In a sacred corner (as soon as ever we could attend to any thing) we hung up the leathern bag of tools, which had done much more toward saving the life of Uncle Sam than I did; for this had served as a kind of kedge, or drag, upon his little craft, retarding1 it from the great roll of billows, in which he must have been drowned outright2. And even as it was, he took some days before he was like himself again.
Firm, who had been at the head of the valley, repairing some broken hurdles3, declared that a water-spout had burst in the bosom4 of the mountain gorge5 where the Blue River has its origin, and the whole of its power got ponded back by a dam, which the Sawyer himself had made, at about five furlongs above the mill. Ephraim, being further up the gulch6, and high above the roaring flood, did his utmost with the keen edge of his eyes to pierce into the mischief7; but it rained so hard, and at the same time blew so violently around him, that he could see nothing of what went on, but hoped for the best, with uneasiness.
Now when the Sawyer came round so well as to have a clear mind of things, and learn that his mill was gone and his business lost, and himself, at this ripe time of life, almost driven to begin the world again, it was natural to expect that he ought to indulge in a good deal of grumbling8. Many people came to comfort him, and to offer him deep condolence and the truest of true sympathy, and every thing that could be thought of, unless it were a loan of money. Of that they never thought, because it was such a trifling9 matter; and they all had confidence in his power to do any thing but pay them. They told him that he was a young man still, and Providence10 watched over him; in a year or two he would be all the better for this sad visitation. And he said yes to their excellent advice, and was very much obliged to them. At the same time it was clear to me, who watched him like a daughter, that he became heavy in his mind, and sighed, as these kind friends, one after the other, enjoyed what he still could do for them, but rode away out of his gate with too much delicacy11 to draw purse-strings. Not that he would have accepted a loan from the heartiest12 heart of all of them, only that he would have liked the offer, to understand their meaning. And several of them were men — as Firm, in his young indignation, told me — who had been altogether set up in life by the kindness of Sampson Gundry.
Perhaps the Sawyer, after all his years, had no right to be vexed13 by this. But whether he was right or wrong, I am sure that it preyed14 upon his mind, though he was too proud to speak of it. He knew that he was not ruined, although these friends assumed that he must be; and some of them were quite angry with him because they had vainly warned him. He could not remember these warnings, yet he contradicted none of them; and fully15 believing in the goodness of the world, he became convinced that he must have been hard in the days of his prosperity.
No sooner was he able to get about again than he went to San Francisco to raise money on his house and property for the rebuilding of the mill. Firm rode with him to escort him back, and so did Martin, the foreman; for although the times were not so bad as they used to be some ten years back, in the height of the gold fever, it still was a highly undesirable16 thing for a man who was known to have money about him to ride forth17 alone from San Francisco, or even Sacramento town. And having mentioned the foreman Martin, in justice to him I ought to say that although his entire loss from the disaster amounted only to a worn-out waistcoat of the value of about twenty cents, his vehemence18 in grumbling could only be equaled by his lofty persistence19. By his great activity in running away and leaving his employer to meet the brunt, he had saved not only himself, but his wife and children and goods and chattels20. This failed, however, to remove or even assuage21 his regret for the waistcoat; and he moaned and threatened to such good purpose that a speedy subscription22 was raised, which must have found him in clothes for the rest of his life, as well as a silver tea-pot with an inscription23 about his bravery.
When the three were gone, after strict injunctions from Mr. Gundry, and his grandson too, that I was on no account to venture beyond calling distance from the house, for fear of being run away with, I found the place so sad and lonesome that I scarcely knew what to do. I had no fear of robbers, though there were plenty in the neighborhood; for we still had three or four men about, who could be thoroughly24 trusted, and who staid with us on half wages rather than abandon the Sawyer in his trouble. Suan Isco, also, was as brave as any man, and could shoot well with a rifle. Moreover, the great dog Jowler was known and dreaded25 by all his enemies. He could pull down an Indian, or two half-castes, or three Mexicans, in about a second; and now he always went about with me, having formed a sacred friendship.
Uncle Sam had kissed me very warmly when he said “good-by,” and Firm had shown some disposition26 to follow his example; but much as I liked and admired Firm, I had my own ideas as to what was unbecoming, and now in my lonely little walks I began to think about it. My father’s resting-place had not been invaded by the imperious flood, although a line of driftage, in a zigzag27 swath, lay near the mound28. This was my favorite spot for thinking, when I felt perplexed29 and downcast in my young unaided mind. For although I have not spoken of my musings very copiously30, any one would do me wrong who fancied that I was indifferent. Through the great kindness of Mr. Gundry and other good friends around me, I had no bitter sense as yet of my own dependence31 and poverty. But the vile32 thing I had heard about my father, the horrible slander33 and wicked falsehood — for such I was certain it must be — this was continually in my thoughts, and quite destroyed my cheerfulness. And the worst of it was that I never could get my host to enter into it. Whenever I began, his face would change and his manner grow constrained34, and his chief desire always seemed to lead me to some other subject.
One day, when the heat of the summer came forth, and the peaches began to blush toward it, and bronze-ribbed figs35 grew damask-gray with a globule of sirup in their eyes, and melons and pumpkins36 already had curved their fluted37 stalks with heaviness, and the dust of the plains was beginning to fly, and the bright spring flowers were dead more swiftly even than they first were born, I sat with Suan Isco at my father’s cross, and told her to make me cry with some of all the many sad things she knew. She knew a wondrous38 number of things insatiably sad and wild; and the quiet way in which she told them (not only without any horror, but as if they were rightly to be expected), also the deep and rather guttural tone of voice, and the stillness of the form, made it impossible to help believing verily every word she said.
That there should be in the world such things, so dark, unjust, and full of woe39, was enough to puzzle a child brought up among the noblest philosophers; whereas I had simply been educated by good unpretentious women, who had partly retired40 from the world, but not to such a depth as to drown all thought of what was left behind them. These were ready at any time to return upon good opportunity; and some of them had done so, with many tears, when they came into property.
“Please to tell me no more now,” I said at last to Suan; “my eyes are so sore they will be quite red, and perhaps Uncle Sam will come home to-night. I am afraid he has found some trouble with the money, or he ought to have been at home before. Don’t you think so, Suan?”
“Yes, yes; trouble with the money. Always with the white mans that.”
“Very well. I shall go and look for some money. I had a most wonderful dream last night. Only I must go quite alone. You had better go and look to the larder41, Suan. If they come, they are sure to be hungry.”
“Yes, yes; the white mans always hungry, sep when thirsty.”
The Indian woman, who had in her heart a general contempt for the white race, save those of our own household, drew her bright-colored shawl around her, and set off with her peculiar42 walk. Her walk was not ungraceful, because it was so purely43 natural; but it differed almost as much as the step of a quadruped from what we are taught. I, with heavy thoughts but careless steps, set off on my wanderings. I wanted to try to have no set purpose, course, or consideration, but to go wherever chance should lead me, without choice, as in my dream. And after many vague turns, and even closings of rebellious44 eyes, I found myself, perhaps by the force of habit, at the ruins of the mill.
I seemed to recognize some resemblance (which is as much as one can expect) to the scene which had been in my sleep before me. But sleeping I had seen roaring torrents45; waking, I beheld46 a quiet stream. The little river, as blue as ever, and shrinking from all thoughts of wrath47, showed nothing in its pure gaze now but a gladness to refresh and cool. In many nicely sheltered corners it was full of soft reflection as to the good it had to do; and then, in silver and golden runnels, on it went to do it. And the happy voice and many sweetly flashing little glances told that it knew of the lovely lives beside it, created and comforted by itself.
But I looked at the dark ruin it had wrought48, and like a child I was angry with it for the sake of Uncle Sam. Only the foundations and the big heavy stones of the mill were left, and the clear bright water purled around, or made little eddies49 among them. All were touched with silvery sound, and soft caressing50 dimples. But I looked at the passionate51 mountains first, to be sure of no more violence; for if a burned child dreads52 the fire, one half drowned may be excused for little faith in water. The mountains in the sunshine looked as if nothing could move their grandeur53, and so I stepped from stone to stone, in the bed of the placid54 brightness.
Presently I came to a place where one of the great black piles, driven in by order of the Sawyer, to serve as a back-stay for his walls, had been swept by the flood from its vertical55 sinking, but had not been swept away. The square tarred post of mountain pine reclined down stream, and gently nodded to the current’s impact. But overthrown56 as it was, it could not make its exit and float away, as all its brethren had done. At this I had wondered before, and now I went to see what the reason was. By throwing a short piece of plank57 from one of the shattered foundations into a nick in the shoulder of the reclining pile, I managed to get there and sit upon it, and search for its obstruction58.
The water was flowing smoothly59 toward me, and as clear as crystal, being scarcely more than a foot in depth. And there, on the upper verge60 of the hole, raised by the leverage61 of the butt62 from the granite63 sand of the river-bed, I saw a great bowlder of rich yellow light. I was so much amazed that I cried out at once, “Oh! what a beautiful great yellow fish!” And I shouted to Jowler, who had found where I was, and followed me, as usual. The great dog was famous for his love of fishing, and had often brought a fine salmon64 forth.
Jowler was always a zealous65 fellow, and he answered eagerly to my call by dashing at once into the water, and following the guidance of my hand. But when he saw what I pointed66 at, he was bitterly disappointed, and gave me to understand as much by looking at me foolishly. “Now don’t be a stupid dog,” I said; “do what I tell you immediately. Whatever it is, bring it out, Sir.”
Jowler knew that I would be obeyed whenever I called him “Sir;” so he ducked his great head under the water, and tugged67 with his teeth at the object. His back corded up, and his tail grew rigid68 with the intensity69 of his labor70, but the task was quite beyond him. He could not even stir the mighty71 mass at which he struggled, but he bit off a little projecting corner, and came to me with it in his mouth. Then he laid his dripping jaws72 on my lap, and his ears fell back, and his tail hung down with utter sense of failure.
I patted his broad intelligent forehead, and wiped his black eyes with his ears, and took from his lips what he offered to me. Then I saw that his grinders were framed with gold, as if he had been to a dentist regardless of expense, and into my hand he dropped a lump of solid glittering virgin73 ore. He had not the smallest idea of having done any thing worthy74 of human applause; and he put out his long red tongue and licked his teeth to get rid of uneatable dross75, and gave me a quiet nudge to ask what more I wanted of him.
1 retarding | |
使减速( retard的现在分词 ); 妨碍; 阻止; 推迟 | |
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2 outright | |
adv.坦率地;彻底地;立即;adj.无疑的;彻底的 | |
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3 hurdles | |
n.障碍( hurdle的名词复数 );跳栏;(供人或马跳跃的)栏架;跨栏赛 | |
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4 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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5 gorge | |
n.咽喉,胃,暴食,山峡;v.塞饱,狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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6 gulch | |
n.深谷,峡谷 | |
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7 mischief | |
n.损害,伤害,危害;恶作剧,捣蛋,胡闹 | |
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8 grumbling | |
adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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9 trifling | |
adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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10 providence | |
n.深谋远虑,天道,天意;远见;节约;上帝 | |
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11 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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12 heartiest | |
亲切的( hearty的最高级 ); 热诚的; 健壮的; 精神饱满的 | |
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13 vexed | |
adj.争论不休的;(指问题等)棘手的;争论不休的问题;烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 );使苦恼;使生气;详细讨论 | |
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14 preyed | |
v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 );掠食;折磨;(人)靠欺诈为生 | |
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15 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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16 undesirable | |
adj.不受欢迎的,不良的,不合意的,讨厌的;n.不受欢迎的人,不良分子 | |
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17 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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18 vehemence | |
n.热切;激烈;愤怒 | |
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19 persistence | |
n.坚持,持续,存留 | |
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20 chattels | |
n.动产,奴隶( chattel的名词复数 ) | |
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21 assuage | |
v.缓和,减轻,镇定 | |
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22 subscription | |
n.预订,预订费,亲笔签名,调配法,下标(处方) | |
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23 inscription | |
n.(尤指石块上的)刻印文字,铭文,碑文 | |
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24 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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25 dreaded | |
adj.令人畏惧的;害怕的v.害怕,恐惧,担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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26 disposition | |
n.性情,性格;意向,倾向;排列,部署 | |
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27 zigzag | |
n.曲折,之字形;adj.曲折的,锯齿形的;adv.曲折地,成锯齿形地;vt.使曲折;vi.曲折前行 | |
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28 mound | |
n.土墩,堤,小山;v.筑堤,用土堆防卫 | |
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29 perplexed | |
adj.不知所措的 | |
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30 copiously | |
adv.丰富地,充裕地 | |
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31 dependence | |
n.依靠,依赖;信任,信赖;隶属 | |
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32 vile | |
adj.卑鄙的,可耻的,邪恶的;坏透的 | |
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33 slander | |
n./v.诽谤,污蔑 | |
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34 constrained | |
adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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35 figs | |
figures 数字,图形,外形 | |
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36 pumpkins | |
n.南瓜( pumpkin的名词复数 );南瓜的果肉,南瓜囊 | |
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37 fluted | |
a.有凹槽的 | |
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38 wondrous | |
adj.令人惊奇的,奇妙的;adv.惊人地;异乎寻常地;令人惊叹地 | |
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39 woe | |
n.悲哀,苦痛,不幸,困难;int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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40 retired | |
adj.隐退的,退休的,退役的 | |
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41 larder | |
n.食物贮藏室,食品橱 | |
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42 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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43 purely | |
adv.纯粹地,完全地 | |
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44 rebellious | |
adj.造反的,反抗的,难控制的 | |
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45 torrents | |
n.倾注;奔流( torrent的名词复数 );急流;爆发;连续不断 | |
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46 beheld | |
v.看,注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 );瞧;看呀;(叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现)哎哟 | |
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47 wrath | |
n.愤怒,愤慨,暴怒 | |
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48 wrought | |
v.引起;以…原料制作;运转;adj.制造的 | |
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49 eddies | |
(水、烟等的)漩涡,涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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50 caressing | |
爱抚的,表现爱情的,亲切的 | |
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51 passionate | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,激昂的,易动情的,易怒的,性情暴躁的 | |
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52 dreads | |
n.恐惧,畏惧( dread的名词复数 );令人恐惧的事物v.害怕,恐惧,担心( dread的第三人称单数 ) | |
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53 grandeur | |
n.伟大,崇高,宏伟,庄严,豪华 | |
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54 placid | |
adj.安静的,平和的 | |
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55 vertical | |
adj.垂直的,顶点的,纵向的;n.垂直物,垂直的位置 | |
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56 overthrown | |
adj. 打翻的,推倒的,倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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57 plank | |
n.板条,木板,政策要点,政纲条目 | |
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58 obstruction | |
n.阻塞,堵塞;障碍物 | |
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59 smoothly | |
adv.平滑地,顺利地,流利地,流畅地 | |
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60 verge | |
n.边,边缘;v.接近,濒临 | |
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61 leverage | |
n.力量,影响;杠杆作用,杠杆的力量 | |
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62 butt | |
n.笑柄;烟蒂;枪托;臀部;v.用头撞或顶 | |
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63 granite | |
adj.花岗岩,花岗石 | |
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64 salmon | |
n.鲑,大马哈鱼,橙红色的 | |
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65 zealous | |
adj.狂热的,热心的 | |
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66 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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67 tugged | |
v.用力拉,使劲拉,猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68 rigid | |
adj.严格的,死板的;刚硬的,僵硬的 | |
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69 intensity | |
n.强烈,剧烈;强度;烈度 | |
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70 labor | |
n.劳动,努力,工作,劳工;分娩;vi.劳动,努力,苦干;vt.详细分析;麻烦 | |
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71 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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72 jaws | |
n.口部;嘴 | |
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73 virgin | |
n.处女,未婚女子;adj.未经使用的;未经开发的 | |
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74 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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75 dross | |
n.渣滓;无用之物 | |
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