小时候,我喜欢看母鸡捉虫子。它把捉来的虫子啄一小段一小段放在地上,然后咯咯地叫着。小鸡知道妈妈在叫它们,一窝蜂地跑来。要下雨了,母鸡又咯咯地叫着,然后把两只翅膀张开,把小鸡全部搂到它的怀里,轻轻地趴下。我呆呆地望着它,突发奇想,我慢慢挪到母鸡身旁,也想钻到母鸡的翅膀下,我刚想掀开它的翅膀,母鸡就发出警告声准备啄我,吓得我急忙跑开。那时,我五六岁。我羡慕被妈妈牵着手回家的孩子,羡慕小伙伴身上穿着妈妈做的衣裳和鞋子,全身都散发着那种温暖幸福,每针每线都缀着妈妈的爱。而我的衣裳都是缝纫机器的味道,生硬里带有冰冷,没有妈妈的温暖。我喜欢听别人妈妈的喊叫声:“回家吃饭了。”那一声呼喊充满 As a kid, I like to see hens catch insects. It pecked the bug and pecked it for a short, short period of time on the floor, then giggle. Chicks know my mother is calling them, rushed to run. It is going to rain, the hen shouts and giggle, then spread the two wings, hug all the chickens into its arms, and gently get down. I stared at it, whim, I slowly moved to the hen side, but also want to get under the hen’s wings, I just want to open its wings, the hen will be issued a warning sound to peck at me Scared me quickly ran away. At that time, I was five or six years old. I envy the mother holding hands to go home children, envy the little partner wearing her mother’s clothes and shoes, the body exudes the kind of warmth and happiness, every stitch with mother’s love. And my clothes are the taste of sewing machines, hard with ice, no mother’s warmth. I like to hear someone’s mom shout: “go home to eat. ” That shouted full