好奇的玛杰丽 

　　你可曾读过《苏菲的世界》？面对镜子中的自己，认真地问：“我从哪里来？”很多事情，我们习以为常却不求甚解。你可知道，真理藏在这个世界的每一个角落。你每多一分求索的精神，你便对这个世界多了一分了解。

　　三月末一个明媚的早晨，小玛杰丽戴好帽子，围上她的苏格兰彩格披肩，朝海滩走去。这可是她第一次一个人出来溜达呀，玛杰丽还只是一个小姑娘，除了那圆溜溜的、仅仅打量过六个春夏的灰色眼睛，她什么都是小小的。

　　远处的海和天空蒙着一层薄雾，太阳周围的白色云朵镶着粉色、紫色的光边。阳光和湿润的空气让玛杰丽心里觉得暖洋洋的，轻柔的风吹拂着她的披肩，当她望着阳光下粼粼的水面时，眼前的景象让她感到惊奇。因为太阳似乎从来没有像今天这样，如同一朵巨大的金色的花，盛开在珍珠般的花萼中——像一朵没有柄的花。也许那巨大的花柄隐藏在天空，直插到海底，没有人知道它的根扎在哪里。

　　玛杰丽没有继续为这个问题而困惑，因为她看到潮水涨起来了。浪花起初极小但每刻都在长大，它们涌上沙滩，洗刷卵石，欢笑着，眨着眼，低声轻语着，挤成一团，像成千上万急着回家的小孩子，每一个都有许多小秘密要述说。

　　浪花是从哪里来的呢？在蔚蓝色的地平线下面，是谁用低沉、空旷的声音，催促着他们涌上自己脚下的沙滩的呢？他们那悦耳的声音又在互相嘀咕着什么秘密呢？噢，海面下是什么，上面又是什么？它是如此深邃，如此宽广，又如此朦胧。那些看起来比海鸟都小的白色轮船是从哪里来的，又要去哪里呢？

　　当玛杰丽静静地坐在一块岩石上，想着这些问题的答案的时候，从崖上一棵香柏树上传来一声低沉的鸟鸣。漫长的冬天过后，玛杰丽几乎忘了还有小鸟，忘了小鸟还会歌唱，她甚至开始奇怪这样的音乐是怎么发出来的。

　　当她看到一只鸟落在黄褐色的枝干上时，她更加好奇了。这是一只蓝色的鸟，玛杰丽第一次见到这种颜色的鸟。它在那多刺的枝头上跳来跳去，仿佛成了树的一部分，因为香柏的果实是暗蓝色的，和鸟的羽毛的颜色差不多。但是音符是怎么进到它的嗓子里去的呢？进到它的嗓子后，又是怎么自如地抒发出来的呢？这只蓝鸟是从哪里来的？它是怎样飞过雪白的云堆来到蔚蓝大海的沙滩上的？

　　浪花对小鸟唱着欢迎的歌，小鸟也欢唱着应和浪花，它们就好像是老朋友一样。浪花的节拍和小鸟的啾啾声是如此和谐，就像是从同一个老师那儿一起学来的乐曲。在小鸟的歌声和大海涛声的相伴下，玛杰丽边想边走，爬上了一个在春日阳光映照下显出淡淡绿色的陡坡。

　　小草真的开始生长了！新鲜的嫩芽从去年的枯草叶子中挺出，似乎重新获得了生命。玛杰丽弯下腰来，看到新生的草尖从叶梢中挺出。到处散落着小小的由暗绿色叶子包裹的花蕾。它们包得紧紧的，只有那些观察过它们好几个春秋的人，大概才能知道不久之后那其中会绽放出什么样的花朵。没有人会责怪玛杰丽不知道这些显得很普通的东西，也不可能去责怪她这样俯身去观看小小的花骨朵，还对此发出惊叹声。

　　是什么使得黑色土地上长出这么碧绿的小草？花骨朵又是怎么知道该是脱掉那小小绿色帽子看看周围世界的时候了？它们是怎么长成花蕾的？在来到这个世界之前，它们是不是就在另一个世界盛开呢？它们知不知道自己会开什么样的花？花有灵魂吗，就像小女孩一样，当它们凋谢之后也会去往另一个世界吗？

　　玛杰丽想坐在岸边，等着花骨朵张开。如果花儿第一眼看到的就是玛杰丽凝望着它们的眼睛，它也许会把自己的小秘密告诉她的。一个花蕾正在绽放，上面点缀着黄色条纹，她想像着这些条纹将随着时间一点点变大。但是她不愿意去碰花骨朵，因为它看上去和自己一样鲜活。她只是在边上想着为什么，惊叹着。

　　玛杰丽听到妈妈的呼唤，踏着贝壳、卵石朝家走去，她愉悦地笑着，脸上露出了甜甜的酒窝。她觉得生活在这个大大的、奇妙的世界里真是自在，尽管她还不能给出它们为什么会是这样的答案，但她仍觉得活着真是幸福。当母亲给她摘下披肩，脱掉帽子时，小姑娘说：“妈妈，就让我待在门口好吗？我不喜欢在屋里待着。是什么让所有的东西都这么美丽快乐的呢？你不想知道吗？”

　　玛杰丽的妈妈是一个很善良的人。但是她因为有那么多的家务在等着她去做，即使自己有嗜好，也不会经常任由这些想法溜出厨房的门的。刚才她正在烤姜汁面包，现在怕是要烤糊了，所以她又把披肩围在小姑娘的脖子上，让她留在了门廊上。回去干活的时候，她自言自语地说：“古怪的孩子，长大后会变成什么样呢？”

　　玛杰丽坐在门槛上遐想，海浪阵阵，阳光照在身上越来越暖和。这一切都是如此奇妙、伟大而美丽！她的心随着音乐高兴地舞动起来。这音乐回响在天地间，回响在滋长的小草与金色的太阳间。

　　那天夜里，当这双圆溜溜的灰色眼睛合上的时候，当星星刚刚开始闪烁，天使们从空中望着玛杰丽，为那英明的造物主所创造的奇迹惊叹着。因为在地球上，没有什么比小孩子那花蕾般的灵魂更奇妙的东西了。

　　How Margery Wondered

　　One bright morning late in March, little Margery put on her hood and her Highland plaid 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 aside her Highland shawl, as she looked across the waters at the sun, and wondered! For, somehow, the sun had never looked before as it did 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 did not stop to puzzle herself about the answer to her question, for now the tide, 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 did 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 gliding 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 did 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 did 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? Did they bloom in another world before they sprung up here? — and did 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 beside 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 wider 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 said, "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 did not often let them wander outside 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 wide 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。