Grass is man’s patient friend. Directly or indirectly2, we may say, he subsists3 upon it. Nay4, the Scripture5 itself declares as much, in one of its most familiar texts. It is good to see it so quick to recover from the cruel work of the scythe6, so responsive to the midsummer rains, its color so deep, its leaves so full of sap. It is this spirit of hopefulness, this patience under injury, that makes shaven lawns possible.
As to the beauty of grass, no man appreciates it, I suppose, unless he has lived where grass does not grow. “When I go back to New England,” said an exile in Florida, “I will ask for no garden. Let me have grass about the house, and I can do without roses.”
The century ends with an apple year; and every tree is in the fashion. The old, the decrepit7, the solitary8, not one of them all but got the word in season; as there is no woman in Christendom but learns somehow, before it is too late, whether sleeves are to be worn loose or tight. Along the roadside, in the swamp, in the orchard9, everywhere the story is the same. Apple trees are all freemasons. This hollow shell of a trunk, with one last battered10 limb keeping it alive, received its cue with the rest.
In the orchard, where the trees are younger and more pliable11, a man would hardly know them for the same he saw there in May and June; so altered are they in shape, so smoothly12 rounded at the top, so like Babylonian willows13 in the droop14 of the branches. Baldwins are turning red—greenish red—and russets are already rusty15. “Yes,” says the owner of the orchard, “and much good will it do me.” Apples are an “aggravating crop,” he declares. “First there are none; and then there are so many that you cannot sell them.” Human nature is never satisfied; and, for one, I think it seldom has reason to be.
A bobolink, which seems to be somewhere overhead, drops a few notes in passing. “I am off,” he says. “Sorry to go, but I know where there is a rice-field.” From the orchard come the voices of bluebirds and kingbirds. Not a bird is in song; and what is more melancholy16, the road and the fields are thick with English sparrows.
Now I stop at the smell of growing corn, which is only another kind of grass, though the farmer may not suspect the fact, and perhaps would not believe you if you told him of it; more than he would believe you if you told him that clover is not grass. He and his cow know better. A queer set these botanists17, who get their notions from books! Corn or grass, here grow some acres of it, well tasseled18 (“all tosselled out”), with the wind stirring the leaves to make them shine. Does the odor, with which the breeze is loaded, come from the blossoms, or from the substance of the plant itself? A new question for me. I climb the fence and put my nose to one of the tassels19. No, it is not in them, I think. It must be in the stalk and leaves; and I adopt this opinion the more readily because the odor itself—the memory of which is part of every country boy’s inheritance—is like that of a vegetable rather than of a flower, a smell rather than a perfume. I seem to recall that the stalk smelled just so when we cut it into lengths for cornstalk fiddles20; and the nose, as everyone must have remarked, has a good memory, for the reason, probably, that it is so near the brain.
I turn the corner, and go from the garden to the wild. First, however, I rest for a few minutes under a wide-branching oak opposite the site of a vanished house. You would know there had been a house here at some time, even if you did not see the cellar-hole, by the old-maid’s pinks along the fence. How fresh they look! And how becomingly they blush! They are worthy21 of their name. Age cannot wither22 them. Less handsome than carnations23, if you will, but faithful, home-loving souls; not requiring to be waited upon, but given rather to waiting upon others. Like mayweed and catnip, they are what I have heard called “folksy plants;” though on second thought I should rather say “homey.” There is something of the cat about them; a kind of local constancy; they stay by the old place, let the people go where they will. Probably they would grow in front of a new house,—even a Queen Anne cottage, so-called,—if necessity were laid upon them, but who could imagine it? It would be shameful24 to subject them to such indignity25. They are survivals, livers in the past, lovers of things as they were, charter members, I should say, of the Society of Colonial Dames26.
[55]As I come to the edge of the swamp I see a leaf move, and by squeaking27 draw into sight a redstart. The pretty creature peeps at me furtively28, wondering what new sort of man it can be that makes noises of that kind. To all appearance she is very desirous not to be seen; yet she spreads her tail every few seconds so as to display its bright markings. Probably the action has grown to be habitual29 and, as it were, automatic. A bird may be unconsciously coquettish, I suppose, as well as a woman or a man. It is a handsome tail, anyhow.
Somewhere just behind me a red-eyed vireo is singing in a peculiar30 manner; repeating his hackneyed measure with all his customary speed,—forty or fifty times a minute,—but with no more than half his customary voice, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. I wish he would sing so always. It would be an easy way of increasing his popularity.
Not far down the road are three roughly dressed men,—of the genus tramp, if I read the signs aright,—coming toward me; and I notice with pleasure that when they reach[56] the narrow wooden bridge over the brook31 they turn aside, as by a common impulse, to lean over the rail and look down into the water. When I get there I shall do the same thing. So will every man that comes along, unless he happens to be on “business.”
Running water is one of the universal parables32, appealing to something primitive33 and ineradicable in human nature. Day and night it preaches—sermons without words. It is every man’s friend. The most stolid34 find it good company. For that reason, largely, men love to fish. They are poets without knowing it. They have never read a line of verse since they outgrew35 Mother Goose; they never consciously admire a landscape; they care nothing for a picture, unless it is a caricature, or tells a story; but they cannot cross moving water without feeling its charm.
Well, in that sense of the word, I too am a poet. The tramps and I have met and passed each other, and I am on the bridge. The current is almost imperceptible (like the passage of time), and the black water is all a tangle36 of cresses and other plants. Lucky bugs37 dart38 hither and thither39 upon its surface, quick to start and quick to stop (quick to quarrel, also,—like butterflies,—so that two of them can hardly meet without a momentary40 set-to), full of life, and, for anything that I know, full of thought; true poets, perhaps, in ways of their own; for why should man be so narrow-minded as to assume that his way is of necessity the only one?
On either side of the brook, as it winds through the swamp, are acres of the stately Joe Pye weed, or purple boneset, one of the tallest of herbs. I am beginning to think well of its color,—which is something like what ladies know as “crushed strawberry,” if I mistake not,—though I used to look upon it rather disdainfully and call it faded. The plant would be better esteemed41 in that regard, I dare say, if it did not so often invite comparison with the cardinal42 flower. I note it as one of the favorites of the milk-weed butterfly.
Here on the very edge of the brook is the swamp loosestrife, its curving stems all reaching for the water, set with rosy43 bloom. My attention is drawn44 to it by the humming of bees, a busy, contented45, content-producing sound. How different from the hum of the factory that I passed an hour ago, through the open windows of which I saw men hurrying over “piece-work,” every stroke like every other, every man a machine, or part of a machine, rather, for doing one thing. I wonder whether the dreariness46 of the modern “factory system” may not have had something to do with the origin and rapid development of our nineteenth-century breed of peripatetic47 thieves and beggars.
Above the music of the bees I hear, of a sudden, a louder hum. “A hummingbird48,” I say, and turn to look at a jewel-weed. Yes, the bird is there, trying the blossoms one after another. Then she drops to rest upon an alder49 twig50 (always a dead one) directly under my nose, where I see her darting51 out her long tongue, which flashes in the sunlight. I say “she.” She has a whitish throat, and is either a female or a male of the present season. Did any one ever see a hummingbird without a thrill of pleasure? Not I.
As I go on I note, half sadly, half gladly, some tokens of waning52 summer; especially a few first blossoms of two of the handsomest of our blue asters, lævis and patens. Soon the dusty goldenrod will be out, and then, whatever the almanac-makers may say, autumn will have come. Every dry roadside will publish the fact.
点击收听单词发音
1 velvet | |
n.丝绒,天鹅绒;adj.丝绒制的,柔软的 | |
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2 indirectly | |
adv.间接地,不直接了当地 | |
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3 subsists | |
v.(靠很少的钱或食物)维持生活,生存下去( subsist的第三人称单数 ) | |
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4 nay | |
adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
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5 scripture | |
n.经文,圣书,手稿;Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》,《圣经》中的一段 | |
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6 scythe | |
n. 长柄的大镰刀,战车镰; v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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7 decrepit | |
adj.衰老的,破旧的 | |
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8 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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9 orchard | |
n.果园,果园里的全部果树,(美俚)棒球场 | |
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10 battered | |
adj.磨损的;v.连续猛击;磨损 | |
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11 pliable | |
adj.易受影响的;易弯的;柔顺的,易驾驭的 | |
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12 smoothly | |
adv.平滑地,顺利地,流利地,流畅地 | |
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13 willows | |
n.柳树( willow的名词复数 );柳木 | |
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14 droop | |
v.低垂,下垂;凋萎,萎靡 | |
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15 rusty | |
adj.生锈的;锈色的;荒废了的 | |
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16 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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17 botanists | |
n.植物学家,研究植物的人( botanist的名词复数 ) | |
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18 tasseled | |
v.抽穗, (玉米)长穗须( tassel的过去式和过去分词 );使抽穗, (为了使作物茁壮生长)摘去穗状雄花;用流苏装饰 | |
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19 tassels | |
n.穗( tassel的名词复数 );流苏状物;(植物的)穗;玉蜀黍的穗状雄花v.抽穗, (玉米)长穗须( tassel的第三人称单数 );使抽穗, (为了使作物茁壮生长)摘去穗状雄花;用流苏装饰 | |
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20 fiddles | |
n.小提琴( fiddle的名词复数 );欺诈;(需要运用手指功夫的)细巧活动;当第二把手v.伪造( fiddle的第三人称单数 );篡改;骗取;修理或稍作改动 | |
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21 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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22 wither | |
vt.使凋谢,使衰退,(用眼神气势等)使畏缩;vi.枯萎,衰退,消亡 | |
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23 carnations | |
n.麝香石竹,康乃馨( carnation的名词复数 ) | |
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24 shameful | |
adj.可耻的,不道德的 | |
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25 indignity | |
n.侮辱,伤害尊严,轻蔑 | |
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26 dames | |
n.(在英国)夫人(一种封号),夫人(爵士妻子的称号)( dame的名词复数 );女人 | |
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27 squeaking | |
v.短促地尖叫( squeak的现在分词 );吱吱叫;告密;充当告密者 | |
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28 furtively | |
adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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29 habitual | |
adj.习惯性的;通常的,惯常的 | |
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30 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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31 brook | |
n.小河,溪;v.忍受,容让 | |
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32 parables | |
n.(圣经中的)寓言故事( parable的名词复数 ) | |
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33 primitive | |
adj.原始的;简单的;n.原(始)人,原始事物 | |
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34 stolid | |
adj.无动于衷的,感情麻木的 | |
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35 outgrew | |
长[发展] 得超过(某物)的范围( outgrow的过去式 ); 长[发展]得不能再要(某物); 长得比…快; 生长速度超过 | |
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36 tangle | |
n.纠缠;缠结;混乱;v.(使)缠绕;变乱 | |
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37 bugs | |
adj.疯狂的,发疯的n.窃听器( bug的名词复数 );病菌;虫子;[计算机](制作软件程序所产生的意料不到的)错误 | |
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38 dart | |
v.猛冲,投掷;n.飞镖,猛冲 | |
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39 thither | |
adv.向那里;adj.在那边的,对岸的 | |
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40 momentary | |
adj.片刻的,瞬息的;短暂的 | |
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41 esteemed | |
adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 );敬重;认为;以为 | |
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42 cardinal | |
n.(天主教的)红衣主教;adj.首要的,基本的 | |
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43 rosy | |
adj.美好的,乐观的,玫瑰色的 | |
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44 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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45 contented | |
adj.满意的,安心的,知足的 | |
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46 dreariness | |
沉寂,可怕,凄凉 | |
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47 peripatetic | |
adj.漫游的,逍遥派的,巡回的 | |
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48 hummingbird | |
n.蜂鸟 | |
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49 alder | |
n.赤杨树 | |
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50 twig | |
n.小树枝,嫩枝;v.理解 | |
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51 darting | |
v.投掷,投射( dart的现在分词 );向前冲,飞奔 | |
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52 waning | |
adj.(月亮)渐亏的,逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 );(月)亏;变小;变暗淡 | |
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