And yet, despite my physical loathing for alcohol, the brightest spots in my child life were the saloons. Sitting on the heavy potato wagons2, wrapped in fog, feet stinging from inactivity, the horses plodding3 slowly along the deep road through the sandhills, one bright vision made the way never too long. The bright vision was the saloon at Colma, where my father, or whoever drove, always got out to get a drink. And I got out to warm by the great stove and get a soda4 cracker5. Just one soda cracker, but a fabulous6 luxury. Saloons were good for something. Back behind the plodding horses, I would take an hour in consuming that one cracker. I took the smallest nibbles8, never losing a crumb9, and chewed the nibble7 till it became the thinnest and most delectable10 of pastes. I never voluntarily swallowed this paste. I just tasted it, and went on tasting it, turning it over with my tongue, spreading it on the inside of this cheek, then on the inside of the other cheek, until, at the end, it eluded11 me and in tiny drops and oozelets, slipped and dribbled12 down my throat. Horace Fletcher had nothing on me when it came to soda crackers13.
I liked saloons. Especially I liked the San Francisco saloons. They had the most delicious dainties for the taking—strange breads and crackers, cheeses, sausages, sardines—wonderful foods that I never saw on our meagre home-table. And once, I remember, a barkeeper mixed me a sweet temperance drink of syrup14 and soda-water. My father did not pay for it. It was the barkeeper's treat, and he became my ideal of a good, kind man. I dreamed day-dreams of him for years. Although I was seven years old at the time, I can see him now with undiminished clearness, though I never laid eyes on him but that one time. The saloon was south of Market Street in San Francisco. It stood on the west side of the street. As you entered, the bar was on the left. On the right, against the wall, was the free lunch counter. It was a long, narrow room, and at the rear, beyond the beer kegs on tap, were small, round tables and chairs. The barkeeper was blue-eyed, and had fair, silky hair peeping out from under a black silk skull-cap. I remember he wore a brown Cardigan jacket, and I know precisely15 the spot, in the midst of the array of bottles, from which he took the bottle of red-coloured syrup. He and my father talked long, and I sipped16 my sweet drink and worshipped him. And for years afterward17 I worshipped the memory of him.
Despite my two disastrous18 experiences, here was John Barleycorn, prevalent and accessible everywhere in the community, luring19 and drawing me. Here were connotations of the saloon making deep indentations in a child's mind. Here was a child, forming its first judgments20 of the world, finding the saloon a delightful21 and desirable place. Stores, nor public buildings, nor all the dwellings22 of men ever opened their doors to me and let me warm by their fires or permitted me to eat the food of the gods from narrow shelves against the wall. Their doors were ever closed to me; the saloon's doors were ever open. And always and everywhere I found saloons, on highway and byway, up narrow alleys23 and on busy thoroughfares, bright-lighted and cheerful, warm in winter, and in summer dark and cool. Yes, the saloon was a mighty25 fine place, and it was more than that.
By the time I was ten years old, my family had abandoned ranching27 and gone to live in the city. And here, at ten, I began on the streets as a newsboy. One of the reasons for this was that we needed the money. Another reason was that I needed the exercise. I had found my way to the free public library, and was reading myself into nervous prostration28. On the poor ranches29 on which I had lived there had been no books. In ways truly miraculous30, I had been lent four books, marvellous books, and them I had devoured31. One was the life of Garfield; the second, Paul du Chaillu's African travels; the third, a novel by Ouida with the last forty pages missing; and the fourth, Irving's "Alhambra." This last had been lent me by a school-teacher. I was not a forward child. Unlike Oliver Twist, I was incapable32 of asking for more. When I returned the "Alhambra" to the teacher I hoped she would lend me another book. And because she did not—most likely she deemed me unappreciative—I cried all the way home on the three-mile tramp from the school to the ranch26. I waited and yearned33 for her to lend me another book. Scores of times I nerved myself almost to the point of asking her, but never quite reached the necessary pitch of effrontery34.
And then came the city of Oakland, and on the shelves of that free library I discovered all the great world beyond the skyline. Here were thousands of books as good as my four wonder-books, and some were even better. Libraries were not concerned with children in those days, and I had strange adventures. I remember, in the catalogue, being impressed by the title, "The Adventures of Peregrine Pickle35." I filled an application blank and the librarian handed me the collected and entirely36 unexpurgated works of Smollett in one huge volume. I read everything, but principally history and adventure, and all the old travels and voyages. I read mornings, afternoons, and nights. I read in bed, I read at table, I read as I walked to and from school, and I read at recess37 while the other boys were playing. I began to get the "jerks." To everybody I replied: "Go away. You make me nervous."
And so, at ten, I was out on the streets, a newsboy. I had no time to read. I was busy getting exercise and learning how to fight, busy learning forwardness, and brass38 and bluff39. I had an imagination and a curiosity about all things that made me plastic. Not least among the things I was curious about was the saloon. And I was in and out of many a one. I remember, in those days, on the east side of Broadway, between Sixth and Seventh, from corner to corner, there was a solid block of saloons.
In the saloons life was different. Men talked with great voices, laughed great laughs, and there was an atmosphere of greatness. Here was something more than common every-day where nothing happened. Here life was always very live, and, sometimes, even lurid40, when blows were struck, and blood was shed, and big policemen came shouldering in. Great moments, these, for me, my head filled with all the wild and valiant41 fighting of the gallant42 adventurers on sea and land. There were no big moments when I trudged43 along the street throwing my papers in at doors. But in the saloons, even the sots, stupefied, sprawling44 across the tables or in the sawdust, were objects of mystery and wonder.
And more, the saloons were right. The city fathers sanctioned them and licensed45 them. They were not the terrible places I heard boys deem them who lacked my opportunities to know. Terrible they might be, but then that only meant they were terribly wonderful, and it is the terribly wonderful that a boy desires to know. In the same way pirates, and shipwrecks46, and battles were terrible; and what healthy boy wouldn't give his immortal47 soul to participate in such affairs?
Besides, in saloons I saw reporters, editors, lawyers, judges, whose names and faces I knew. They put the seal of social approval on the saloon. They verified my own feeling of fascination48 in the saloon. They, too, must have found there that something different, that something beyond, which I sensed and groped after. What it was, I did not know; yet there it must be, for there men focused like buzzing flies about a honey pot. I had no sorrows, and the world was very bright, so I could not guess that what these men sought was forgetfulness of jaded49 toil50 and stale grief.
Not that I drank at that time. From ten to fifteen I rarely tasted liquor, but I was intimately in contact with drinkers and drinking places. The only reason I did not drink was because I didn't like the stuff. As the time passed, I worked as boy-helper on an ice-wagon, set up pins in a bowling51 alley24 with a saloon attached, and swept out saloons at Sunday picnic grounds.
Big jovial52 Josie Harper ran a road house at Telegraph Avenue and Thirty-ninth Street. Here for a year I delivered an evening paper, until my route was changed to the water-front and tenderloin of Oakland. The first month, when I collected Josie Harper's bill, she poured me a glass of wine. I was ashamed to refuse, so I drank it. But after that I watched the chance when she wasn't around so as to collect from her barkeeper.
The first day I worked in the bowling alley, the barkeeper, according to custom, called us boys up to have a drink after we had been setting up pins for several hours. The others asked for beer. I said I'd take ginger53 ale. The boys snickered, and I noticed the barkeeper favoured me with a strange, searching scrutiny54. Nevertheless, he opened a bottle of ginger ale. Afterward, back in the alleys, in the pauses between games, the boys enlightened me. I had offended the barkeeper. A bottle of ginger ale cost the saloon ever so much more than a glass of steam beer; and it was up to me, if I wanted to hold my job, to drink beer. Besides, beer was food. I could work better on it. There was no food in ginger ale. After that, when I couldn't sneak55 out of it, I drank beer and wondered what men found in it that was so good. I was always aware that I was missing something.
What I really liked in those days was candy. For five cents I could buy five "cannon-balls"—big lumps of the most delicious lastingness56. I could chew and worry a single one for an hour. Then there was a Mexican who sold big slabs57 of brown chewing taffy for five cents each. It required a quarter of a day properly to absorb one of them. And many a day I made my entire lunch off one of those slabs. In truth, I found food there, but not in beer.
野性的呼唤 The Call of the Wild
The Iron Heel 铁蹄
野性的呼唤 The Call of the Wild
The Iron Heel 铁蹄
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收听单词发音
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1
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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cracker
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| n.（无甜味的）薄脆饼干 | |
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fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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nibble
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| n.轻咬，啃；v.一点点地咬，慢慢啃，吹毛求疵 | |
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nibbles
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| vt.& vi.啃，一点一点地咬（nibble的第三人称单数形式） | |
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crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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12
dribbled
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| v.流口水( dribble的过去式和过去分词 )；（使液体）滴下或作细流；运球，带球 | |
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13
crackers
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| adj.精神错乱的，癫狂的n.爆竹( cracker的名词复数 )；薄脆饼干；（认为）十分愉快的事；迷人的姑娘 | |
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syrup
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| n.糖浆，糖水 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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18
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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luring
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的现在分词形式） | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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ranch
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| n.大牧场，大农场 | |
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ranching
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| adj.放牧的 | |
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prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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ranches
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| 大农场， （兼种果树，养鸡等的）大牧场( ranch的名词复数 ) | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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31
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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32
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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33
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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pickle
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| n.腌汁，泡菜；v.腌，泡 | |
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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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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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38
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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39
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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40
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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41
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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42
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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43
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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44
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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45
licensed
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| adj.得到许可的v.许可，颁发执照(license的过去式和过去分词) | |
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46
shipwrecks
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| 海难，船只失事( shipwreck的名词复数 )； 沉船 | |
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47
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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48
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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49
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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50
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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51
bowling
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| n.保龄球运动 | |
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52
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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53
ginger
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| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
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54
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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55
sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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56
lastingness
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| 耐久 | |
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57
slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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