一金色童年小屋的烟囱升起一缕笔直的炊烟。烟从红色的土烟囱里冒出来时,是蓝色的,但是袅袅腾腾地升到四月蓝色的空中时,已变成了灰色。小男孩乔戴望着烟,肩膀上扛着锄头,在玉米地里站着怔怔地发呆。此刻,在他前面不远处,一群野蜂正在飞舞。它们一头钻进娇嫩的淡紫色花丛中,仿佛这树林里再没有其他的花儿一般,仿佛把三月的茉莉花也忘了,把五月盛开在它们面前的月桂花和木兰花也忘了。乔戴忽然冒出一个念头,他也许可以跟着这群身子金黑相间、翻飞迅捷的小家伙,找到一棵贮满了琥珀色蜂蜜的野蜂筑巢的空心树。过冬的蔗糖早就吃光了,果酱也吃了大半了。找到一棵野蜂做窝的树,比锄草这活儿要棒得多。 A golden childhood cottage chimney raised a straight line of smoke. The smoke was blue when it came out of the red soil chimney, but turned gray when curled up into the blue sky in April. Joe stared at the little boy with a hoe on his shoulder and stared into a daze in the cornfield. At the moment, not far in front of him, a group of wild bees are flying. They plunged into delicate lavender flowers as if there were no other flowers in the woods, as if forgetting the jasmine in March and also forgetting the laurel and magnolia blooming in front of them in May. Joe could suddenly come up with the idea that he might be able to follow the crowd of black and white, swift swaggers and find a hollow tree nestled by wild bees full of amber honey. Succulent winter has long eaten, the jam also eaten more than half. Finding a wild bee tree is much better than hoeing.