【散文】快乐的课间散文500字：走廊上的笑声

第四节课后的那道光

第四节课下课，走廊的光是最好的。

太阳斜过来，从西边的窗户进来，铺在水磨石地上，一节一节，像谁把金色的台阶搭在了楼上。光里有灰尘在转，转得很慢，不慌不忙。人从光上走过去，影子先走，人后走，影子被拉得很长，长得变了形，谁踩了谁的影子，就要被追着打一阵。

笑声是从走廊这头起的。不知谁说了句什么，先是一个班笑，声音撞在墙上弹回来，隔壁班听不见内容，只把笑声接过去，接着往下传。传到楼梯口，已经没人知道原话是什么了，可还在笑。笑声滚过去，滚得整条走廊都亮堂。我靠在栏杆上，手里捏着一支笔，笔帽忘了盖，墨水在笔尖上凝成一小颗黑珠子。

我那时正被一次考试压着，排名表贴在教室后墙，我看了三遍，每一遍都把名字往下按一寸。可站在那道光边上听笑声滚过去，胸口那块石头忽然松了。我想起笑的人里，有跟我一样没考好的，有卷子还压在桌洞里的。他们照样笑。原来笑不挑人，也不等成绩出来才许笑。

上课铃响，笑声收住，人散进各个教室。光还在地上，又挪了一格。有个男生跑回教室，在光里踩出一串急匆匆的影子，像谁在金色台阶上噔噔往上跑。我回教室，把笔帽盖上，路过排名表时没再看。

后来我毕了业，见过很多场合的笑，应酬的笑，客气的笑，笑完各自散去。我总想起走廊里那种没有由头的笑，一群人笑一件事，笑完就忘，谁也不欠谁一个解释。那种笑是走廊、阳光和十几岁的年纪合起来给的，后来哪儿都买不到。

如今每个晴天的中午，我看见斜进来的光，还是会站一下。像站回那条走廊，等下一阵笑声从教室那头滚过来。

The Light After the Fourth Period

After the fourth period, the light in the corridor is the best in the whole school.

The sun slants in through the west windows and lays itself on the terrazzo floor in sections, like someone building golden steps up the building. Dust turns slowly in the light, unhurried. People walk across the light, their shadows going first and themselves following, the shadows stretched long and out of shape. If one person steps on another shadow, there is a chase down the hall.

The laughter started at this end of the corridor. Someone said something, and first one class laughed, the sound bouncing off the wall. The next class could not hear the words, only caught the laughter and passed it along. By the time it reached the stairwell, nobody remembered the original sentence, yet everyone kept laughing. The laughter rolled down the hall and made the whole corridor bright. I leaned on the railing holding a pen with the cap off, the ink drying into a small black bead at the tip.

Those days I was pressed down by an exam. The ranking sheet was posted on the back wall of our classroom, and I read it three times, and each time I pushed my own name down another inch. But standing at the edge of that light, listening to the laughter roll past, the stone in my chest suddenly loosened. Among the laughing people were some who had done as badly as I did, with test papers still shoved in their desk cubbies. They laughed all the same. So laughter does not choose its people, and it does not wait for grades before it is allowed.

The class bell rang, the laughter stopped, and people scattered into their rooms. The light stayed on the floor and shifted one more step. A boy ran back to class, stampeding a string of hurried shadows through the light, as if someone were clattering up golden steps. I went back to class and put the cap on my pen, and when I passed the ranking sheet I did not look again.

Later I graduated, and I have seen laughter in many rooms since, polite laughter, careful laughter, laughter after which everyone goes their own way. I always think of that laughter in the corridor with no reason behind it, a whole group laughing at one thing, forgetting it right after, owing no one an explanation. That laughter was given by the corridor, the sunlight, and the age of thirteen or fourteen together, and it cannot be bought anywhere afterward.

Now on any sunny noon, when I see light slanting in, I still stop for a moment, as if standing back in that corridor, waiting for the next wave of laughter to roll in from the classrooms.

办公室窗前的十分钟

我的办公桌正对着走廊。当班主任的第一年，这十分钟是我最难熬的十分钟。

铃一响，走廊就活了。脚步声、喊声、笑声，一层压一层往办公室涌。我握着红笔，听见外面笑成一片，心里冒出来的第一个念头总是：下节课他们静得下来吗。我起身走到窗口，想板起脸吓一吓他们。脚还没迈出去，自己先停住了。

走廊里阳光正好横着铺过去，从这头窗到那头窗，一整条金色的路。有个男生在光里倒着走，面朝同伴，手舞足蹈地讲一件事，讲得夸张，讲到一半自己先笑弯了腰，撞在身后同学的胸口上，两个人顺势笑作一团。旁边几个女生扶着墙笑，笑得蹲下去，头发散了也不管。走廊尽头的水房传来水桶磕地的声音，混进笑声里，谁也不嫌谁吵。

我站在窗口，红笔还捏在手里。那个倒着走的男生，上周刚在我面前哭过，因为数学考了不及格。他妈在电话里急得直哭，我也跟着愁。可此刻他在光里倒着走，笑得直不起腰，好像那场哭和这场笑是两回事，又好像本来就是一回事——哭过，所以笑得更用力。

我坐回桌前，没有出去板脸。桌上摊着纪律检查表，我看了它一会儿，把它扣了过去。那十分钟里，走廊的笑声一直不断，我头一回觉得那声音不难听，像一场雨下在屋顶上，下得很足。

后来我带了四届学生。每一届都有人毕业时来办公室哭，哭完又笑着走。我渐渐明白，我守着的从来不是纪律表上那几个数字，而是走廊里那种笑声能囫囵囫囵响满十年的日子。阳光每年秋天都横着铺过那条走廊，铺一次，换一批人站在光里笑。

如今我又换了个办公室，窗外是停车场，听不见笑声了。可每到课间，我还是会朝走廊的方向听几秒，像等一场熟悉的雨。

Ten Minutes at the Office Window

My desk faces the corridor. In my first year as a homeroom teacher, those ten minutes were the hardest ten minutes of my day.

When the bell rang, the corridor came alive. Footsteps, shouts, and laughter pressed in on the office layer after layer. I would grip my red pen, hear the roaring laughter outside, and the first thought in my mind was always: can they settle down for the next period. I would stand and walk to the window, meaning to put on a stern face and scare them. My foot never made it out. I stopped myself first.

The sunlight lay straight across the corridor, from this window to that one, a whole golden road. A boy walked backward through the light, facing his classmate, gesturing wildly as he told a story, telling it so dramatically that he doubled over laughing himself, bumped into the chest of the classmate behind him, and the two of them collapsed into laughter together. Several girls beside them held the wall while they laughed, laughing until they squatted down, not caring that their hair came loose. From the water room at the end of the hall came the clang of a bucket hitting the floor, mixing into the laughter, and nobody minded anybody else.

I stood at the window with the red pen still in my hand. The boy walking backward had cried in front of me just last week for failing math. His mother cried on the phone, and I had worried right along with her. Yet at that moment he walked backward through the light, laughing so hard he could not stand up straight, as if the crying and the laughing were two different things, and as if they had always been the same thing. He had cried, so he laughed all the harder.

I sat back down and did not go out with my stern face. The discipline checklist lay open on my desk; I looked at it a while, then turned it face down. For those ten minutes the laughter in the corridor never stopped, and for the first time I did not find it harsh. It was like rain falling well and fully on a roof.

I have taught four graduating classes since. Every class had students who came to my office crying at graduation, then left laughing once they were done. I came to understand that what I had been guarding was never the numbers on a checklist, but the years in which that kind of laughter could ring full and unbroken down the corridor. Every autumn the sunlight lays itself straight across that corridor, and each time it lays itself down, a new group of people stands in it laughing.

My office now looks out on a parking lot, and I cannot hear laughter from here. But at every break I still turn my ear toward the corridor for a few seconds, as if waiting for a familiar rain.