It is different with sleep. The man with no appetite can get on after a fashion, but if he cannot sleep he is a pitiable object. I met one once—a rich man who had worked too hard—starved himself for sleep in order to get hold of rather more than his share of money and power. He had passed the limit of nerves and was denied the power of sleeping. A few snatches of rest were all he could get, but through the long still nights he lay awake, thinking, thinking with the constant terror that this would end in a disordered mind.
We sat before this man’s fire late at night, and he told me all about it. To you sleep seems like a very common and simple thing. The night finds you tired and you shut your eyes and before you know it you are sailing off into a peaceful, unknown country. Here was a man who could not sleep. He must remain chained to the cares and terrors of his daily life, and the bitterness of it was that all the money he had slaved so hard to obtain could not buy him what comes to you and me with the mere5 closing of the eyes. It seemed to me the most despairing mockery for this man to repeat Sir Philip Sidney’s “Ode to Sleep”:
“Come sleep; O Sleep! the certain hour of peace,
The poor man’s wealth, the prisoner’s release,
The indifferent judge between the high and low;
With shield of proof, shield me from out the prease
O make in me these civil wars to cease
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
Make thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,
“That’s it,” said my friend, “A weary head, a weary head. Mine is weary, but sleep will not come.” He sat looking at the fire for a long time, and then he turned suddenly with a sort of haunted look in his eyes.
“I wish you would tell me about the best sleep you ever had. Men may tell of their best meal, but I want to know about rest—the best sleep.”
It was a strange request, but as I sat there, my mind went back to a hillside near the New England coast where the valley slopes away to a salt marsh10 with a sluggish11 stream running through it. A low, weatherbeaten farmhouse12 crouches13 at the foot of the wind-swept hill. It is a lonely place. Few come that way in daylight, and at night there are no household lights to be seen.
It had rained through the night, and the morning brought a thick heavy fog. It was too wet to hoe corn, and Uncle Charles said we could all go gunning. He was an old soldier, a sharpshooter, and a famous shot. So we tramped off along the marsh following the creek14 until it reached the ocean. What a glorious day that was for a boy! I carried an old army musket15 that kicked my shoulder black and blue. We tramped along the shore and through the wet marsh, hunting for sandpipers and other sea fowl16. Now and then a flock of birds would seem to be lost in the fog, and Uncle Charles would whistle them to where we lay in ambush17. It all comes back,—clear and distinct,—the cries of the sea fowl and dull roar of the ocean as it pounded upon the beach. Late in the afternoon we tramped home wet and tired, but with a long string of birds. The ocean roared on behind us louder than ever as the wind arose.
It was not good New England thrift18 to eat those birds—the guests at the Parker House in Boston would pay good money for them. While we had been hunting, Aunt Eleanor and the girls in the lonely farmhouse had been busy with a “New England Dinner.” There was a big plate of salt codfish, first boiled and then fried crisp with little cubes of browned salt pork mixed with it. There were boiled potatoes which split open in a rich dry flour, boiled onions and carrots and great slices of brown bread and butter. Then the odor from the oven betrayed the crowning act of all—a monstrous19 pan-dowdy, or apple grunt20! Ever eat a genuine pan-dowdy in a New England kitchen as a wet dreary21 night is coming on after a tiresome22 day? No? I am both sorry and glad for you. You have missed one of the greatest joys of life, but you have much to look forward to. When Uncle Charles began to cut that pan-dowdy, we boys realized that we could not do it full justice, so we went out and ran around the house half a dozen times to make more room for the top of the feast.
After supper the dishes were washed, the house cleaned up, and we washed out our guns. The old musket had kicked my shoulder so that I could hardly raise the arm, but no human being could have made me admit it. We got Uncle Charles to tell us about the time he shot at the officer at Port Hudson during the war, and about the humpbacked man who carried the powder from Plymouth to Boston during the Revolution. Then through the gloom and fog came two young men to call on the girls. In those days it seemed to me very poor taste for one to listen to the conversation of girls rather than war stories. True, the war stories were time-worn, but the girl conversation was older yet. Soon the little melodeon was talking up and a quartette was singing the old songs of half a century ago. It may have been the day’s tramping, the old musket, the last plate of pan-dowdy or the tap of the rain on the windows, but sitting there by the warm kitchen stove, I felt a delicious drowsiness23 stealing over me.
Bed is the place for sleep, and we boys climbed the stairs past the great center chimney, and quickly tumbled into bed. In the room below that quartette had started an old favorite:
I strayed in the dewy dawn
And heard far away in their silent branches
The echoes of the morn.
“They stirred my heart with their low, sweet voices,
Like chimes from a holier land,
As though far away in those haunted arches
Were happy—an angel band.”
There was one great booming bass25 voice which had unconsciously fallen into the key of the dull roar which the distant ocean was making. The rain was gently tapping on the roof, and all the joys and pleasant memories of youth were whispering happy things in our ears as we sailed off on the most beautiful voyage to dreamland.
I told this as best I could before the fire while my weary friend listened, leaning back in his easy-chair with his hand shading his face. And when I stopped sleep had come to him at last—sweet and blessed sleep. There are very few of us who would stand for a photograph taken while we were asleep, but this man’s face was free from care. An orator26 might not think it a high tribute to his powers that he sent his audience to sleep, but I am not an orator, and I would like to be able to give my friends what they consider the blessed things of life! And Peace, blissful Peace, had put her healing hand upon my poor friend’s head.
点击收听单词发音
1 lumber | |
n.木材,木料;v.以破旧东西堆满;伐木;笨重移动 | |
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2 stew | |
n.炖汤,焖,烦恼;v.炖汤,焖,忧虑 | |
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3 growled | |
v.(动物)发狺狺声, (雷)作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 );低声咆哮着说 | |
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4 terrapin | |
n.泥龟;鳖 | |
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5 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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6 woe | |
n.悲哀,苦痛,不幸,困难;int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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7 darts | |
n.掷飞镖游戏;飞镖( dart的名词复数 );急驰,飞奔v.投掷,投射( dart的第三人称单数 );向前冲,飞奔 | |
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8 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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9 rosy | |
adj.美好的,乐观的,玫瑰色的 | |
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10 marsh | |
n.沼泽,湿地 | |
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11 sluggish | |
adj.懒惰的,迟钝的,无精打采的 | |
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12 farmhouse | |
n.农场住宅(尤指主要住房) | |
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13 crouches | |
n.蹲着的姿势( crouch的名词复数 )v.屈膝,蹲伏( crouch的第三人称单数 ) | |
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14 creek | |
n.小溪,小河,小湾 | |
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15 musket | |
n.滑膛枪 | |
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16 fowl | |
n.家禽,鸡,禽肉 | |
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17 ambush | |
n.埋伏(地点);伏兵;v.埋伏;伏击 | |
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18 thrift | |
adj.节约,节俭;n.节俭,节约 | |
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19 monstrous | |
adj.巨大的;恐怖的;可耻的,丢脸的 | |
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20 grunt | |
v.嘟哝;作呼噜声;n.呼噜声,嘟哝 | |
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21 dreary | |
adj.令人沮丧的,沉闷的,单调乏味的 | |
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22 tiresome | |
adj.令人疲劳的,令人厌倦的 | |
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23 drowsiness | |
n.睡意;嗜睡 | |
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24 aisles | |
n. (席位间的)通道, 侧廊 | |
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25 bass | |
n.男低音(歌手);低音乐器;低音大提琴 | |
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26 orator | |
n.演说者,演讲者,雄辩家 | |
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