But as the years went on, the phrase gathered to itself meanings vague and subtle. I found myself welcoming it and regarding with a warmer interest the flower so described. From what old garden had it come? What associations and memories did it bring out[Pg 108] of the past? Had the paths where it grew been obliterated5 by the encroachments of a ruthless civilization, or had the tide of human life drawn6 away from it and left it to be engulfed7 by the forest from which it had once been wrested8, with nothing left to mark it but a gnarled old lilac tree? I have chanced upon such spots in the heart of the wood, where the lilac and the apple tree and the old stoned cellar wall are all that are left to testify to the human life that once centred there. Or had the garden from which its seed was blown only fallen into a quiet decay, deserted9 but not destroyed, left to bloom unchecked and untended, and fling its seeds to the summer winds that its flowers might "escape" whither they would?
Lately, I chanced upon such a garden. I was walking along a quiet roadside, almost dusky beneath the shade of close-set giant maples10, when an unexpected fragrance11 breathed upon me. I lingered, wondering. It came again, in a warm wave of the August breeze. I looked up at the tangled12 bank beside me—surely, there was a spray of box peeping out through the tall weeds! There was a[Pg 109] bush of it—another! Ah! it was a hedge, a box hedge! Here were the great stone steps leading up to the gate, and here the old, square capped fence-posts, once trim and white, now sunken and silver-gray. The rest of the fence was lying among the grasses and goldenrod, but the box still lived, dead at the top, its leafless branches matted into a hoary14 gray tangle13, but springing up from below in crisp green sprays, lustrous15 and fragrant16 as ever, and richly suggestive of the past that produced it. For the box implies not merely human life, but human life on a certain scale: leisurely17, decorous, well-considered. It implies faith in an established order and an assured future. A beautiful box hedge is not planned for immediate18 enjoyment19; it is built up inch by inch through the years, a legacy20 to one's heirs.
Beside the gate-posts stood what must once have been two pillars of box. As I passed between them my feet felt beneath the matted weeds of many seasons the broad stones of the old flagged walk that led up through the garden to the house. Following it, I found, not the house, but the wide stone blocks of the old doorsteps, and beyond these, a ruin—gray[Pg 110] ashes and blackened brick, two great heaps of stone where the chimneys had been, with the stone slabs21 that lined the fireplaces fallen together. At one end was the deep stone cellar filled now with young beeches22 as tall as the house once was. Just outside stood two cherry trees close to the old house wall—so close that they had burned with it and now stood, black and bare and gaunt, in silent comradeship. At the other end I almost stumbled into the old well, dark and still, with a glimmer23 of sky at the bottom.
But I did not like the ruin, nor the black well lurking24 in the weeds and ashes. The garden was better, and I went back to it and followed the stone path as it turned past the end of the house and led, under another broad hedge of box now choked by lusty young maples, to the old rose-garden. Beyond were giant lilacs, and groups of waxberry bushes covered with the pretty white balls that children love to string; there was the old-fashioned "burning-bush," already preparing its queer, angled berries for autumn splendors. And among these, still holding their own in the tangle, clumps25 of the tall, rose-lilac phloxes[Pg 111] that the old people seem specially26 to have loved, swayed in the light breeze and filled the place with their heavy, languorous27 fragrance.
Truly, it is a lovely spot, my old garden, lovelier, perhaps, than when it was in its golden prime, when its hedges were faultlessly trimmed and its walks were edged with neat flower borders, when their smooth flagging-stones showed never a weed, and even the little heaps of earth piled up, grain by grain, by the industrious28 ants, were swept away each morning by the industrious broom. Then human life centred here; now it is very far away. All the sounds of the outside world come faintly to this place and take on its quality of quiet,—the lowing of cows in the pastures, the shouts of men in the fields, the deep, vibrant29 note of the railroad train which goes singing across distances where its rattle30 and roar fail to penetrate31. It is very still here. Even the birds are quieter, and the crickets and the katydids less boisterous32. The red squirrels move warily33 through the tree-tops with almost a chastened air, the black-and-gold butterflies flutter indolently about the[Pg 112] heads of the phlox, a hummingbird34, flashing green, hovers35 about some belated blossom-heads of the scarlet36 bee-balm, and then, as if to point the stillness, alights on an apple twig37, looking, when at rest, so very small! Only the cicada, as he rustles38 clumsily about with his paper wings against the flaking39 bark and yellowing leaves of an old apple tree, seems unmindful of the spell of silence that holds the place.
And the garden is mine now—mine because I have found it, and every one else, as I like to believe, has forgotten it. Next it is a grove40 of big old trees. Would they not have been cut down years ago if any one had remembered them? And on the other side is a meadow whose thick grass, waist-high, ought to have been mowed41 last June and gathered into some dusky, fragrant barn. But it is forgotten, like the garden, and will go leisurely to seed out there in the sun; the autumn winds will sweep it and the winter snow will mat down its dried tangle.
Forgotten—and as I lie in the long grass, drowsy42 with the scent43 of the hedge and the phlox, I seem only a memory myself. If I[Pg 113] stay too long I shall forget to go away, and no one will remember to find me. In truth, I feel not unwilling44 that it should be so. Could there be a better place? "Escaped from old gardens"! Ah, foolish, foolish flowers! If I had the happiness to be born in an old garden, I would not escape. I would stay there, and dream there, forever!
点击收听单词发音
1 splendors | |
n.华丽( splendor的名词复数 );壮丽;光辉;显赫 | |
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2 orchid | |
n.兰花,淡紫色 | |
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3 ardor | |
n.热情,狂热 | |
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4 reprobation | |
n.斥责 | |
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5 obliterated | |
v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 );涂去;擦掉;彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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6 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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7 engulfed | |
v.吞没,包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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8 wrested | |
(用力)拧( wrest的过去式和过去分词 ); 费力取得; (从…)攫取; ( 从… ) 强行取去… | |
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9 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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10 maples | |
槭树,枫树( maple的名词复数 ); 槭木 | |
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11 fragrance | |
n.芬芳,香味,香气 | |
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12 tangled | |
adj. 纠缠的,紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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13 tangle | |
n.纠缠;缠结;混乱;v.(使)缠绕;变乱 | |
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14 hoary | |
adj.古老的;鬓发斑白的 | |
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15 lustrous | |
adj.有光泽的;光辉的 | |
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16 fragrant | |
adj.芬香的,馥郁的,愉快的 | |
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17 leisurely | |
adj.悠闲的;从容的,慢慢的 | |
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18 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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19 enjoyment | |
n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
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20 legacy | |
n.遗产,遗赠;先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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21 slabs | |
n.厚板,平板,厚片( slab的名词复数 );厚胶片 | |
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22 beeches | |
n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 );山毛榉木材 | |
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23 glimmer | |
v.发出闪烁的微光;n.微光,微弱的闪光 | |
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24 lurking | |
潜在 | |
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25 clumps | |
n.(树、灌木、植物等的)丛、簇( clump的名词复数 );(土、泥等)团;块;笨重的脚步声v.(树、灌木、植物等的)丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 );(土、泥等)团;块;笨重的脚步声 | |
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26 specially | |
adv.特定地;特殊地;明确地 | |
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27 languorous | |
adj.怠惰的,没精打采的 | |
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28 industrious | |
adj.勤劳的,刻苦的,奋发的 | |
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29 vibrant | |
adj.震颤的,响亮的,充满活力的,精力充沛的,(色彩)鲜明的 | |
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30 rattle | |
v.飞奔,碰响;激怒;n.碰撞声;拨浪鼓 | |
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31 penetrate | |
v.透(渗)入;刺入,刺穿;洞察,了解 | |
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32 boisterous | |
adj.喧闹的,欢闹的 | |
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33 warily | |
adv.留心地 | |
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34 hummingbird | |
n.蜂鸟 | |
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35 hovers | |
鸟( hover的第三人称单数 ); 靠近(某事物); (人)徘徊; 犹豫 | |
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36 scarlet | |
n.深红色,绯红色,红衣;adj.绯红色的 | |
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37 twig | |
n.小树枝,嫩枝;v.理解 | |
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38 rustles | |
n.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的名词复数 )v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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39 flaking | |
刨成片,压成片; 盘网 | |
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40 grove | |
n.林子,小树林,园林 | |
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41 mowed | |
v.刈,割( mow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42 drowsy | |
adj.昏昏欲睡的,令人发困的 | |
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43 scent | |
n.气味,香味,香水,线索,嗅觉;v.嗅,发觉 | |
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44 unwilling | |
adj.不情愿的 | |
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