Toward the close of the third day’s journey the wayfarers1 were just beginning to think of camping, when they came upon a log cabin in the woods. Hawkins drew rein3 and entered the yard. A boy about ten years old was sitting in the cabin door with his face bowed in his hands. Hawkins approached, expecting his footfall to attract attention, but it did not. He halted a moment, and then said:
“Come, come, little chap, you mustn’t be going to sleep before sundown”
With a tired expression the small face came up out of the hands,—a face down which tears were flowing.
The boy signified with a scarcely perceptible gesture that the trouble was in the house, and made room for Hawkins to pass. Then he put his face in his hands again and rocked himself about as one suffering a grief that is too deep to find help in moan or groan5 or outcry. Hawkins stepped within. It was a poverty stricken place. Six or eight middle-aged6 country people of both sexes were grouped about an object in the middle of the room; they were noiselessly busy and they talked in whispers when they spoke. Hawkins uncovered and approached. A coffin7 stood upon two backless chairs. These neighbors had just finished disposing the body of a woman in it—a woman with a careworn8, gentle face that had more the look of sleep about it than of death. An old lady motioned, toward the door and said to Hawkins in a whisper:
“His mother, po’ thing. Died of the fever, last night. Tha warn’t no sich thing as saving of her. But it’s better for her—better for her. Husband and the other two children died in the spring, and she hain’t ever hilt up her head sence. She jest went around broken-hearted like, and never took no intrust in anything but Clay—that’s the boy thar. She jest worshiped Clay—and Clay he worshiped her. They didn’t ’pear to live at all, only when they was together, looking at each other, loving one another. She’s ben sick three weeks; and if you believe me that child has worked, and kep’ the run of the med’cin, and the times of giving it, and sot up nights and nussed her, and tried to keep up her sperits, the same as a grown-up person. And last night when she kep’ a sinking and sinking, and turned away her head and didn’t know him no mo’, it was fitten to make a body’s heart break to see him climb onto the bed and lay his cheek agin hern and call her so pitiful and she not answer. But bymeby she roused up, like, and looked around wild, and then she see him, and she made a great cry and snatched him to her breast and hilt him close and kissed him over and over agin; but it took the last po’ strength she had, and so her eyelids9 begin to close down, and her arms sort o’ drooped10 away and then we see she was gone, po’ creetur. And Clay, he—Oh, the po’ motherless thing—I cain’t talk about it—I cain’t bear to talk about it.”
Clay had disappeared from the door; but he came in, now, and the neighbors reverently11 fell apart and made way for him. He leaned upon the open coffin and let his tears course silently. Then he put out his small hand and smoothed the hair and stroked the dead face lovingly. After a bit he brought his other hand up from behind him and laid three or four fresh wild flowers upon the breast, bent12 over and kissed the unresponsive lips time and time again, and then turned away and went out of the house without looking at any of the company. The old lady said to Hawkins:
“She always loved that kind o’ flowers. He fetched ’em for her every morning, and she always kissed him. They was from away north somers—she kep’ school when she fust come. Goodness knows what’s to become o’ that po’ boy. No father, no mother, no kin2 folks of no kind. Nobody to go to, nobody that k’yers for him—and all of us is so put to it for to get along and families so large.”
Hawkins understood. All eyes were turned inquiringly upon him. He said:
“Friends, I am not very well provided for, myself, but still I would not turn my back on a homeless orphan13. If he will go with me I will give him a home, and loving regard—I will do for him as I would have another do for a child of my own in misfortune.”
One after another the people stepped forward and wrung14 the stranger’s hand with cordial good will, and their eyes looked all that their hands could not express or their lips speak.
“Said like a true man,” said one.
“You was a stranger to me a minute ago, but you ain’t now,” said another.
“It’s bread cast upon the waters—it’ll return after many days,” said the old lady whom we have heard speak before.
“You got to camp in my house as long as you hang out here,” said one. “If tha hain’t room for you and yourn my tribe’ll turn out and camp in the hay loft15.”
A few minutes afterward16, while the preparations for the funeral were being concluded, Mr. Hawkins arrived at his wagon17 leading his little waif by the hand, and told his wife all that had happened, and asked her if he had done right in giving to her and to himself this new care? She said:
“If you’ve done wrong, Si Hawkins, it’s a wrong that will shine brighter at the judgment18 day than the rights that many a man has done before you. And there isn’t any compliment you can pay me equal to doing a thing like this and finishing it up, just taking it for granted that I’ll be willing to it. Willing? Come to me; you poor motherless boy, and let me take your grief and help you carry it.”
When the child awoke in the morning, it was as if from a troubled dream. But slowly the confusion in his mind took form, and he remembered his great loss; the beloved form in the coffin; his talk with a generous stranger who offered him a home; the funeral, where the stranger’s wife held him by the hand at the grave, and cried with him and comforted him; and he remembered how this, new mother tucked him in his bed in the neighboring farm house, and coaxed19 him to talk about his troubles, and then heard him say his prayers and kissed him good night, and left him with the soreness in his heart almost healed and his bruised20 spirit at rest.
And now the new mother came again, and helped him to dress, and combed his hair, and drew his mind away by degrees from the dismal21 yesterday, by telling him about the wonderful journey he was going to take and the strange things he was going to see. And after breakfast they two went alone to the grave, and his heart went out to his new friend and his untaught eloquence22 poured the praises of his buried idol23 into her ears without let or hindrance24. Together they planted roses by the headboard and strewed25 wild flowers upon the grave; and then together they went away, hand in hand, and left the dead to the long sleep that heals all heart-aches and ends all sorrows.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
wayfarers
|
|
| n.旅人，（尤指）徒步旅行者( wayfarer的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
kin
|
|
| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
rein
|
|
| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
groan
|
|
| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
middle-aged
|
|
| adj.中年的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
coffin
|
|
| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
careworn
|
|
| adj.疲倦的，饱经忧患的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
eyelids
|
|
| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
drooped
|
|
| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
reverently
|
|
| adv.虔诚地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
bent
|
|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
orphan
|
|
| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
wrung
|
|
| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
loft
|
|
| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
afterward
|
|
| adv.后来；以后 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
wagon
|
|
| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
judgment
|
|
| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
coaxed
|
|
| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
bruised
|
|
| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
dismal
|
|
| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
eloquence
|
|
| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
idol
|
|
| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
hindrance
|
|
| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
strewed
|
|
| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |