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妈妈，我真想现在不做功课了。我整个早晨都在念书呢。
你说，现在还不过是十二点钟。假定不会晚过十二点吧；难道你不能把不过是十二点钟想象成下午么？
我能够很容易地想象：现在太阳已经到了那片稻田的边缘上了，老态龙钟的渔婆正在池边采撷香草做她的晚餐。
我闭上了眼就能够想到，马塔尔树下的阴影是更深黑了，池塘里的水看来黑得发亮。
假如十二点钟能够在黑夜里来到，为什么黑夜不能在十二点钟的时候来到呢？
You say that father writes a lot of books, but what he writes I don’t understand.
He was reading to you all the evening, but could you really make out what he meant?
What nice stories, mother, you can tell us! Why can’t father write like that, I wonder?
Did he never hear from his own mother stories of giants and fairies and princesses?
Has he forgotten them all?
Often when he gets late for his bath you have to go and call him a hundred times.
You wait and keep his dishes warm for him, but he goes on writing and forgets.
Father always plays at making books.
If ever I go to play in father’s room, you come and call me,“what a naughty child!”
If I make the slightest noise, you say, “Don’t you see that father’s at his work?”
What’s the fun of always writing and writing?
When I take up father’s pen or pencil and write upon his book just as he does, —— a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i, —— why do you get cross with me, then, mother?
You never say a word when father writes.
When my father wastes such heaps of paper, mother, you don’t seem to mind at all.
But if I take only one sheet to make a boat with, you say,“Child, how troublesome you are!”
What do you think of father’s spoiling sheets and sheets of paper with black marks all over on both sides?