And by the way, what a capital subject that was—“The Seasons”! A theme without beginning and without end; a theme to be taken seriously or humorously, in prose or verse; a theme of universal interest. Best of all, there was no difficulty about the first sentence. No need to sit for half an hour chewing the end of one’s pencil and waiting for inspiration. Down it went: “There are four seasons in the year—spring, summer, autumn or fall, and winter.” We never omitted to say “autumn or fall;” the synonymy helped out the page, and gave us the more time in which to consider what we should say next. That is the great difficulty in authorship. On that shoal many a good ship has struck. A man who always has something to say next is bound to get on—as a “space writer,” if as nothing else.
Our opening remark was not strictly2 original, but we did not mind. It was true, if it wasn’t new; and without being told, I think we had discovered—by intuition, I suppose—what older heads seem to have learned by rule, that it is good rhetoric3, so to speak, to begin with a quotation4. I was pleased, the other day, to see a brilliant essayist commending it as an excellent and becoming practice to leapfrog into one’s subject over the back of some famous predecessor5. Such was our custom, for better or worse, till a certain master (I am tempted6 to name him, but forbear) announced just before the fatal day, that compositions on “The Seasons” would no longer be accepted. That was cruelty to authors. He spoke7 with a smile, but it was a smile of malice8. I have never forgiven him. He is living still, a preacher of the gospel. When Saturday night comes, and he finds himself hard put to it for the morrow’s sermon (as I have no doubt he often does—I hope so, at all events), does he never remember the day when with the word of his mouth he deprived thirty or forty young innocents of their easiest and best appreciated text? He is righteously punished. Let him preach to himself, some Sunday, from Numbers xxxii. 23, “Be sure your sin will find you out.”
Why shouldn’t one write about the seasons, I wonder. There is scarcely anything more important, or more universally interesting, than the weather. Ten to one it was the first thing we all thought of this morning. And the seasons are nothing but weather in large packages—weather at wholesale9. Their changes are our epochs, our date-points. But for them, all days being alike, there would be no calendar. It[215] is well known that people who live in the tropics seldom know their own age. How should they, with nothing to distinguish one time of year from another? Young or old, they have never learned that “there are four seasons in the year.”
We are better off. Life with us is not all in the present tense. As Hamlet said, we look before and after. (Hence it is, I suppose, that we have “such large discourse,” and continue, some of us, to write compositions.) We live by expectation. “Behold,” says the weather, “I make all things new.” Every day is another one, and every season also. At this very minute a miraculous10 change is at hand. A great and effectual door is about to swing on its hinges, and I, for one, wish to be awake to see it; not to wake up by and by and find the door wide open.
So far from wearying of the seasons as an old story, I am more intensely interested in them than ever. If any of my fellow citizens are not just now thinking daily of the passing of winter and the advent11 of spring, I should like to know what they are made[216] of. For myself, I am like a man in jail. My term is about to expire, and I am notching12 off the days one by one on a stick. “Three more,” say I; “two more.” “Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest.” And I am ready to hang my cap on the horns of the moon.
“You are too much in haste,” some man will say; the same that said, “How are the dead raised up?” But I know better. It is one happy effect of ornithological13 habits that they shorten the winter. There will be no spring flowers for a good while yet, but there will be spring birds within a fortnight, perhaps within a week; nay14, there may be some before night. Indeed, I have just come in from a two-hour jaunt15, and at almost every step my ears were open for the first vernal note. I have seen bluebirds, before now, earlier than this; and what has happened once may happen again. So, while the wind blew softly from the southwest, and all the hills were mantled16 with a dreamy haze17, I chose a course that would take me past one apple orchard18 after another; and, as I say, my ears (which I often think are better ornithologists than their owner,—if he is their owner) kept themselves wide awake. If that sweet voice, “Purity, purity” (with all bird lovers I thank Mr. Burroughs for the word)—if that heavenly voice, the gentlest of prophets, was on the breeze, they meant to hear it.
They heard nothing, but that is not to say that they listened to no purpose. They heard nothing, and they heard much; for there is an ear within the ear, and the new year’s voice—which is the bluebird’s—was in the deepest and truest sense already audible. The ornithologist19 failed to catch it; for him Sialia sialis is still to look for; but the other man was in better luck.
The “new year’s voice,” I say; for the year begins with spring. We had the seasons in their true order when we were school-children—“spring, summer, autumn or fall, and winter.” It must have been some very old and prosy chronologist that arranged their progression as our almanacs now give it. The young are better instructed. Does not the Scripture20 say, “The last shall be first”?
And within three days—I can hardly believe it—the old year will be done. So let it be. Its passing brings us so much nearer the grave; worse yet, perhaps, it leaves us with our winter’s work half accomplished21; but our eyes are forward. After all, our work is not important. We are twice too busy; living as our neighbors do, rather than according to the law of our own being; playing the fool (there is no fool like the busy one); selling our birthright for a mess of pottage. The great thing, especially in springtime, is to lie wide open to the life that enfolds us, while the “gentle deities” show us, for our delight,—
Yes, that is the wisdom we should pray for. The youngest of us will not see many springs. Let us see the most that we can of this one. So much there will be to look at! Now, of all times, we may say with one of old, “Lord, that I might receive my sight.” What a new world we should find ourselves living in! I can hardly imagine it.
点击收听单词发音
1 belie | |
v.掩饰,证明为假 | |
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2 strictly | |
adv.严厉地,严格地;严密地 | |
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3 rhetoric | |
n.修辞学,浮夸之言语 | |
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4 quotation | |
n.引文,引语,语录;报价,牌价,行情 | |
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5 predecessor | |
n.前辈,前任 | |
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6 tempted | |
v.怂恿(某人)干不正当的事;冒…的险(tempt的过去分词) | |
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7 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 | |
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8 malice | |
n.恶意,怨恨,蓄意;[律]预谋 | |
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9 wholesale | |
n.批发;adv.以批发方式;vt.批发,成批出售 | |
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10 miraculous | |
adj.像奇迹一样的,不可思议的 | |
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11 advent | |
n.(重要事件等的)到来,来临 | |
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12 notching | |
adj.多级的(指继电器)n.做凹口,开槽v.在(某物)上刻V形痕( notch的现在分词 );赢得;赢取;获得高分 | |
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13 ornithological | |
adj.鸟类学的 | |
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14 nay | |
adv.不;n.反对票,投反对票者 | |
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15 jaunt | |
v.短程旅游;n.游览 | |
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16 mantled | |
披着斗篷的,覆盖着的 | |
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17 haze | |
n.霾,烟雾;懵懂,迷糊;vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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18 orchard | |
n.果园,果园里的全部果树,(美俚)棒球场 | |
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19 ornithologist | |
n.鸟类学家 | |
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20 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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21 accomplished | |
adj.有才艺的;有造诣的;达到了的 | |
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22 lore | |
n.传说;学问,经验,知识 | |
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23 tenements | |
n.房屋,住户,租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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