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好奇的瑪杰麗
你可曾讀過《蘇菲的世界》？面對鏡子中的自己，認真地問：“我從哪里來？”很多事情，我們習以為常卻不求甚解。你可知道，真理藏在這個世界的每一個角落。你每多一分求索的精神，你便對這個世界多了一分了解。
三月末一個明媚的早晨，小瑪杰麗戴好帽子，圍上她的蘇格蘭彩格披肩，朝海灘走去。這可是她第一次一個人出來溜達呀，瑪杰麗還只是一個小姑娘，除了那圓溜溜的、僅僅打量過六個春夏的灰色眼睛，她什么都是小小的。
遠處的海和天空蒙著一層薄霧，太陽周圍的白色云朵鑲著粉色、紫色的光邊。陽光和濕潤的空氣讓瑪杰麗心里覺得暖洋洋的，輕柔的風吹拂著她的披肩，當她望著陽光下粼粼的水面時，眼前的景象讓她感到驚奇。因為太陽似乎從來沒有像今天這樣，如同一朵巨大的金色的花，盛開在珍珠般的花萼中——像一朵沒有柄的花。也許那巨大的花柄隱藏在天空，直插到海底，沒有人知道它的根扎在哪里。
瑪杰麗沒有繼續為這個問題而困惑，因為她看到潮水漲起來了。浪花起初極小但每刻都在長大，它們涌上沙灘，洗刷卵石，歡笑著，眨著眼，低聲輕語著，擠成一團，像成千上萬急著回家的小孩子，每一個都有許多小秘密要述說。
浪花是從哪里來的呢？在蔚藍色的地平線下面，是誰用低沉、空曠的聲音，催促著他們涌上自己腳下的沙灘的呢？他們那悅耳的聲音又在互相嘀咕著什么秘密呢？噢，海面下是什么，上面又是什么？它是如此深邃，如此寬廣，又如此朦朧。那些看起來比海鳥都小的白色輪船是從哪里來的，又要去哪里呢？
當瑪杰麗靜靜地坐在一塊巖石上，想著這些問題的答案的時候，從崖上一棵香柏樹上傳來一聲低沉的鳥鳴。漫長的冬天過后，瑪杰麗幾乎忘了還有小鳥，忘了小鳥還會歌唱，她甚至開始奇怪這樣的音樂是怎么發出來的。
當她看到一只鳥落在黃褐色的枝干上時，她更加好奇了。這是一只藍色的鳥，瑪杰麗第一次見到這種顏色的鳥。它在那多刺的枝頭上跳來跳去，仿佛成了樹的一部分，因為香柏的果實是暗藍色的，和鳥的羽毛的顏色差不多。但是音符是怎么進到它的嗓子里去的呢？進到它的嗓子后，又是怎么自如地抒發出來的呢？這只藍鳥是從哪里來的？它是怎樣飛過雪白的云堆來到蔚藍大海的沙灘上的？
浪花對小鳥唱著歡迎的歌，小鳥也歡唱著應和浪花，它們就好像是老朋友一樣。浪花的節拍和小鳥的啾啾聲是如此和諧，就像是從同一個老師那兒一起學來的樂曲。在小鳥的歌聲和大海濤聲的相伴下，瑪杰麗邊想邊走，爬上了一個在春日陽光映照下顯出淡淡綠色的陡坡。
小草真的開始生長了！新鮮的嫩芽從去年的枯草葉子中挺出，似乎重新獲得了生命。瑪杰麗彎下腰來，看到新生的草尖從葉梢中挺出。到處散落著小小的由暗綠色葉子包裹的花蕾。它們包得緊緊的，只有那些觀察過它們好幾個春秋的人，大概才能知道不久之后那其中會綻放出什么樣的花朵。沒有人會責怪瑪杰麗不知道這些顯得很普通的東西，也不可能去責怪她這樣俯身去觀看小小的花骨朵，還對此發出驚嘆聲。
是什么使得黑色土地上長出這么碧綠的小草？花骨朵又是怎么知道該是脫掉那小小綠色帽子看看周圍世界的時候了？它們是怎么長成花蕾的？在來到這個世界之前，它們是不是就在另一個世界盛開呢？它們知不知道自己會開什么樣的花？花有靈魂嗎，就像小女孩一樣，當它們凋謝之后也會去往另一個世界嗎？
瑪杰麗想坐在岸邊，等著花骨朵張開。如果花兒第一眼看到的就是瑪杰麗凝望著它們的眼睛，它也許會把自己的小秘密告訴她的。一個花蕾正在綻放，上面點綴著黃色條紋，她想像著這些條紋將隨著時間一點點變大。但是她不愿意去碰花骨朵，因為它看上去和自己一樣鮮活。她只是在邊上想著為什么，驚嘆著。
瑪杰麗聽到媽媽的呼喚，踏著貝殼、卵石朝家走去，她愉悅地笑著，臉上露出了甜甜的酒窩。她覺得生活在這個大大的、奇妙的世界里真是自在，盡管她還不能給出它們為什么會是這樣的答案，但她仍覺得活著真是幸福。當母親給她摘下披肩，脫掉帽子時，小姑娘說：“媽媽，就讓我待在門口好嗎？我不喜歡在屋里待著。是什么讓所有的東西都這么美麗快樂的呢？你不想知道嗎？”
瑪杰麗的媽媽是一個很善良的人。但是她因為有那么多的家務在等著她去做，即使自己有嗜好，也不會經常任由這些想法溜出廚房的門的。剛才她正在烤姜汁面包，現在怕是要烤糊了，所以她又把披肩圍在小姑娘的脖子上，讓她留在了門廊上。回去干活的時候，她自言自語地說：“古怪的孩子，長大后會變成什么樣呢？”
瑪杰麗坐在門檻上遐想，海浪陣陣，陽光照在身上越來越暖和。這一切都是如此奇妙、偉大而美麗！她的心隨著音樂高興地舞動起來。這音樂回響在天地間，回響在滋長的小草與金色的太陽間。
那天夜里，當這雙圓溜溜的灰色眼睛合上的時候，當星星剛剛開始閃爍，天使們從空中望著瑪杰麗，為那英明的造物主所創造的奇跡驚嘆著。因為在地球上，沒有什么比小孩子那花蕾般的靈魂更奇妙的東西了。
How Margery Wondered
One bright morning late in March, little Margery put on her hood and her Highland pla shawl, and went trudging across the beach. It was the first time she had been trusted out alone, for Margery was a little girl; nothing about her was large, except her round gray eyes, which had yet scarcely opened upon half a dozen springs and summers。
There was a pale mist on the far-off sea and sky, and up around the sun were white clouds edged with the hues of pinks and violets. The sunshine and the mild air made Margery's very heart feel warm, and she let the soft wind blow ase her Highland shawl, as she looked across the waters at the sun, and wondered! For, somehow, the sun had never looked before as it d today — it seemed like a great golden flower bursting out of its pearl-lined calyx — a flower without a stem. Or was there a strong stem away behind it in the sky, that reached down below the sea, to a root, nobody could guess where?
Margery d not stop to puzzle herself about the answer to her question, for now the te, was coming in, and the waves, little at first, but growing larger every moment, were crowding up along the sand and pebbles, laughing, winking, and whispering, as they tumbled over each other, like thousands of children hurrying home from somewhere, each with its own precious little secret to tell。
Where d the waves come from? Who was down there under the blue wall of the horizon, with the hoarse, hollow voice, urging and pushing them across the beach at her feet? And what secret was it they were lisping to each other with their pleasant voices? Oh, what was there beneath the sea, and beyond the sea, so deep, so broad, and so dim, too, away off where the white ships, that looked smaller than sea birds, were gling out and in?
But while Margery stood still for a moment on a dry rock, and wondered, there came a low, rippling warble to her ear from a cedar tree on the cliff above her. It had been a long winter, and Margery had forgotten that there were birds, and that birds could sing. So she wondered again what the music was。
And when she saw the bird perched on a yellow-brown bough, she wondered yet more. It was only a bluebird, but then it was the first bluebird Margery had ever seen. He fluttered among the prickly twigs, and looked as if he had grown out of them, as the cedar berries had, which were dusty blue, the color of his coat. But how d the music get in his throat? And after it was in his throat, how could it untangle itself, and wind itself off so evenly? And where had the bluebird flown from, across the snow banks down to the shore of the blue sea?
The waves sang a welcome to him, and he sang a welcome to the waves; they seemed to know each other well; and the ripple and the warble sounded so much alike, the bird and the wave must have both learned their music of the same teacher. And Margery kept on wondering as she stepped between the song of the bluebird and the echo of the sea, and climbed a sloping bank, just turning faintly green in the spring sunshine。
The grass was surely beginning to grow! There were fresh, juicy shoots running up among the withered blades of last year, as if in hopes of bringing them back to life; and closer down she saw the sharp points of new spears peeping from their sheaths. And scattered here and there were small, dark green leaves folded around buds shut up so tightly that only those who had watched them many seasons could tell what flowers were to be let out of their safe prisons by and by. So no one could blame Margery for not knowing that they were only common things, nor for stooping over the tiny buds, and wondering。
What made the grass come up so green out of the black earth? And how d the buds know when it was time to take off their little green hoods, and see what there was in the world around them? And how came they to be buds at all? D they bloom in another world before they sprung up here? — and d they know, themselves, what kind of flowers they should blossom into? Had flowers souls, like little girls, that would live in another world when their forms had faded away in this?
Margery thought she would like to sit down on the bank, and wait bese the buds until they opened; perhaps they would tell her their secret if the very first thing they saw was her eyes watching them. One bud was beginning to unfold; it was streaked with yellow in little stripes that she could imagine became wer every minute. But she would not touch it, for it seemed almost as much alive as herself. She only wondered, and wondered!
Margery heard her mother calling her, and she trudged home across the shells and pebbles with a pleasant smile dimpling her cheeks; for she felt very much at home in this large, wonderful world, and was happy to be alive, although she neither could have told, nor cared to know, the reason why. But when her mother unpinned the little girl's Highland shawl, and took off her hood, she sa, "O mother, do let me live on the doorstep! I don't like houses to stay in. What makes everything so pretty and so glad? Don't you like to wonder?"
Margery's mother was a good woman. But then there was all the housework to do, and, if she had thoughts, she d not often let them wander outse of the kitchen door. And just now she was baking some gingerbread, which was in danger of getting burned in the oven. So she pinned the shawl around the child's neck again, and left her on the doorstep, saying to herself, as she returned to her work, "Queer child! I wonder what kind of a woman she will be!"
But Margery sat on the doorstep, and wondered, as the sea sounded louder, and the sunshine grew warmer around her. It was all so strange, and grand, and beautiful! Her heart danced with joy to the music that went echoing through the we world from the roots of the sprouting grass to the great golden blossom of the sun。
And when the round, gray eyes closed that night, at the first peep of the stars, the angels looked down and wondered over Margery. For the wisdom of the wisest being God has made, ends in wonder; and there is nothing on earth so wonderful as the budding soul of a little child。
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