冬日漫步?
AWinterWalk
亨利·大衛·梭羅/HenryDavidThoreau
Thewindhasgentlymurmuredthroughtheblinds,orpuffedwithfeatherysoftnessagainstthewindows,andoccasionallysighedlikeasummerzephyrliftingtheleavesalong,thelivelongnight.Themeadowmousehassleptinhissnuggalleryinthesod,theowlhassatinahollowtreeinthedepthoftheswamp,therabbit,thesquirrel,andthefoxhaveallbeenhoused.Thewatch-doghaslainquietonthehearth,andthecattlehavestoodsilentintheirstalls.Theearthitselfhasslept,asitwereitsfirst,notitslastsleep,savewhensomestreetsignorwoodhousedoorhasfaintlycreakeduponitshinge,cheeringforlornnatureathermidnightwork—theonlysoundawaketwixtVenusandMars—advertisingusofaremoteinwardwarmth,adivinecheerandfellowship,wheregodsaremettogether,butwhereitisverybleakformentostand.Butwhiletheearthhasslumbered,alltheairhasbeenalivewithfeatheryflakesdescending,asifsomenorthernCeresreigned,showeringhersilverygrainoverallthefields.
Wesleep,andatlengthawaketothestillrealityofawintermorning.Thesnowlieswarmascottonordownuponthewindowsill;thebroadenedsashandfrostedpanesadmitadimandprivatelight,whichenhancesthesnugcheerwithin.Thestillnessofthemorningisimpressive.Thefloorcreaksunderourfeetaswemovetowardthewindowtolookabroadthroughsomeclearspaceoverthefields,weseetheroofsstandundertheirsnowburden.Fromtheeavesandfenceshangstalactitesofsnow,andintheyardstandstalagmitescoveringsomeconcealedcore.Thetreesandshrubsrearwhitearmstotheskyoneveryside;andwherewerewallsandfences,weseefantasticformsstretchinginfrolicgambolsacrosstheduskylandscape,asifNaturehadstrewnherfreshdesignsoverthefieldsbynightasmodelsforman’sart.
Silentlyweunlatchthedoor,lettingthedriftfallin,andstepabroadtofacethecuttingair.Alreadythestarshavelostsomeoftheirsparkle,andadull,leadenmistskirtsthehorizon.Aluridbrazenlightintheeastproclaimstheapproachofday,whilethewesternlandscapeisdimandspectralstill,andclothedinasomberTartareanlight,liketheshadowyrealms.Theyareinfernalsoundsonlythatyouhear—thecrowingofcocks,thebarkingofdogs,thechoppingofwood,thelowingofkine,allseemtocomefromPluto’sbarnyardandbeyondtheStyx—notforanymelancholytheysuggest,buttheirtwilightbustleistoosolemnandmysteriousforearth.Therecenttracksofthefoxorotter,intheyard,remindusthateachhourofthenightiscrowdedwithevents,andtheprimevalnatureisstillworkingandmakingtracksinthesnow.Openingthegate,wetreadbrisklyalongthelonecountryroad,crunchingthedryandcrispedsnowunderourfeet,orarousedbythesharp,clearcreakofthewoodsled,juststartingforthedistantmarket,fromtheearlyfarmer’sdoor,whereithaslainthesummerlong,dreamingamidthechipsandstubble;whilefarthroughthedriftsandpowderedwindowsweseethefarmer’searlycandle,likeapaledstar,emittingalonelybeam,asifsomeseverevirtuewereatitsmatinsthere.Andonebyonethesmokesbegintoascendfromthechimneysamidthetreesandsnows.