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我们家的院子下雪了
早上我是被亮醒的。窗帘缝里透进来的光白得晃眼，跟平时不一样。我爬起来扑到窗边，拉开窗帘，忍不住喊了一声——雪，下了整整一夜的雪，院子变成了一张干净的白纸。
我们家的院子不是纯白的。屋顶的瓦是青灰的，雪落在上头，灰的白的一层一层混在一起，像谁拿刷子给屋顶刷了底色。墙角的枣树叶子落光了，枝丫上停着雪，细枝被雪压得往下弯，看上去树一夜之间胖了一圈。妈妈晾在绳上的红外套是院子里最亮的一点，雪落在红布上，一片一片待着，好像不敢化。我盯着那件外套看了很久，红和白的颜色，平时怎么也配不出来。
雪是有声音的。棚子顶上搭着一块铁皮，雪落在铁皮上沙沙的，又密又轻，像谁在院子里喂蚕。枣树上的雪块撑不住了，扑簌一声掉下来，砸在雪地上，声音发闷，很软。爸爸出门扫雪，竹扫帚刮过水泥地，唰——唰——，我踩到刚扫开的雪堆上，脚底下咯吱，咯吱。我站在门口听了半天。原来雪有这么多声音，以前我怎么没听见。
我伸手去接雪。雪粒落在手心里，一小点凉，还没来得及看清它的样子，就化成了一小滴水。我把手伸出屋檐，接了一会儿，手心里攒了薄薄一层雪，凉得手心发蜇，我赶紧攥上手指，缩回屋里。手套的袖口湿了一圈。我又捏了个雪球，捏的时候雪在指缝里咯吱响，捏得越紧越凉，凉到指尖发疼，我就扔了出去。雪球落在院子的白纸上，砸出一个浅浅的坑。我跑到厨房给妈妈看我冻红的鼻子，妈妈把我的手捂进她的围裙兜里，说，又玩雪。围裙兜里暖烘烘的，刚才那点凉慢慢退下去，指尖又开始发麻，麻也是雪的味道。
早饭吃完，院子被爸爸扫出一条路，雪堆在墙根，堆成一道矮矮的白墙。我做了件想了好久的事——伸手在墙根平整的雪上按了一个手印。五个指头，清清楚楚，雪凉丝丝地贴着掌心。下午再去看，手印的边缘让新落的雪填得有点模糊，可还在。我们家的院子这场雪，我用眼睛看了，用耳朵听了，还用手摸过了。我在作文本上写院子的时候，知道该写哪一样。
It Snowed in Our Courtyard
In the morning I was woken by the light. The light through the gap of the curtain was dazzlingly white, different from usual. I got up and rushed to the window, pulled it open, and could not help crying out - snow. It had snowed the whole night, and the courtyard had become a clean sheet of white paper.
Our courtyard is not pure white. The roof tiles are blue-gray, and the snow on them mixes gray and white layer by layer, as if someone had brushed a base coat over the roof. The jujube tree by the wall has lost all its leaves, and snow rests on its branches; the thin twigs bend down under the weight, and the tree looks as if it grew a size fatter overnight. Mom's red jacket on the clothesline is the brightest point in the yard. Flakes land on the red cloth and sit there, one by one, as if afraid to melt. I stared at the jacket for a long time. The color of red and white, you could never match them on an ordinary day.
Snow has sounds. A sheet of tin lies over the shed roof, and snow falling on it rustles, dense and light, like someone feeding silkworms in the yard. A lump of snow on the jujube tree can no longer hold, and plops down onto the snow with a dull, soft sound. Dad went out to sweep, and the bamboo broom scraped the concrete, sha - sha. I stepped onto the freshly piled snow and my feet went crunch, crunch. I stood at the doorway and listened for ages. So snow has so many sounds - how had I never heard them before.
I reached out to catch snow. The flakes landed on my palm, a tiny point of cold, and before I could see what they looked like they melted into a drop of water. I held my hand out beyond the eaves, and after a while a thin layer of snow gathered on my palm, cold enough to sting, and I quickly shut my fingers and drew my hand back inside. The cuff of my glove got a ring of wet. Then I packed a snowball; as I squeezed, the snow creaked between my fingers, and the tighter I squeezed the colder it got, until my fingertips ached, so I threw it. The snowball landed on the white paper of the yard and dented a shallow pit. I ran into the kitchen to show Mom my frozen red nose. She tucked my hands into the pocket of her apron and said, playing in the snow again. The apron pocket was warm, and the cold slowly drained out of my fingertips, which then began to tingle - and tingling, too, tasted of snow.
After breakfast Dad had swept a path through the yard, and the snow was piled along the wall into a low white fence. I did something I had long wanted to do - I pressed my hand into the smooth snow at the wall and left a handprint. Five fingers, perfectly clear, the snow cool against my palm. In the afternoon I went to look again. The edges of the print had been blurred a little by fresh snow, but it was still there. This snow in our courtyard, I had seen it with my eyes, heard it with my ears, and touched it with my hand. When I write about the yard in my notebook, I know which things to write down.
爷爷村子里的雪
寒假里小满跟着爸妈回乡下，到的那天夜里就下起了大雪。第二天清早小满还没起，爷爷已经站在院子里了。他穿着那件旧棉袄，手背在身后，绕着院子慢慢走了一圈，仰头看看天，又低头看看地，嘴里说，好雪，下透了。
村里的雪跟城里的不一样。城里的雪落在柏油路上，让车轮压成灰黑的泥；这里的雪落在麦田里，落在房顶上，落在河面上，全是干净的白。麦田是一整块一整块的白，白得平平整整，只有几垄麦苗的背露出来，白底下透出一条一条浅绿。村后的杨树全白了，枝丫支棱着，像开了一夜的花。屋顶上的白跟墙根的白中间隔着一条黑黑的檐沟，颜色一层一层，谁也没画过，倒比画的还齐整。小满站在门口看，觉得整个村子像刚洗过、刚铺好的。
声音也是不一样的。城里的雪落下来没有声，这里的雪落在草垛上扑扑的，落在井台上嗒嗒的。爷爷领小满往麦田走，雪没到脚踝，一脚下去咯吱一声，抬起来又是一声。家里那条黄狗先冲出去，四条腿在雪里乱蹬，滚了两个身，站起来时胡子上都挂着雪，冲他们摇尾巴。远处有人扫院子，扫帚划过土地，唰啦，唰啦，声音传得很远。村子静，静得能听见雪从树上滑下来的声音，扑簌一下，落在人头顶上。
爷爷在田边走下来，蹲下去，把雪扒开一层。底下的土是湿润润的，麦苗贴着地皮，绿得很结实。爷爷抓起一把雪，攥在手里捏了捏，雪从他指缝里挤出来，凉气顺着手指往上冒。他把手上的雪拍掉，说，雪盖被，麦苗睡得香，来年准是好收成。小满也学着抓了一把，手心一下子凉透了，赶紧甩手，爷爷笑他。
回村路上，太阳出来了，雪开始滴水，屋檐下一滴一滴，砸在雪地上砸出小坑。房檐上的雪块掉下来，碎成一团白雾。小满的手还凉着，指尖红红的，可心里热热的。晚上她给同学打电话，说乡下的雪是盖在麦子上的，说爷爷攥雪的样子。她说了很多，说到最后只说了一句，明年的麦子一定很好。
The Snow in Grandpa's Village
During winter vacation Xiaoman went back to the countryside with her parents, and the night they arrived a heavy snow began to fall. Before she got up the next morning, Grandpa was already standing in the yard. Wearing his old padded coat, hands behind his back, he walked slowly around the yard once, looked up at the sky and down at the ground, and said, good snow, a soaking one.
The snow in the village was not like the snow in the city. In the city snow falls on asphalt and is pressed into gray-black mud by wheels; here it falls on the wheat fields, on the roofs, on the river, all of it clean white. The wheat fields lay in whole blocks of white, flat and smooth, with only the ridges of a few rows of wheat showing through, pale green streaks under the white. The poplars behind the village were all white, branches jutting out, as if they had bloomed all night. On the roofs the white and the white at the wall bases were separated by a dark gutter line, colors layer upon layer, drawn by nobody yet neater than a painting. Xiaoman stood at the doorway and felt the whole village looked freshly washed, freshly laid out.
The sounds were different too. City snow falls silently; here snow patters onto the haystacks and taps onto the well platform. Grandpa led Xiaoman toward the fields, the snow at ankle height, each step down a crunch, each step up another. The family's yellow dog shot out first, all four legs paddling wildly in the snow, rolling twice, and when it stood up its whiskers were hung with snow, and it wagged its tail at them. Someone far off was sweeping the yard, the broom scraping the earth, shala, shala, the sound carrying far. The village was quiet, quiet enough to hear a lump of snow slide off a tree and plop onto someone's head.
Grandpa stepped down at the field's edge and crouched, pushing aside a layer of snow. The soil underneath was damp and moist, the wheat seedlings pressed flat to the ground, green and sturdy. He grabbed a handful of snow and squeezed it in his hand, the snow oozing out between his fingers, cold rising up his fingers. He brushed the snow off his hand and said, snow is a quilt; the wheat sleeps warm, and next year will surely be a good harvest. Xiaoman grabbed a handful too, and her palm went cold through at once; she shook her hands fast, and Grandpa laughed at her.
On the way back the sun came out, and the snow began to drip, drop by drop from the eaves, pitting the snow below with little holes. Chunks of snow fell from the eaves and burst into white mist. Xiaoman's hands were still cold, her fingertips red, but her heart was warm. That evening she phoned her classmate and said the village snow lies on top of the wheat, and described the way Grandpa had squeezed the snow. She said a great deal, and at the end said only one line: next year's wheat will surely be good.
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