I have a small daughter and two sma

I have a small daughter and two smaller sons, twins. They are all three in our minuscule garden at the moment, my sons eating dirt as fast as they can get it off the planet and down their gullets. They are two years old, they were seized with dirt-fever an instant ago, and as admirably direct and forceful young men, quick to act, true sons of the West, they are going to eat some dirt, boy, and you'd better step aside.

My daughter and I step aside.

The boys are eating so much dirt so fast that much of it is missing their maws and sliding down their chicken chests. It is thick moist dirt, slightly more solid than liquid. I watch a handful as it travels toward the sun. It's rich brown stuff, almost black, crumbly. There are a couple of tiny pebbles, the thin lacy bones of a former leaf (hawthorn?), the end of a worm, the tiny green elbows of bean sprouts. I watch with interest as Son Two inserts the dirt, chews meditatively, emits the wriggling worm, stares at it--and eats it again.

"Dad, they're eating the garden," says my daughter.

So they are. I'll stop them soon, but for this rare minute in life we are all absorbed by dirt, our faces to the ground, and I feel that there's something simple and true going on here, some lesson they should absorb, and so I let them absorb it. In spades.

Eventually my sons, filled with fill, turn their attentions to the other vigorous denizens of the garden: bamboo, beetles, blackberry, carrots, dockweed, cedars, camellias, dandelions, garlic, hawthorn, jays, moles, shrews, slugs, snails, spiders, squirrels--all made of dirt, directly or indirectly. As are mugs, vases, clothes, houses, books, magazines. We breathe dirt suspended in the air, we crunch it between our teeth on spinach leaves and fresh carrots, we wear it in the lines of our hands and the folds of our faces, we catch it in the linings of our noses and eyes and ears. We swim in an ocean of dirt, yet we hardly ever consider it closely, except to plumb it for its treasures, or furrow it for seed, or banish it from our persons, clothes, houses.

I am hardly handy about the house and garden, and spend my hours on other matters, but enough of me feels responsible for the dirt that surrounds my home that I have often regretted the general abandonment of my garden, and felt a certain guilt that it is not productive, that the land lays fallow. But now, cradling my daughter, grinning at the mud monkeys, I see that the garden is itself hard at work, hatching honey ants and potato bugs, propelling bamboo and beans into the air, serving as a grocery store for shrews. I imagine it in one of those sped-up film clips, madly roiling with animals and plants, the sun and rain baking and hammering it at a terrific pace, the banks of clouds sliding over like vast battleships.

Such busy dirt.

Kết quả (Việt) 1:

I have a young daughter and two small sons, twins. They are all three in our small garden at this time, my son ate dirt as fast as they can get it out of the planets and their gullets down. they are two years old, they were seized with a dirt-sauce immediately before, and direct and powerful as admirable young man, quick action, the true son of the West, they will eat some dirt, boy, and you better step aside. my daughter and I step aside. the boys eat too much dirt too quickly, much of it is the lack of chest maws and slide down their chicken. it was moist thick dirt, a little more solid than liquid. I can see a little of it goes toward the sun. that's rich tools brown, almost black, crumbly. there are a few small pebbles, bones thin lace of an old leaf (medlar?), ending a deep, green elbow tiny bean sprouts . I watched with interest as the two boys insert the dirt, chewing meditatively, worms wriggling emitted, look at it - and eat it again. "Father, they are eating the garden," said my daughter . Therefore, they are. I will stop them soon, but this rare minutes of life we all absorbed by dust, our face to the ground, and I feel that there something simple and really is going on here, some of the lessons they should absorb, and so I let them absorb it. in spades. Finally my son, filled with filling, move the their attention to other denizens powerful garden: bamboo, beetles, blackberry, carrot, dockweed, cedars, camellias, dandelion, garlic, Hawthorn, jays, moles, Shrewsbury, slugs, snails, spiders , squirrels ... all are made ​​of dirt, directly or indirectly. As mugs, vases, clothing, housing, books, magazines. we breathe the dust suspended in the air, we tighten tight between our teeth on spinach leaves and fresh carrots, we put it in the line of our hands and the folds of our faces, we catch it in the lining of the nose and our eyes and ears. we swim in an ocean of dirt, but we almost never look at it closely, except to plumb for his treasures, or furrow for the seed , or expel it from our people, clothing, shelter. I hardly comfortable home and garden, and spend my time on other issues, but I feel full responsibility of the dirt around my house that I often have regrets about giving up my general garden, and felt a certain guilt that it is not produced, the land lay fallow. But now, cradling my daughter, grinning monkey in mud, I saw the garden itself is hard at work, honey farming is and potato bug, bamboo and beans thrown into the machine, which serves as a grocery store for Shrewsbury. I imagine it in one of the sped up film clips, madly roiling with animals and plants, sun and rain baked and hammers it a great pace, banks of clouds sliding like huge battleships Colossi. The dust so busy.

Kết quả (Việt) 2:

I have a little girl and two little boys, twins. They are all three in the garden of our tiny at the moment, my son ate dirt as fast as they can get it out of practice crystal and down their throats. they are two years old, they were arrested with dirty sauce immediately before, and the young man as admired direct and strong, fast acting, son really of the West, they will eat some dirt, boy, and you'd better step aside. my daughter and I step aside. the boys are eating too much dust so fast that much of it is missing chicken maws and slide down their chest. it was wet dirt thick, slightly more solid than liquid. I see a few as it moves toward the sun. that's what rich brown, almost such as black, crumbly. There are a few small pebbles, bones thin lace of an old leaf (hawthorn?), end of a worm, elbows small green sprouts. I watch with interest as the son Hai insert dirt, chewing meditation, emits writhing worms, staring at it -. And eat it again : "Dad, they're eating the garden," my daughter said. So they are. I will stop them immediately, but within a minute of this rare in our lives are absorbed by dust, our face to the ground, and I feel that there is something simple and true happening here, some of the lessons they should absorb, and so I give them steamed sell it. In spades. Finally my son, filled with full, turn their attention to other powerful residents of the garden: bamboo, beetles, blackberry, carrot, dockweed, cedar , camellia, dandelion, garlic, hawthorn, jays, moles, shrews, slugs, snails, spiders, squirrels - all made ​​of soil, directly or indirectly. as mugs, vases, clothes clothing, housing, books, magazines. we breathe the dust suspended in the air, we have to tighten it between the teeth of us on spinach leaves and fresh carrots, we put it in the line of hand we and the folds of our faces, we started it in the lining of the nose and the eyes and ears of us. we swim in an ocean of dirt, but we almost never see examine it closely, except plumb it for its treasure, or its value is between seed forehead, or expel it from the people, clothing, shelter. I hardly comfortable home and garden, and spend his time on other issues, but enough for me to feel responsible for the dirt around my house that I often regret placed in my garden, and feel a sense of guilt make sure that it is not produced, the land lay fallow. But now, cradling my daughter, grinning with mud monkeys, I find that the garden itself is hard work, raising children is honey and potato beetles, bamboo and push beans into the air, which serves as a grocery store for shrew. I imagine it in one of the accelerated film clips, crazy thick with animals and bugs plants, sun and rain baked and hammer it with a great speed, the banks of clouds slide across such large ships. such filthy.