【散文】快乐的课间主题散文600字：十分钟的校园

围墙外的十分钟

铃声是从学校围墙外听见的。我下班绕远路，走到那排梧桐树下，电子铃正好响，一声拖着一声，像有人把整条街的水龙头拧开了。

铁栅栏门半开着，我站在门外看。最先涌出来的是抱着木板凳的孩子，跑到乒乓球台边，把凳子往台子中间一放，就算占了地方。皮筋从女生口袋里跳出来，两个人撑开，第三个人跳进去，嘴里念着数，马兰兰，皮筋长。

操场接住了另一半人。四个男生抢一只磨白了的篮球，拍着跑，鞋带散了也顾不上系，跑到篮下起跳，球磕在筐沿上弹起来，围观的人一齐踮脚。球进了，欢呼声炸开，惊起电线上的麻雀。我忽然想起二十年前，我也是这样踮着脚的，那时筐是铁的，网是麻绳编的，进球以后整个课间都是亮的。

走廊里的人贴着墙根跑，值日生袖子上别着红杠，喊了一声慢一点，声音自己先笑了。女生们挤在栏杆边，趴在臂弯里朝楼下喊名字，喊的人多，听的人少，笑声一层压一层。有个胆大的男生从窗口探出半个身子，冲操场喊他的朋友，喊完缩回来，耳朵通红。

水龙头前排着队，接一口水仰头灌下去，水珠顺着下巴滴在校服领子上，也不擦。花坛边蹲着两个孩子，趴在地上看蚂蚁搬家，看得极认真，谁路过踩近了还要被他们呵斥。学校小卖部的冰柜前围了一圈，五毛一袋的酸梅汤，吸得袋子哗哗响。这些细碎的声音混在一起，嗡嗡的，像整所学校在太阳底下自己运转。

上课铃再响，声音退潮一样收回去。走廊空了，操场空了，只剩一只乒乓球滚在墙根。两分钟后，读书声从每扇窗户里漫出来，像什么都没发生过。

我还站在梧桐树下。原来这十分钟一直都在，下课铃一响，它就回来，换一批孩子，换一批球，换一批喊名字的声音。它没有老，老的是围墙外听铃的人。

Ten Minutes Beyond the School Wall

I heard the bell from outside the school wall. On my way home from work I took the long way past the row of plane trees, and the electronic bell rang right on time, one note pulling after another, as if someone had turned on the faucets of the whole street.

The iron gate stood half open, and I watched from outside. The first to pour out were children carrying wooden benches. They ran to the table tennis tables and set a bench in the middle of a table, and that claimed the spot. Rubber bands jumped out of the girls pockets, two stretched one out, a third hopped in, chanting the counting rhyme as she jumped.

The playground caught the other half of the crowd. Four boys chased one basketball worn white, dribbling as they ran, too busy to tie a loose shoelace. One drove under the hoop and jumped; the ball struck the rim and bounced up, and everyone watching rose on tiptoe together. The ball went in, the cheering burst open, and the sparrows on the power line flew off in a flash. I suddenly remembered myself twenty years ago, also standing on tiptoe like that. Back then the hoop was bare iron and the net was braided hemp rope, and after a goal the whole break stayed bright.

In the corridors the boys ran along the wall. The student on duty wore a red stripe on his sleeve and shouted slow down, but his own voice laughed first. The girls crowded at the railing, resting on their arms, calling names down to the yard below. More people called than could hear, and the laughter piled layer on layer. One bold boy leaned half his body out of a window and shouted to his friend across the playground, then pulled back in with red ears.

A line formed at the water tap. A child cupped a mouthful, tilted his head back to drink, let drops fall from his chin onto his uniform collar, and did not wipe them off. Two children crouched by the flower bed, lying prone to watch ants moving house, dead serious, and they scolded any passerby who stepped too close. A ring of students gathered around the freezer at the school shop, slurping five-cent bags of sour plum drink until the plastic rattled. All these small sounds blended into one hum, as if the whole school were running itself in the sun.

When the class bell rang again, the sound receded like a tide. The corridors emptied, the playground emptied, and only a table tennis ball rolled by the wall. Two minutes later, reading aloud spilled out of every window, as if nothing had happened.

I still stood under the plane tree. So these ten minutes had always been there. When the bell rang, they came back, with a new batch of children, a new batch of balls, a new batch of voices calling names. They had not grown old. The one growing old is the person listening to the bell outside the wall.

下课铃是发令枪

老师说出下课两个字，铃就响了。这铃在我们班是发令枪，全班起身的声音哗啦一下，像一锅水开了。

我和同桌早就约好，这节数学课一结束就去抢单杠。我把课本摞进桌洞，拽上他就往外走。走廊是人河，大家都往一个方向流，我们侧着身子往里挤。靠墙站着的男生不挪窝，我们从他胳膊底下钻过去。值日生举着小红旗站在楼梯口，喊靠右行，喊得理直气壮，自己脚底下也挪得飞快。

楼梯是第二道关口。我们抓着扶手往下跳，三级一级，跳到半层让过一个抱作业本的同学，抱的是全班的卷子，厚得像一块砖。他在前面走，我们在后面护着，谁也不许再撞他，这是大家心照不宣的规矩。

出了教学楼口，风迎面撞过来。操场在太阳底下摊开，跑道边上的草还压着昨夜的露水。我们跑到单杠跟前，杠上已经挂了三个高年级的，我们就在旁边排队，跳起来够一下杠，再落下来，脚底的胶粒硌得踏实。同桌瘦，吊上去能停五六秒，我悬在半空，看操场上的影子一个个拉长，篮球在场地上画弧线，广播里放着一首跑调的歌，没人管它跑不跑调。

风把校服袖子吹得鼓起来，像两只小旗。我们比谁跳起来能摸到杠上的锈印，摸到了就大喊一声，声音混在满操场的闹声里，谁也听不清谁，可每个人都觉得自己喊得最响。

预备铃响的时候，单杠上的人一起落地，像被同一根线拽回来。往回跑的路上，同桌喘着气说，明天还来。我说来。走廊里人已经散了一半，我们的影子在墙上叠在一起，又分开。

回到座位，课本还摞在桌洞里，一动没动。手心是单杠的铁锈味，心跳还没落回原来的地方。十分钟这么短，短到来不及跟谁告别；可一整节课坐出来的闷，全留在操场上了。

The Break Bell Is the Starting Gun

The moment the teacher said the words class dismissed, the bell rang. In our class that bell is a starting gun. The whole room rises with a crash, like a pot of water coming to a boil.

My deskmate and I had already made a deal: as soon as math ends, we go claim the horizontal bar. I shove my books into the desk cubby and pull him out the door. The corridor is a river of bodies, everyone flowing one way. We turn sideways and squeeze through. A boy standing by the wall refuses to move, so we duck under his arm. The student on duty holds a little red flag at the stairwell and shouts keep right, shouting with full authority while his own feet hurry past.

The staircase is the second checkpoint. We hold the railing and leap down, three steps at a time, and at the landing we let a classmate pass who is carrying the homework of the whole class, a stack of test papers thick as a brick. He walks ahead and we guard him behind, and nobody dares bump him again. That is a rule everyone understands without saying.

The moment we clear the schoolhouse door, the wind hits us head-on. The playground spreads out under the sun, and the grass by the track still holds last night dew. We run to the bar. Three older students already hang on it, so we take our turn at the side, jumping up to touch it once and dropping back down, the rubber granules under our feet firm and solid. My deskmate is skinny and can hang five or six seconds. I hang in midair and watch the shadows on the playground stretch long, the basketball drawing arcs over the court, and the loudspeaker playing an off-key song that nobody minds.

The wind puffs out our uniform sleeves like two small flags. We compete to see who can jump high enough to touch the rust mark on the bar, and whoever does lets out a shout. The shout dissolves into the noise of the whole playground, no one making out anyone else, yet each person believes theirs was the loudest.

When the warning bell rings, everyone on the bar lands at once, as if pulled back by the same string. On the run back, my deskmate says between gasps, same time tomorrow. I say deal. Half the crowd in the corridor has already scattered, and our shadows on the wall merge and then part again.

Back at my seat, the books sit in the cubby exactly as I left them. My palms smell of bar rust, and my heartbeat has not yet returned to where it was. Ten minutes are so short there is no time to say goodbye to anyone. But all the stuffiness built up by a whole class period stayed behind on the playground.