We spent the following day in drifting quietly around the lake, floating lazily in the little bays, under the shadow of the tall trees, and lounging upon small islands, gathering1 the low-bush whortleberries which grew in abundance upon them. We filled our tin pails with this delicious fruit for a dessert for our evening meal. On one of these islands we found indications of its being inhabited by wood rabbits, and we sent Cullen to the shanty2 for the dogs to course them, not however with any intention of capturing them, but to enjoy the music of the chase, and hear the voices of the hounds echoing over the water. We landed them upon the island, and began beating for the game. The hounds understanding that their business was the pursuit of deer, and having hunted the island over thoroughly3, came back to us, and sat quietly down upon their haunches, as much as to say there was nothing there worth looking after. But we had seen one of the little animals that had been roused from its bed by the dogs, and we called their special attention to the fact by leading them to the spot, and bidding them to "hunt him up." They understood our meaning, and started on the trail, with a loud and cheerful cry. For half an hour, they coursed him round and round the island, making the lake vocal4 with their merry music. We might have shot the game they were pursuing fifty times, but we had no design against its life. The little fellow did not seem to be greatly alarmed, for we noted5 him often, when by doubling he had temporarily thrown off the dogs, squat6 himself down, and throw his long ears back in the direction of the sound that had been pursuing him; and when the dogs straightened upon his trail, and approached where he sat, he would bound nimbly away among the thick bushes to double on them again.
We called off the dogs and passed on to float along under the shadow of the forest trees and the hills, and take an occasional trout7 by way of experiment among the broken rocks along the shore. We had dispatched Cullen to the shanty to prepare dinner for us by six o'clock, at which hour we were to be at home. Cullen had promised, to use his own expression, "to spread himself" in the preparation of this meal, and he kept his promise. On our return, we found a sirloin of moose roasted to a turn, a stake of bear-meat broiled8 on the coals, a stew9 of jerked venison, and as pleasant a dish of fried trout and pork as an epicure10 could desire. Our appetites were keen, and we did ample justice to his cookery. This was one of the most delightful11 evenings that I have ever spent in the northern woods. There was such a calm resting upon all things, such an impress of repose12 upon forest and lake, such a cheerful quiet and serenity13 all around us, that one could scarcely refrain from rejoicing aloud in the beauty and the glory of the hour. As the sun sank to his rest behind the western hills, and the twilight14 began to gather in the forest and over the lake, the moon rose over the eastern high lands, walking with a queenly step up into the sky, casting a long line of brilliant light across the waters, showing the shadows of the mountains in bold outline in the depths below, and paling the stars by her brightness above. We all felt that we were recruiting in strength so rapidly in these mountain regions, where the air was so bracing15 and pure, under the influence of exercise, simple diet, natural sleep, and the absence of the labors16 and cares of business, that we were contented17, notwithstanding the monotony that began to mark our everyday proceedings18.
"I have been listening," said Spalding, as we sat upon the rude benches in front of our camp-fire, indulging in our usual season of smoking after our meals, "to the song of the crickets in those rude jams, and they call up sad, yet pleasant memories from the long past; of the old log house, the quiet fire-place, the crane in the jam, the great logs blazing upon the hearth19 of a cold winter evening, the house dog sleeping quietly in the corner, and the cat nestled confidingly20 between his feet. Oh! the days of old! the days of old! These crickets call back with these memories the circle that gathered around the hearth of my home, when I was young. Father, mother, brothers, sisters, playmates, and friends. How quietly some of them grew old and ripe, and then dropped into the grave. How quietly others stole away in their youth to the home of the dead, and how the rest have drifted away on the currents of life and are lost to me in the mists and shadows of time. Even the home and the hearth are gone; they
'Battled with time and slow decay,'
until at last they were wiped out from the things that are. The song of the peepers is a pleasant memory, and comes welling up with a thousand cherished recollections of our vanished youth; but the song of the cricket that made its home in the jams of the great stone fire-place is pleasanter, and the memories that come floating back with his remembered lay are pleasanter still. He was always there. He was not silent, like the out-door insect, through the spring month and the cold of winter, piping only in sadness when the still autumnal evenings close in their brightness and beauty over the earth; but he sang always, and his chirrup was heard at all seasons. In the winter the fire on the hearth warmed him; in the summer he had a cool resting place, and he was cheerful and merry through all the long year. And this reminds me of an anecdote21 of a venerable minister, who passed years ago to his rest. He was a Scotchman, and when preaching to his own congregation at Salem, in Washington comity23, he indulged in broad Scotch22, which to those who were accustomed to it was exceedingly pleasant. I was a boy then, and was returning with my father from a visit to Vermont. We stopped over the Sabbath at Salem, and attended worship in the neat little church of that pleasant village. There were no railroads in those days. The iron horse had not yet made his advent24, and the scream of the steam whistle had never startled the echoes that dwell among the gorges25 of the Green Mountain State. Oh! Progress! Progress! I have travelled that same route often since, more than once within the year, and I flew over in an hour what was the work of all that cold winter day that brought us at night to that neat little village of Salem. I thought, as I dashed with a rush over the road I once travelled so leisurely26, how change was written upon everything; how time and progress had obliterated27 all the old landmarks28, leaving scarcely anything around which memory could cling. Well! well! it is so everywhere. All over the world, change, improvement, progress are the words. The venerable minister, for his locks were grey, and time had ploughed deep furrows29 down his cheeks, and draws palpable lines across his brow, was, as my memory paints him, the personification of earnestness, sincerity30 and truth. The text and the drift of the sermon I have forgotten, save the little fragment that fixed31 itself in my memory by the singularity of the figure by which he illustrated32 his meaning. He was speaking of the operation of the Holy Spirit upon the human heart, and how gently it won men from their sinful ways. He said, 'It was not boisterous33, like the rush of the tempest; it was not fierce, like the lightning; it was not loud, like the thunder; but it was a still sma' voice, like a wee cricket in the wa's.' I regard the cricket that chirruped in the wall as an institution. One of the past to be sure, swept away by the current of progress, whose course is onward34 always; over everything, obliterating35 everything, hurling36 the things of today into history, or burying them in eternal oblivion. In this country there is nothing fixed, nothing stationary37, and never has been since the first white man swung his axe38 against the outside forest tree; since the first green field was opened up to the sunlight from the deep shadows of the old forests that had stood there, grand, solemn, and boundless39 since this world was first thrown from the hand of God. There will be nothing fixed for centuries to come. The tide of progress will sweep onward in the future as it has done in the past. Onward is the great watchword of America, and American institutions; onward and onward, over the ancient forests; onward, over the log-houses that stood in the van of civilization; over the great fire-places; over the cricket in the wall; over the old house dog that slept in the corner; over the loved faces that clustered around the blazing hearth in the days of our childhood; over everything primitive40, everything, my friends, that you and I loved, when we were little children, and that comes drifting along down on the current of memory—bright visions of the returnless past. Ah, well! it is best that it should be so. It is best that the world should move on; that there should be no pause, no halting in the onward march. What are we that the earth should stand still at our bidding, or pause to contemplate41 our tears? Dust to dust is the great law, but so long as a phoenix42 rises from the ashes of decay, what right have we to murmur43? Time may desolate44 and destroy, but man can build up and beautify. True, his works perish as he perishes, but new works and new men are rising forever to fill, and more than fill, the vacancies45 and desolations of the past. Go ahead then, world! Sweep along, Progress! Mow46 away, Time! Tear down temple and stronghold; sweep away the marble palace and log-house! sweep away infancy47 and youth, manhood and old age; wipe out old memories, and pass the sponge over cherished recollections. The energy and the ingenuity48 of man are an over-match even for time. From the ruins of the past, from the desolations of decay, new structures will rise, and a new harvest, more abundant than the old, will spring up from the stubble over which Time's sickle49 has passed. Recuperation is a law stronger than decay, and it is written all over the face of the earth."
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1
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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broiled
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| a.烤过的 | |
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stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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epicure
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| n.行家，美食家 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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confidingly
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| adv.信任地 | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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comity
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| n.礼让，礼仪；团结，联合 | |
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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gorges
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| n.山峡，峡谷( gorge的名词复数 )；咽喉v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的第三人称单数 )；作呕 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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obliterated
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| 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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28
landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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29
furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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31
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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obliterating
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| v.除去( obliterate的现在分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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36
hurling
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| n.爱尔兰式曲棍球v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的现在分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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37
stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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38
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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39
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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40
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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41
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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42
phoenix
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| n.凤凰，长生(不死)鸟；引申为重生 | |
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43
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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44
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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45
vacancies
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| n.空房间( vacancy的名词复数 )；空虚；空白；空缺 | |
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46
mow
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| v.割（草、麦等），扫射，皱眉；n.草堆，谷物堆 | |
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47
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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48
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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49
sickle
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| n.镰刀 | |
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