The belated postman's buggy, with presumably a postman inside it somewhere behind the sheathing14 of black rubber, drove up, our mail-box grated open and shut, and the streaming horse sloshed on. Jonathan turned up his collar and dashed out to the box, and dashed in again, bringing with him a great gust15 of rainy sweetness and the smell of wet woolen16.
"Jonathan," I said, "let's take a walk."
He was unfolding the damp newspaper carefully so as not to tear it. "What's that? Walk?"
"That's what I said."
He had his paper open by this time, and was glancing at the headlines. When a man[Pg 141] is glancing at headlines, it is just as well to let him glance. I gave him fifteen minutes. Then I reopened the matter.
"Jonathan, I said walk."
"What's that?" His tone was vague. It was what I call his newspaper tone. It suggests extreme remoteness, but tolerance17, even benevolence18, if he is let alone. He drifted slowly over to the window and made a pretense19 of looking out, but his eyes were still running down the columns. "My dear," he remarked, still in the same tone, "had you noticed that it is beginning to rain?"
"I noticed that yesterday afternoon, about three o'clock," I said.
"Oh, all right. I thought perhaps you hadn't."
"Well?" I waited.
"Well—" he hung fire while he finished the tail of the editorial. Then he threw down the paper. "Don't you think it's rather poor weather for walking?"
This was what I had been waiting for, and I responded glibly20, "Some one has said there is no such thing as bad weather, there are only good clothes."[Pg 142]
"Do you mean mine?" He grinned down at his farm regimentals.
"Well, then—"
"Why, of course, if you really mean it," he said, and added, as he looked out reflectively at the puddling road, "You'll get your hair wet."
"Hope so! Now, Jonathan, aren't you silly, really? Anybody would think we'd never been for a walk in the rain before in our lives. Perhaps you'd rather stay indoors and be a tabby-cat and keep dry."
"Who got the mail?"
"You did. But you wanted the paper—and you ran."
The fact was, as I very well knew, Jonathan really wanted to go, but he didn't want to start. When people really enjoy doing a thing, and mean to do it, and yet won't get going, something has to be done to get them going. That was why I spoke21 of tabby-cats.
Jonathan assumed an alert society tone. "I should enjoy a walk very much, thank you," he said; "the weather seems to me perfect. But," he added abruptly22, "wear woolen; that white thing won't do.">[Pg 143]
"Of course!" I went off and made myself fit—woolen for warmth, though the day was not cold, a short khaki skirt, an old felt hat, and old shoes. Out we went into the drenched23 world. Whish! A gust of rain in my eyes half blinded me, and I ran under the big maples24. I heard Jonathan chuckle25. "I can't help it," I gasped26; "I'll be wet enough in a few minutes, and then I shan't care."
From the maples I made for the lee of the barn eaves, disturbing the hens who were sulking there. They stepped ostentatiously out into the rainy barnyard with an air of pointedly27 not noticing me, but of knowing all the time whose fault it was. They weren't liking28 the weather, anyhow, the hens weren't, and showed it plainly in the wet, streaky droop29 of their feathers and the exasperated30 look in their red eyes. "Those hens look as if they thought I could do something about it if I only would," I said to Jonathan as we passed them.
"Yes, they aren't a cordial crowd. Here, we'll show them how to take weather!"
We were passing under an apple tree; Jonathan[Pg 144] seized a drooping31 bough32, and a sheet of water shook itself out on our shoulders. I gasped and ducked, and a hen who stood too near scuttered off with low duckings of indignation.
"Now you're really wet, you can enjoy yourself," said Jonathan; and there was something in it, though I was loath33 to admit it at the moment. A moment before I had felt rather appalled34 at the sight of the rain-swept lane; now I hastened on recklessly.
"I think," said Jonathan, "it's the back of my neck that counts. After that's wet I don't care what happens."
"Yes," I agreed, "that's a stronghold. But I think with me it's my shoulders."
It did not really matter which it was; neck and shoulders both were wet,—back, arms, everything. We tramped down across the hollow, over the brook, whose flood was backing up into the swamp on each side. I paused to look off across the huckleberry hillside beyond.
"How the rain changes everything!" I said.
All the colors had freshened and darkened, and the blur of the rain softened35 the picture[Pg 145] and "brought it together," as the painters say.
"Well," said Jonathan, "woods or open?"
"Which is the wettest?"
"Woods."
"Then woods."
And we plunged36 in under the big chestnuts37, through a mass of witch-hazel and birch.
Jonathan was quite right. Woods were the wettest. One can hardly fancy anything quite so wet. Solid water, like a river, is not comparable, because it is all in one lump; you know where it is, and you can get out of it when you want to. But here in the woods the water was everywhere, ready to hurl38 itself upon us, from above, from beside us, from below. Every step, every motion, drew upon us drenching39 showers of great drops that had been hanging heavily in the leaves ready to break away at a touch. Little streamlets of water ran from the drooping edges of my hat and from my chin, water dashed in my eyes and I blinked it out.
Jonathan, pausing to hold back a dripping spray of blackberry, heavy with fruit, remarked, "Aren't you getting a little damp?"[Pg 146]
"I wonder if I am!" I answered joyously40, and plunged on into the next thicket42.
There is as much exhilaration in being out in a big rain and getting really rained through, as there is in being out in surf. It has nothing in common with the sensations that arise when, umbrellaed and mackintoshed and rubber-overshoed, we pick our way gingerly along the street, wondering how much we can keep dry, hoping everything is "up" all round, wishing the wind wouldn't keep changing and blowing the umbrella so, and fancying how we shall look when we "get there." But when you don't care—when you want to get wet, and do—there is a physical glow that is delightful43, a sense of being washed through and through, of losing one's identity almost, and being washed away into the great swirl44 of nature where one doesn't count much, but is glad to be taken in as a part. I fancy this is true with any of the elements—earth, air, water. The tale of Ant?us was no mere45 legend; there is real strength for us in close contact with the earth. There is a purifying and uplifting potency46 in the winds, a potency in the waters—ocean and river and great rain.[Pg 147] Our civilization has dealt with all these so successfully that we are apt to think of them as docile47 servants, or perhaps as petty annoyances48, and we lose the sense of their power unless we deliberately49 go out to meet them in their own domain50 and let them have their way with us. Then, indeed, they sweep us out of ourselves for a season, and that is good.
We came out from the thickets51 on a high, brushy field, sheeted in fine rain that dimmed even the near wood edges. Blackberries grew thick, and we made our way carefully among the briers, following the narrow and devious52 cow-paths. Suddenly we both stopped. Just ahead of us, under a blackberry bush, was a huge snapping-turtle. He was standing53 on his hind13 legs, with his fore1 legs resting on a branch loaded with fruit, his narrow dark head stretched far up and out, while he quietly ate berry after berry. He was a handsome fellow, with his big black shell all brilliant in the wetness of the rain. As he worked we could see his under side, and notice how it shaded to yellow along the sutures. It was a scene of contentment, and the berries, dripping[Pg 148] with fresh raindrops, looked luscious54 indeed as he feasted.
We stood and watched him for a while, and I got an entirely55 new idea of turtles. Turtles usually have too much reserve, too much self-consciousness, too little abandon, and I had never seen one so "come out of himself," literally56 and figuratively, as this fellow did. It made me want to follow up the acquaintance, this happy chance of finding him, so to speak, in his cups; but I repressed the desire, feeling that he might not share it, and we carefully backed away and went around by another path so as not to disturb the reveler. He never knew how much pleasure he had given as well as received.
Into the woods again— "Look out!" said Jonathan. "Don't step on the lizards57!"
He stooped and picked up one, which struck an attitude among his dripping fingers—sleek back a little arched, legs in odd, uncouth58 positions, tail set stiffly in a queer curve. They are brilliant little creatures, with their clear orange-red coats, scarlet-spotted, like a trout59.
"Pretty little chap, isn't he?" said Jonathan.[Pg 149]
"Stylish," I said, "but foolish. They never do anything that I can see, except attitudinize.
"But they do a great deal of that," said Jonathan, as he set him gently down.
"Come on," I said; "I can't stand here being sentimental60 over your pets. It's raining.
"Oh, if you'd like to go—" said Jonathan, and set a pace.
I followed hard, and we raced down through the empty woods, sliding over the great wet rocks, rolling over black fallen tree trunks, our feet sinking noiselessly in the soft leaf mould of the forest floor. Out again, and through the edge of a cornfield where the broad, wavy61 ribbon leaves squeaked62 as we thrust them aside, as only corn leaves can squeak63. If we had not been wet already, this would have finished us. There is nothing any wetter than a wet cornfield.
On over the open pastures, with a grassy64 swamp at the bottom. We tramped carelessly through it, not even looking for tussocks, and the water sucked merrily in and out of our shoes. Into brush once more—thick[Pg 150] hazel and scrub oak; then down a slope, and we were in the hemlock65 ravine—a wonderful bit of tall woods, dark-shadowed, solemn, hardly changed by the rain, only perhaps a thought darker and stiller, with deeper blue depths of hazy66 distance between the straight black trunks. At the bottom a brook with dark pools lying beneath mossy rock ledges67, or swirling68 under great hemlock roots, little waterfalls, and shallow rapids over smooth-worn rock faces. It is a wonderful place, a place for a German fairy tale.
The woods were empty—in a sense, yes. Except for the lizards, the animals run to cover during the rain; woodchucks, rabbits, squirrels, are tucked away somewhere out of sight and sound. Bird notes are hushed; the birds, lurking69 close-reefed under the lee of the big branches or the heavy foliage70, or at the heart of the cedar71 trees, make no sign as we pass.
Empty, yet not lonely. When the sun is out and the sky is high and bright, one feels that the world is a large place, belonging to many creatures. But when the sky shuts down and the world is close-wrapped in rain and[Pg 151] drifting mist, it seems to grow smaller and more intimate. Instead of feeling the multitudinousness of the life of woods and fields, one feels its unity72. We are brought together in the bonds of the rain—we and all the hidden creatures—we seem all in one room together.
Thus swept into the unity of a dominating mood, the woods sometimes gain a voice of their own. I heard it first on a stormy night when I was walking along the wood road to meet Jonathan. It was a night of wind and rain and blackness—blackness so dense73 that it seemed a real thing, pressing against my eyes, so complete that at the fork in the roads I had to feel with my hand for the wheel ruts in order to choose the right one. As I grew accustomed to the swish of the rain in my face and the hoarse74 breath of the wind about my ears I became aware of another sound—a background of tone. I thought at first it was a child calling, but no, it was not that; it was not a call, but a song; and not that either—it was more like many voices, high but not shrill75, and very far away, softly intoning. It was neither sad nor joyous41; it suggested[Pg 152] dreamy, reiterant thoughts; it was not music, but the memory of music. If one listened too keenly, it was gone, like a faint star which can be glimpsed only if one looks a little away from it.
As I had listened that night I began to wonder if it was all my own fancy, and when I met Jonathan I made him stop.
"Wait a minute," I begged him, "and listen."
"I hear it. Come on," he had said. Supper was in his thoughts.
"What do you hear?"
"Just what you do."
"What's that?" I had persisted, as we fumbled76 our way along.
"Voices—I don't know what you'd call it—the woods. It often sounds like that in a big rain."
Jonathan's matter-of-factness had rather pleased me.
"I thought it might be my imagination. I'm glad it wasn't," I said.
"Perhaps it's both our imaginations," he suggested.
"No. We both do lots of imagining, but[Pg 153] it never overlaps77. When it does, it shows it's so."
Perhaps I was not very clear, but he seemed to understand.
Since then I have heard it now and again, this singing of the rain-swept woods. Not often, for it is a capricious thing, or perhaps I ought rather to say I do not understand the manner of its uprising. Rain alone will not bring it to pass, wind alone will not, and sometimes even when they are importuned78 by wind and rain together the woods are silent. Perhaps, too, it is not every stretch of woods that can sing, or at all seasons. In winter they can whistle, and sigh, and creak, but I am sure that when I have heard these singing voices the trees have always had their full leafage. But however it comes about, I am glad of the times that I have heard it. And whenever I read tales of the Wild Huntsman and all his kind, there come into my mind as an interpreting background memories of wonderful black nights and storm-ridden woods swept by overtones of distant and elusive79 sound.
We did not hear the woods sing that day. Perhaps there was not wind enough, or perhaps[Pg 154] the woods on the "home piece" are not big enough, for it chances that I have never heard the sound there.
As we came up the lane at dusk we saw the glimmer80 of the house lights.
"Doesn't that look good?" I said to Jonathan. "And won't it be good when we are all dry and in front of the fire and you have your pipe and I'm making toast?"
I am perfectly81 sure that Jonathan agreed with me, but what he said was, "I thought you came out for pleasure."
"Well, can't I come home for pleasure too?" I asked.
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1
fore
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| adv.在前面；adj.先前的；在前部的；n.前部 | |
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drizzling
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| 下蒙蒙细雨，下毛毛雨( drizzle的现在分词 ) | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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vertical
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| adj.垂直的，顶点的，纵向的；n.垂直物，垂直的位置 | |
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slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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flicks
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的第三人称单数 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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sputter
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| n.喷溅声；v.喷溅 | |
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kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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sheathing
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| n.覆盖物，罩子v.将（刀、剑等）插入鞘( sheathe的现在分词 )；包，覆盖 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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woolen
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| adj.羊毛(制)的；毛纺的 | |
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tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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maples
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| 槭树，枫树( maple的名词复数 )； 槭木 | |
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chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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drenching
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| n.湿透v.使湿透( drench的现在分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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swirl
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| v.(使)打漩，(使)涡卷；n.漩涡，螺旋形 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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potency
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| n. 效力，潜能 | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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annoyances
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| n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 )；烦恼；打扰；使人烦恼的事 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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52
devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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luscious
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| adj.美味的；芬芳的；肉感的，引与性欲的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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lizards
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| n.蜥蜴( lizard的名词复数 ) | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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squeaked
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的过去式和过去分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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hemlock
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| n.毒胡萝卜，铁杉 | |
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hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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ledges
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| n.（墙壁，悬崖等）突出的狭长部分( ledge的名词复数 )；（平窄的）壁架；横档；（尤指）窗台 | |
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68
swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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69
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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70
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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71
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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72
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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73
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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75
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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77
overlaps
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| v.部分重叠( overlap的第三人称单数 )；（物体）部份重叠；交叠；（时间上）部份重叠 | |
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78
importuned
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| v.纠缠，向（某人）不断要求( importune的过去式和过去分词 )；（妓女）拉（客） | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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80
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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