等我回来补跳。有人小声说：那不公平吧？朵朵把胳膊一横：她脚都这样了，还讲什么公平，先讲人。

老师来了，朵朵扶着我，一跳一跳往医务室去。走廊的格子上还留着我们的沙包，孤零零躺在第6格里。走到楼梯口，我疼得直抽气，朵朵就把她的胳膊塞给我抓，说：你掐我也行，别掐自己手心。

医务室喷了凉凉的药，脚没那么疼了。可等我们回到教室门口，上课铃已经响了。走廊空空的，粉笔格子被值日生擦掉了，只剩几道淡淡的白印子。朵朵望着那几道印子，有点可惜地说：格子没了，下节课间重新画，你的第6格还欠着半跳呢。

这节课我脚搁在书包上听课，心不在焉。不是想着没跳完的房子，而是想着朵朵把轮次让给我的那一下，想着她说先讲人。下课铃再响的时候，我的脚还酸，可我已经单脚蹦到走廊，等着她重新画格子了。画格子要八格，朋友这一格，我画得比谁都大。

I Fell on the Grid, and My Friend Gave Me His Turn

The end-of-class bell rang. I grabbed the beanbag from the side pocket of my schoolbag and ran to the corridor. Today our group gets to play hopscotch first. The grid was drawn by Duoduo. She squatted on the floor and traced eight squares stroke by stroke with white chalk. After finishing, she smoothed the chalk dust with her hand and said: This way the lines are clear, and nobody can weasel out of anything.

We take turns jumping. When Duoduo jumps, she looks like a little goat: landing on one foot, steady, and her beanbag lands exactly in the square she wants every time. Now it is my turn. I want to reach the house, so I throw a little too hard. The beanbag bounces once and lands on the line between square seven and square eight. Someone shouts: It is on the line! Throw again! I feel a bit unfair. I squat down to look. The beanbag really is straddling the line. I throw again, and this time it lands in square six.

I hop forward on one foot. When I reach square five, a younger kid from a lower grade runs through the corridor and brushes past me, making me wobble. My foot gives way, my ankle twists on the line of a square, and I collapse onto the floor. It hurts. I hug my foot, tears swimming in my eyes, and the corridor goes suddenly silent.

Duoduo is the first one to reach me. She squats down, her brows knitted tight: Do not move, let me see. She touches my ankle gently, and I hiss with pain. She stands up at once and shouts behind her: Go get the teacher! Then she does something nobody expects. She runs back to the grid and says to the kids waiting in line: I give my turn to her. I will make up my jump when I come back. Someone mutters: Is that fair? Duoduo spreads her arm across: Her foot is in this state. Forget fairness for a moment. People come first.

The teacher arrives. Duoduo supports me, and we hop toward the clinic one jump at a time. On the corridor grid, our beanbag still lies alone in square six. At the top of the stairs, I gasp with pain, so Duoduo pushes her arm into my hand and says: Squeeze me if you want. Do not squeeze your own palm.

The clinic sprays something cool on my ankle, and the pain eases. But when we get back to the classroom door, the start-of-class bell has already rung. The corridor is empty. The chalk grid has been erased by the student on duty, leaving only a few faint white traces. Duoduo looks at those traces and says, a little regretfully: The grid is gone. We will redraw it at the next recess. Your square six still owes half a jump.

In this class I rest my foot on my schoolbag, but my mind is elsewhere. It is not about the unfinished house. It is about the moment Duoduo gave me her turn, and about her words, people come first. When the recess bell rings again, my ankle still aches, but I am already bouncing to the corridor on one foot, waiting for her to redraw the grid. Drawing the grid takes eight squares, but the square of friendship, I draw bigger than anyone.