一本破旧的袖珍《唐诗三百首》,是我小时候快乐的源泉。说它破旧一点儿不为过:硬壳书皮早就失踪了,露出了粘着“阿里巴巴和四十大盗”的胶封书脊,拎着书脊抖一抖,缝隙里还会掉出几张书页。就是这本不起眼儿的旧书,牵着我的手,引领我走进古诗词的殿堂。目之所及,净是陌生、光怪陆离的景象,我急不可耐地凑过去看看这个、望望那个。高山是“白云回望合,青霭入看无”的,层峦叠嶂间是“长波逐若泻”的江水,江边一只小船,船上 A shabby pocket “Three Hundred Tang Poems” is a happy fountain of my childhood. Say it worn a little not too much: Hard shell cover has long been missing, exposing the sticking “Alibaba and Forty Thieves,” the plastic seal spine, carrying the spine shaking shaking, the gap will fall out a few page. This is an obscene old book, holding my hand and lead me into the ancient poetry hall. As the eyes of the net, the net is a strange, bizarre scene, I am impatient to get together to look at this, looking at that. Alpine is “white clouds look back together, blue sky into the view no ”, between the layers of the mountains is the “long wave by if the diarrhea ” of the river, a boat on the river, the boat