I. In the Drain
STUART LITTLE
I. In the Drain
 
When Mrs. Frederick C. Little’s second son arrived, everybody noticed that he was not much bigger than a mouse. The truth of the matter was, the baby looked very much like a mouse in every way. He was only about two inches high; and he had a mouse’s sharp nose, a mouse’s tail, a mouse’s whiskers, and the pleasant, shy manner of a mouse. Before he was many days old he was not only looking like a mouse but acting like one, too—wearing a gray hat and carrying a small cane. Mr. and Mrs. Little named him Stuart, and Mr. Little made him a tiny bed out of four clothespins and a cigarette box.
Unlike most babies, Stuart could walk as soon as he was born. When he was a week old he could climb lamps by shinnying up the cord.
Mrs. Little saw right away that the infant clothes she had provided were unsuitable, and she set to work and made him a fine little blue worsted suit with patch pockets in which he could keep his handkerchief, his money, and his keys. Every morning, before Stuart dressed, Mrs. Little went into his room and weighed him on a small scale which was really meant for weighing letters. At birth Stuart could have been sent by first class mail for three cents, but his parents preferred to keep him rather than send him away; and when, at the age of a month, he had gained only a third of an ounce, his mother was so worried she sent for the doctor.
The doctor was delighted with Stuart and said that it was very unusual for an American family to have a mouse. He took Stuart’s temperature and found that it was 98.6, which is normal for a mouse. He also examined Stuart’s chest and heart and looked into his ears solemnly with a flashlight. (not every doctor can look into a mouse’s ear without laughing.) Everything seemed to be all right, and Mrs. Little was pleased to get such a good report.
“Feed him up!” said the doctor cheerfully, as he left.
The home of the Little family was a pleasant place near a park in New York City. In the mornings the sun streamed in through the east windows, and all the Littles were up early as a general rule. Stuart was a great help to his parents, and to his older brother George, because of his small size and because he could do things that a mouse can do and was agreeable about doing them. One day when Mrs. Little was washing out the bathtub after Mr. Little had taken a bath, she lost a ring off her finger and was horrified to discover that it had fallen down the drain.
“What had I better do?” she cried, trying to keep the tears back.
“If I were you,” said George, “I should bend a hairpin in the shape of a fishhook and tie it onto a piece of string and try to fish the ring out with it.” So Mrs. Little found a piece of string and a hairpin, and for about a half-hour she fished for the ring; but it was dark down the drain and the hook always seemed to catch on something before she could get it down to where the ring was.
“What luck?” inquired Mr. Little, coming into the bathroom.
“No luck at all,” said Mrs. Little. “The ring is so far down I can’t fish it up.”
“Why don’t we send Stuart down after it?” suggested Mr. Little. “How about it, Stuart, would you like to try.”
“Yes, I would,” Stuart replied, “but I think I’d better get into my old pants. I imagine it’s wet down there.”
“It’s all of that,” said George, who was a trifle annoyed that his hook idea hadn’t worked. So Stuart slipped into his old pants and prepared to go down the drain after the ring. He decided to carry the string along with him, leaving one end in charge of his father. “When I jerk three times on the string, pull me up,” he said. And while Mr. Little knelt in the tub, Stuart slid easily down the drain and was lost to view. In a minute or so, there came three quick jerks on the string, and Mr. Little carefully hauled it up. There, at the end, was Stuart, with the ring safely around his neck.
“Oh, my brave little son,” said Mrs. Little proudly, as she kissed Stuart and thanked him.
“How was it down there?” asked Mr. Little, who was always curious to know about places he had never been to.
“It was all right,” said Stuart.
But the truth was the drain had made him very slimy, and it was necessary for him to take a bath and sprinkle himself with a bit of his mother’s violet water before he felt himself again. Everybody in the family thought he had been awfully good about the whole thing.
1 在排水管里
 1 在排水管里
美国纽约有一位弗雷德里克•利特尔先生，他的第二个儿子一生下来，人人马上看到，这位小少爷比一只老鼠大不了多少。事实上，这个小宝宝不管从哪一方面看都活像一只老鼠。他只有两英寸左右高，长着老鼠的尖鼻子、老鼠的长尾巴、老鼠的八字须，而且有老鼠那种灵活、害羞的样子。没过多少天，他就不仅是样子像老鼠，连一举一动也像老鼠了——他头戴一顶灰帽子，手握一根小文明棍。利特尔先生和太太给他取了个名字叫斯图尔特，利特尔先生还用四个衣夹和一个香烟盒子给他做了张小床睡觉。
不像大多数小宝宝，斯图尔特生下来就会走路。一个星期，他已经能够爬着电灯拉绳上电灯了。利特尔太太马上看到，她原先准备好的婴儿衣服用不上了，于是动手给他做了一套蓝色呢子的漂亮小西装，上面有些个贴袋，让他用来放他的手绢、他的钱和他的钥匙。每天早晨斯图尔特穿衣服以前，利特尔太太走进他的房间，把他放在一个小天平上称一称体重，这把小天平实际上是用来称信的。斯图尔特一生下来，本可以花上三分邮票把他当第一类邮件寄走，但是他的爸爸妈妈舍不得寄走，情愿把他留下来。到了一个月大，他的体重也只有三分之一盎司（1盎司是28.35克，这么算下来是10克不到），他的妈妈太担心了，于是请医生来看他。
医生看到斯图尔特很高兴，说一个美国人家生下一只小老鼠是非常非常少有的事。他给斯图尔特量体温，量下来是华氏98.6度，对于一只老鼠来说，这种体温是正常的。他又检查了斯图尔特的心和胸，用手电筒认真地查看他的耳朵里面。（给老鼠看耳朵内部而不哈哈大笑，这不是每一位医生都能做到的。）一切看来正常没事，利特尔太太得到了这么棒的一份检查报告，心里十分高兴。
“把他好好养大吧！”医生临走的时候快活地说。
利特尔家是一个令人愉快的地方，在纽约市，靠近一个公园。每天早晨太阳从东边窗子照进来，利特尔一家人照例都起得早。斯图尔特对他的爸爸妈妈，对他的哥哥乔治都是个好帮手，因为他个子一点儿大，因为他能做老鼠所能做的事，再加上他很乐意做这些事。比方说有一天，利特尔先生洗完了澡，利特尔太太要把浴缸刷洗干净，这时候她的戒指从手指上掉了下来。发现它已经落到了排水管里，她真是吓坏了。
“我可怎么办好呢？”她叫起来，勉强忍住眼泪。
“如果我是你，”乔治说，“我就把一根夹发针弯成鱼钩样子，拴上一根线，把戒指从排水管里钓上来。”
于是利特尔太太找来一根线和一根夹发针，钓戒指钓了差不多半个钟头。但是下面排水管里黑咕隆咚的，她还没有把钩子放到下面戒指的地方，钩子老像被什么东西挂住了。
“运气好吗？”利特尔先生走进浴室问道。
“根本没有运气，”利特尔太太说。“戒指在下面太深了，我根本钓不上来。”
“我们为什么不让斯图尔特下去把它拿上来呢？”利特尔先生出了个主意。“怎么样，斯图尔特，你肯试试吗？”
“好，我肯，”斯图尔特回答说，“不过我想，我最好换条旧裤子，想来下面一定很湿。”
“全为了这个缘故，所以不顶用，”乔治说，他那个钩子计划没有成功，他有点生气。
就这样，斯图尔特穿上他的旧裤子，准备好下排水管去拿那只戒指。他决定沿着那根线下去，让爸爸在上面拿着线的一头。“我把线扯三下，你就把我拉上来，”他说。
利特尔先生跪在浴缸里，斯图尔特轻轻松松地滑下了排水管，看不见了。过了一分钟不到，线给很快地扯了三下，利特尔先生小心翼翼地把线拉上来。瞧，在下面线头上是斯图尔特，戒指稳稳当当地戴在他的脖子上。
“噢，我勇敢的小宝贝，”利特尔太太一面自豪地说，一面亲斯图尔特，并且感谢他。
“下面怎么样？”利特尔先生问道，他对自己从来没有去过的地方一向好奇。
“没什么，”斯图尔特说。
但事实上排水管弄得他浑身湿嗒嗒黏糊糊，他只好大大洗了个澡，再用妈妈的紫罗兰香水把全身喷了一通，才觉得自己又缓过气来。家里人人认为，在这整个事情上，他实实在在是棒极了。
II. Home Problems
II. Home Problems
Stuart was also helpful when it came to Ping-pong. The Littles liked Ping-pong, but the balls had a way of rolling under chairs, sofas, and radiators, and this meant that the players were forever stooping down and reaching under things. Stuart soon learned to chase balls, and it was a great sight to see him come out from under a hot radiator, pushing a Ping-pong ball with all his might, the perspiration rolling down his cheeks. The ball, of course, was almost as high as he was, and he had to throw his whole weight against it in order to keep it rolling.
The Littles had a grand piano in their living room, which was all right except that one of the keys was a sticky key and didn’t work properly. Mrs. Little said she thought it must be the damp weather, but I don’t see how it could be the damp weather, for the key had been sticking for about four years, during which time there had been many bright clear days. But anyway, the key stuck, and was a great inconvenience to anyone trying to play the piano. It bothered George particularly when he was playing the “Scarf Dance,” which was rather lively. It was George who had the idea of stationing Stuart inside the piano to push the key up the second it was played. This was no easy job for Stuart, as he had to crouch down between the felt hammers so that he wouldn’t get hit on the head. But Stuart liked it just the same: it was exciting inside the piano, dodging about, and the noise was quite terrific.
Sometimes after a long session he would emerge quite deaf, as though he had just stepped out of an airplane after a long journey; and it would be some little time before he really felt normal again. Mr. and Mrs. Little often discussed Stuart quietly between themselves when he wasn’t around, for they had never quite recovered from the shock and surprise of having a mouse in the family. He was so very tiny and he presented so many problems to his parents. Mr. Little said that, for one thing, there must be no references to “mice” in their conversation. He made Mrs. Little tear from the nursery songbook the page about the “Three Blind Mice, See How They Run.”
“I don’t want Stuart to get a lot of notions in his head,” said Mr. Little. “I should feel badly to have my son grow up fearing that a farmer’s wife was going to cut off his tail with a carving knife. It is such things that make children dream bad dreams when they go to bed at night.”
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Little, “and I think we had better start thinking about the poem “’Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.” I think it might embarrass Stuart to hear mice mentioned in such a belittling manner.”
“That’s right,” said her husband, “but what shall we say when we come to that line in the poem? We’ll have to say something. We can’t just say “’Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house not a creature was stirring.” That doesn’t sound complete; it needs a word to rhyme with house.”
“What about louse?” asked Mrs. Little.
“Or grouse,” said Mr. Little.
“I suggest souse,” remarked George, who had been listening to the conversation from across the room.
It was decided that louse was the best substitute for mouse, and so when Christmas came around Mrs. Little carefully rubbed out the word mouse from the poem and wrote in the word louse, and Stuart always thought that the poem went this way:
‘Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a louse.
The thing that worried Mr. Little most was the mousehole in the pantry. This hole had been made by some mice in the days before the Littles came to live in the house, and nothing had been done about stopping it up. Mr. Little was not at all sure that he understood Stuart’s real feeling about a mousehole. He didn’t know where the hole led to, and it made him uneasy to think that Stuart might some day feel the desire to venture into it.
“After all, he does look a good deal like a mouse,” said Mr. Little to his wife. “And I’ve never seen a mouse yet that didn’t like to go into a hole.”
2 家庭问题
2 家庭问题
讲到打乒乓，斯图尔特也是很有用的。利特尔一家人爱打乒乓，可乒乓球老是滚到椅子底下，滚到沙发底下，滚到暖气管底下，这样，打乒乓的人就老是要弯下腰，把手伸到那些东西底下去把球摸到并拿出来。斯图尔特很快就学会了一身追逐乒乓球的本领，看到他用全身力气推着一个乒乓球从暖气管底下出来，汗水滚下他的脸颊，那真是一大奇观。乒乓球自然跟他人几乎一样高，他得用尽全身力气顶住它，好让它一直往前滚。
利特尔家的客厅里有一架大钢琴，这架钢琴很好，就是有一个琴键容易卡住，弹起来就不大对头。利特尔太太说，她认为这一定是天气潮湿的缘故，不过我看不出怎么会跟天气潮湿搭界，因为这个琴键容易卡住都差不多有四年了，在这四年里，真是有过许许多多阳光明媚的日子。但是不管怎么说，这琴键是容易卡住，不管谁弹这个钢琴都觉得不顺溜。碰到乔治弹《头巾舞》，这件事特别让他恼火，《头巾舞》这首曲子可是十分轻快的。也正是这位乔治，他想出了一个主意，让斯图尔特钻到钢琴里去，一弹到这个琴键，他就把它往上一推。不过这件事对斯图尔特来说可不好办，因为他得在贴毡布的音槌之间蹲下来，好不让脑袋给敲着。不过斯图尔特还是喜欢这个活儿：在钢琴里面很刺激，得躲躲闪闪，声音响起来够吓人的。有时候，过了很长一段时间出来，他简直什么也听不见了，就像长途旅行以后，从飞机里刚走出来的时候那样，要过好一会儿工夫，他的听觉才能真正恢复正常。
利特尔先生和太太在斯图尔特不在旁边的时候，常常悄悄商量他的事，因为家里生下了这么一只小老鼠，他们不免感到震惊，总不能完全恢复过来。他小成这样，却已经给他的爸爸妈妈带来了那么多问题。利特尔先生说，就讲一件事吧，在他们的说话当中怎么也不可以提到“老鼠”这个字眼。他要利特尔太太把幼儿歌曲集里那首《三只瞎老鼠，看看它们怎样跑》撕掉。
“我不要斯图尔特在他的脑瓜里有许多想法，”利特尔先生说。“我的儿子大起来会害怕一个农妇要用切肉刀斩掉他的尾巴，这件事我想想就觉得难过。就是这些事情让孩子们晚上睡觉做噩梦。”
“对，”利特尔太太回答说，“我想我们最好这就开始考虑考虑那首诗，那首‘圣诞节前夜整座房屋，所有生物都不响动了，甚至包括老鼠’。我想，斯图尔特听到用这样轻蔑的腔调谈老鼠，他会觉得难受的。”
“一点不错，”她的丈夫说，“可是我们读到这首诗的这一行，我们该说什么呢？我们好歹得说点什么啊。我们不能只是说：‘圣诞节前夜整座房屋，所有生物都不响动了。’这听上去没完，得有个字眼跟‘房屋’押韵。”
“改用‘壁虎’怎么样？”利特尔太太问。
“或者改用‘鹧鸪’，”利特尔先生说。
“我认为改用‘酒徒’好，”在隔壁房间听他们说话的乔治说。
最后决定，用“壁虎”来代替老鼠最好，因此当圣诞节快到的时候，利特尔太太小心地擦掉诗里老鼠这个字眼，填进了“壁虎”，斯图尔特一直以为，这首诗本来就是这样的：
圣诞节前夜整座房屋，
所有生物都不响动了，甚至包括壁虎。
最让利特尔先生担心的还是储藏室那个老鼠洞。利特尔家还没搬进这房子，这个洞就已经让一些老鼠啃出来了，以后也没有把它给堵上。利特尔先生实在不敢说他了解斯图尔特对老鼠洞的真正感觉。他不知道这老鼠洞会闹出什么事来，想到斯图尔特有一天会觉得很想冒险钻进去看看，他就浑身不舒服了。
“他到底十分像只老鼠，”利特尔先生对他的太太说。“我还从来没有见过一只老鼠不想钻进老鼠洞的。”
III. Washing Up
III. Washing Up
Stuart was an early riser: he was almost always the first person up in the morning. He liked the feeling of being the first one stirring; he enjoyed the quiet rooms with the books standing still on the shelves, the pale light coming in through the windows, and the fresh smell of day. In wintertime it would be quite dark when he climbed from his bed made out of the cigarette box, and he sometimes shivered with cold as he stood in his nightgown doing his exercises. (stuart touched his toes ten times every morning to keep himself in good condition. He had seen his brother George do it, and George had explained that it kept the stomach muscles firm and was a fine abdominal thing to do.)
After exercising, Stuart would slip on his handsome wool wrapper, tie the cord tightly around his waist, and start for the bathroom, creeping silently through the long dark hall past his mother’s and father’s room, past the hall closet where the carpet sweeper was kept, past George’s room, and along by the head of the stairs till he got to the bathroom.
Of course, the bathroom would be dark, too, but Stuart’s father had thoughtfully tied a long string to the pull-chain of the light. The string reached clear to the floor. By grasping it as high up as he could and throwing his whole weight on it, Stuart was able to turn on the light. Swinging on the string this way, with his long bathrobe trailing around his ankles, he looked like a little old friar pulling the bellrope in an abbey.
To get to the washbasin, Stuart had to climb a tiny rope ladder which his father had fixed for him.
George had promised to build Stuart a small special washbasin only one inch high andwitha little rubber tube through which water would flow; but George was always saying that he was going to build something and then forgetting about it. Stuart just went ahead and climbed the rope ladder to the family washbasin every morning to wash his face and hands and brush his teeth. Mrs. Little had provided him with a doll’s size toothbrush, a doll’s size cake of soap, a doll’s size washcloth, and a doll’s comb—which he used for combing his whiskers. He carried these things in his bathrobe pocket, and when he reached the top of the ladder he took them out, laid them neatly in a row, and set about the task of turning the water on. For such a small fellow, turning the water on was quite a problem.
He had discussed it with his father one day after making several unsuccessful attempts.
“I can get up onto the faucet all right,” he explained, “but I can’t seem to turn it on, because I have nothing to brace my feet against.”
“Yes, I know,” his father replied, “that’s the whole trouble.”
George, who always listened to conversations whenever he could, said that in his opinion they ought to construct a brace for Stuart; and with that he got out some boards, a saw, a hammer, a screw driver, a brad-awl, and some nails, and started to make a terrific fuss in the bathroom, building what he said was going to be a brace for Stuart. But he soon became interested in something else and disappeared, leaving the tools lying around all over the bathroom floor.
Stuart, after examining this mess, turned to his father again. “Maybe I could pound the faucet with something and turn it on that way,” he said.
So Stuart’s father provided him with a very small, light hammer made of wood; and Stuart found that by swinging it three times around his head and letting it come down with a crash against the handle of the faucet, he could start a thin stream of water flowing—enough to brush his teeth in, anyway, and moisten his washcloth. So every morning, after climbing to the basin, he would seize his hammer and pound the faucet, and the other members of the household, dozing in their beds, would hear the bright sharp plink plink plink of Stuart’s hammer, like a faraway blacksmith, telling them that day had come and that Stuart was trying to brush his teeth.
3 洗脸的烦恼
3 洗脸的烦恼
斯图尔特起床起得早，早晨几乎总是他第一个起来。他喜欢第一个醒来的那种感觉。他欣赏安静的房间，书静静地插在架子上，苍白的亮光从窗子照进来，有一股白天的新鲜气息。冬天里，他从他那张香烟盒子做的床上爬出来的时候，天还很黑，穿着他那件睡袍做早操，有时候他冷得直哆嗦。（斯图尔特每天早晨要弯腰用手碰脚趾十次，好让身材苗条。他看见过哥哥乔治这样做，乔治告诉他，这样做可以保持腹肌结实，是一种很好的腹部锻炼。）
做完早操，斯图尔特套上他好看的羊毛套衫，在腰上紧紧缚上带子，悄悄穿过还很黑的长过道，经过他妈妈和爸爸的房间，经过存放地毯拍子的过道壁橱，经过乔治的房间，经过楼梯口，来到浴室那里。
浴室自然也很黑，不过斯图尔特的爸爸想得周到，在电灯的开关链子上接上了一根长线。线一直拖到地面。斯图尔特在线上有多高抓多高，用整个身体拽住它，这样就能开亮电灯了。他这样在线上荡过来荡过去，睡袍的长下摆包住他的脚脖子，那样子真像一个修道院里抓住钟绳敲钟的小老头修道士。
为了够到洗脸盆，斯图尔特得攀登一道很细的绳梯，这当然也是他爸爸特地为他装的。哥哥乔治曾经答应过，说要给斯图尔特特制一个专门的小洗脸盆，只有一英寸高，装一根小橡皮管，让水从它里面流出来。不过乔治就是这么个人，总是嘴里说要做什么什么，到头来忘了个干干净净。斯图尔特还是照旧每天早晨攀登他的绳梯，爬到一家人公用的洗脸盆那里去洗脸洗手刷牙。利特尔太太给他准备了洋娃娃牙刷大小的牙刷，洋娃娃肥皂大小的肥皂，洋娃娃毛巾大小的毛巾，洋娃娃梳子大小的梳子——他要用它来梳他的胡子。他把这些东西都放在睡袍的口袋里，到了绳梯顶上，他把它们拿出来，整齐地放成一排，然后动手做旋开水龙头那个繁重的工作。像他那么小，旋开水龙头可就是个大问题了。有一天，他旋了几次都旋不开水龙头以后，跟他的爸爸商量过这个问题。
“我站到水龙头上面去没问题，”他解释说，“可是我没有办法旋开它，因为我没有东西可以撑脚。”
“对，我明白，”他爸爸回答说，“整个麻烦就在这里。”
一有机会总爱听别人谈话的乔治说，他认为应该给斯图尔特做一个架子用来撑脚。说着，他拿来了木板、锯子、锤子、螺丝刀、打眼钻和钉子。接着他在浴室里乒乒乓乓弄得震天价响，做他所谓给斯图尔特做的撑脚架子。可是一转眼工夫，他又被别的什么东西吸引去了，一下子无影无踪，丢下了那些工具在浴室地板上到处都是。
斯图尔特把这些乱七八糟的东西看了一遍，又向爸爸转过身来。“也许我能用一样什么东西敲打水龙头把手，把水龙头旋开，”他说。
于是斯图尔特的爸爸给他找来了一个非常小、非常轻的木头槌子。斯图尔特发现，只要挥动这木头槌子，把它在头顶上大转三圈，然后让它啪的一声落到水龙头的把手上，他就能够让很细的一道水流下来——足够让他刷牙和冲洗他的毛巾。就这样，每天早晨他爬上洗脸盆以后，一把抓住那个木头槌子就敲打那个水龙头，这时候，家里还在床上睡觉的其他成员，就可以听到斯图尔特那个木头槌子砰，砰，砰 的清亮响声，就像远处铁匠在打铁，这告诉他们，天亮了，斯图尔特要刷他的牙了。
IV. Exercise
IV. Exercise
One fine morning in the month of May when Stuart was three years old, he arose early as was his custom, washed and dressed himself, took his hat and cane, and went downstairs into the living room to see what was doing. Nobody was around but Snowbell, the white cat belonging to Mrs. Little. Snowbell was another early riser, and this morning he was lying on the rug in the middle of the room, thinking about the days when he was just a kitten.
“Good morning,” said Stuart.
“Hello,” replied Snowbell, sharply.
“You’re up early, aren’t you?”
Stuart looked at his watch. “Yes,” he said, “it’s only five minutes past six, but I felt good and I thought I’d come down and get a little exercise.”
“I should think you’d get all the exercise you want up there in the bathroom, banging around, waking all the rest of us up trying to get that water started so you can brush your teeth. Your teeth aren’t really big enough to brush anyway. Want to see a good set? Look at mine!” Snowbell opened his mouth and showed two rows of gleaming white teeth, sharp as needles.
“Very nice,” said Stuart. “But mine are all right, too, even though they’re small. As for exercise, I take all I can get. I bet my stomach muscles are firmer than yours.”
“I bet they’re not,” said the cat.
“I bet they are,” said Stuart. “They’re like iron bands.”
“I bet they’re not,” said the cat.
Stuart glanced around the room to see what he could do to prove to Snowbell what good stomach muscles he had. He spied the drawn window shade on the east window, with its shade cord and ring, like a trapeze, and it gave him an idea. Climbing to the windowsill he took off his hat and laid down his cane.
“You can’t do this,” he said to the cat. And he ran and jumped onto the ring, the way acrobats do in a circus, meaning to pull himself up.
A surprising thing happened. Stuart had taken such a hard jump that it started the shade: with a loud snap the shade flew up clear to the top of the window, dragging Stuart along with it and rolling him up inside, so that he couldn’t budge.
“Holy mackerel!” said Snowbell, who was almost as surprised as Stuart Little. “I guess that will teach him to show off his muscles.”
“Help! Let me out!” cried Stuart, who was frightened and bruised inside the rolled-up shade, and who could hardly breathe. But his voice was so weak that nobody heard. Snowbell just chuckled. He was not fond of Stuart and it didn’t bother him at all that Stuart was all wrapped up in a window shade, crying and hurt and unable to get out. Instead of running upstairs and telling Mr. and Mrs. Little about the accident, Snowbell did a very curious thing. He glanced around to see if anybody was looking, then he leapt softly to the window sill, picked up Stuart’s hat and cane in his mouth, carried them to the pantry and laid them down at the entrance to the mousehole.
When Mrs. Little came down later and found them there, she gave a shrill scream which brought everybody on the run.
“It’s happened,” she cried.
“What has?” asked her husband.
“Stuart’s down the mousehole.”
4 练身体
4 练身体
转眼斯图尔特已经三岁。五月里一个明媚的早晨，他照例一早起床，洗过脸，穿好衣服，拿起帽子和文明棍，下楼来到客厅，想看看有什么动静。客厅里一个人也没有，只有野茉莉在那里，野茉莉是属于利特尔太太的一只猫，它是另一位爱早起的。这天早晨，它正躺在房间当中的地毯上，回想它还是只小猫咪时候的往日时光。
“你早，”斯图尔特说。
“你早，”野茉莉尖声回答说。“你起来得很早不是？”
斯图尔特看看手表。“没错，”他说，“才六点零五分，不过我觉得很好，想下来稍稍练练身体。”
“我可是想，你在楼上浴室里都已经练了一通身体了，乒零乓啷，为了弄到点水刷你的牙，你把我们大家全都吵醒了。其实你的牙还没有大到要去刷它们的地步。你要看看一副好牙吗？瞧我的吧！”野茉莉说着张开它的嘴，露出两排闪闪发亮的白牙齿，它们像针那么尖。
“很漂亮，”斯图尔特说。“不过我的也不错，尽管它们是小了点。至于练身体嘛，能练什么我练什么。我打赌我的腹肌比你的结实。”
“我打赌它们没有我的结实，”猫说。
“我打赌它们更结实，”斯图尔特说。“它们像铁箍一样。”
“我打赌它们不像铁箍一样，”猫说。
斯图尔特朝房间四下里张望，看有什么办法可以向野茉莉证明他的腹肌有多么棒。他一下子看到东边窗子那拉了下来的遮阳卷帘，它的拉绳和拉环挂下来活像一个高空秋千，这给了他一个好主意。他爬上窗台，摘下帽子，放下了文明棍。
“这你可办不到，”他对猫说。说时迟那时快，他已经跑起来，向上面那个拉环猛地一跳，就跟马戏班的杂技演员一样，要让自己吊在那里。
可意料不到的事情发生了。斯图尔特跳得太用力，这一跳让卷帘动了起来；它很响地劈里啪拉一直卷到窗顶，把斯图尔特一块儿拉了上去，还把他卷在里面，害得他连动也没法动。
“神圣的鲭鱼啊！”几乎和斯图尔特同样吃惊的野茉莉叫道。“他要卖弄他的肌肉，我想这可以给他一个教训。”
“救命啊！放我出来，”斯图尔特拼命大叫，他在卷起来的卷帘里面又害怕，又给压紧，都快透不出气来了。但是他的声音太小，没有人能够听见。野茉莉只是咯咯笑。它不喜欢斯图尔特，斯图尔特整个人给卷在卷帘里，哇哇大叫，又给压痛又没法出来，它一点儿也不在乎。它不是马上奔上楼去告诉利特尔先生和太太出事了，反而做了一件极其古怪的事。它先朝四周瞧瞧是不是有人在看，然后轻轻地跳上窗台，用嘴叼起斯图尔特的帽子和文明棍，带着它们走进贮藏室，把它们放在老鼠洞的洞口。
等到利特尔太太过了一会儿下楼来，在那里找到了它们，她尖厉地大叫一声，把大家都引下楼来了。
“这件事终于发生了，”她叫道。
“什么事发生了？”他的先生问。
“斯图尔特到老鼠洞里面去了。”
V. Rescued
V. Rescued
George was in favor of ripping up the pantry floor. He ran and got his hammer, his screw driver, and an ice pick.
“I’ll have this old floor up in double-quick time,” he said, inserting his screw driver under the edge of the first board and giving a good vigorous pry.
“We will not rip up this floor till we have had a good search,” announced Mr. Little. “That’s final, George! You can put that hammer away where you got it.”
“Oh, all right,” said George. “I see that nobody in this house cares anything about Stuart but me.”
Mrs. Little began to cry. “My poor dear little son!” she said. “I know he’ll get wedged somewhere.”
“Just because you can’t travel comfortably in a mousehole doesn’t mean that it isn’t a perfectly suitable place for Stuart,” said Mr. Little. “Just don’t get yourself all worked up.”
“Maybe we ought to lower some food to him,” suggested George. “That’s what the State Police did when a man got stuck in a cave.” George darted into the kitchen and came running back with a dish of applesauce. “We can pour some of this in, and it will run down to where he is.” George spooned out a bit of the applesauce and started to poke it into the hole.
“Stop that!” bellowed Mr. Little. “George, will you kindly let me handle this situation? Put that applesauce away immediately!”
Mr. Little glared fiercely at George.
“I was just trying to help my own brother,” said George, shaking his head as he carried the sauce back to the kitchen.
“Let’s all call to Stuart,” suggested Mrs. Little. “It is quite possible that the mousehole branches and twists about, and that he has lost his way.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Little. “I will count three, then we will all call, then we will all keep perfectly quiet for three seconds, listening for the answer.” He took out his watch.
Mr. and Mrs. Little and George got down on their hands and knees and put their mouths as close as possible to the mousehole. Then they all called: “Stooooo-art!” And then they all kept perfectly still for three seconds.
Stuart, from his cramped position inside the rolled-up shade, heard them yelling in the pantry and called back, “Here I am!” But he had such a weak voice and was so far inside the shade that the other members of the family did not hear his answering cry.
“Again!” said Mr. Little. “One, two, three-Stooooo-art!”
It was no use. No answer was heard. Mrs. Little went up to her bedroom, lay down, and sobbed. Mr. Little went to the telephone and called up the Bureau of Missing Persons, but when the man asked for a description of Stuart and was told that he was only two inches high, he hung up in disgust. George meantime went down cellar and hunted around to see if he could find the other entrance to the mousehole. He moved a great many trunks, suitcases, flower pots, baskets, boxes, and broken chairs from one end of the cellar to the other in order to get at the section of wall which he thought was likeliest, but found no hole. He did, however, come across an old discarded rowing machine of Mr. Little’s, and becoming interested in this, carried it upstairs with some difficulty and spent the rest of the morning rowing.
When lunchtime came (everybody had forgotten about breakfast) all three sat down to a lamb stew which Mrs. Little had prepared, but it was a sad meal, each one trying not to stare at the small empty chair which Stuart always occupied, right next to Mrs. Little’s glass of water. No one could eat, so great was the sorrow. George ate a bit of dessert but nothing else. When lunch was over Mrs. Little broke out crying again, and said she thought Stuart must be dead. “Nonsense, nonsense!” growled Mr. Little.
“If he is dead,” said George, “we ought to pull down the shades all through the house.” And he raced to the windows and began pulling down the shades.
“George!” shouted Mr. Little in an exasperated tone, “if you don’t stop acting in an idiotic fashion, I will have to punish you.
We are having enough trouble today without having to cope with your foolishness.”
But George had already run into the living room and had begun to darken it, to show his respect for the dead. He pulled a cord and out dropped Stuart onto the window sill.
“Well, for the love of Pete,” said George. “Look who’s here, Mom!”
“It’s about time somebody pulled down that shade,” remarked Stuart. “That’s all I can say.” He was quite weak and hungry.
Mrs. Little was so overjoyed to see him that she kept right on crying. Of course, everybody wanted to know how it had happened.
“It was simply an accident that might happen to anybody,” said Stuart. “As for my hat and cane being found at the entrance to the mousehole, you can draw your own conclusions.”
5 斯图尔特得救
5 斯图尔特得救
哥哥乔治主张把贮藏室的地板全部撬起来。他还跑去拿来了他的锤子、螺丝刀和一把碎冰锥。
“我把这旧地板撬起来轻而易举，加倍地快，”他说着就把他的螺丝刀插进手边第一块地板，狠狠地撬。
“我们不撬地板，先好好地搜查一遍，”利特尔先生宣布说。“就这句话，乔治！哪儿弄来的锤子，你可以把它放回哪里去。”
“噢，那好吧，”乔治说。“我看这家里除了我，没有人有一点儿关心斯图尔特。”
利特尔太太开始哭了。“我可怜的宝贝小乖乖！”她说。“我知道他一定夹在什么地方了。”
“你自己不能在老鼠洞里舒舒服服地走来走去，这并不等于它对斯图尔特就不是一个完全合适的地方，”利特尔先生说。“就是请你不要激动。”
“也许我们应该吊一些吃的东西下去给他，”乔治又出主意了。“有人困在洞里出不来，州警察就是这么干的。”乔治说着奔进厨房，又端着一碟苹果酱奔着回来。“我们可以把这个倒下去，它会流到他待着的地方。”乔治用匙子舀起一点苹果酱，就要把它往老鼠洞里倒。
“住手！”利特尔先生大叫。“乔治，谢谢你让我处理这件事情好不好？马上给我把苹果酱拿走！”
利特尔先生狠狠地看看乔治。
“我只是想帮我亲弟弟的忙，”乔治说，一面把苹果酱拿回厨房，一面大摇其头。
“让我们大家来一起叫唤斯图尔特吧，”利特尔太太建议说。“很可能是这老鼠洞有岔路，绕来绕去，于是他迷路了。”
“非常好，”利特尔先生说。“我数到三，我们大家一起叫，然后我们保持绝对静默三秒钟，仔细听他的回答。”他拿出他的挂表。
利特尔先生和太太加上乔治，三个人用手用脚趴在老鼠洞前面，把他们的嘴尽量靠近洞口。接着他们异口同声地叫：“斯——图——尔——特！”接下来他们全都保持绝对静默三秒钟。
斯图尔特给压紧在卷起来的卷帘里，听到了他们在贮藏室里叫他，于是回答说：“我在这里！”可是他声音太小，又是卷在卷帘里，这家人的其他成员也就听不见他回答的叫声了。
“再来一次！”利特尔先生说。“一，二，三，斯——图——尔——特！”
没有用。听不到回答的声音。
利特尔太太回到她的卧室，躺下来就哭。
利特尔先生走到电话机旁边，打电话给寻人处。但是电话里请他讲一讲斯图尔特的特征，那人一听说斯图尔特只有两英寸高，就生气地把电话挂断了。
这时候乔治来到下面地下室，东找西找，看那儿有没有其他进口可以到老鼠洞里去。他把许多箱子、手提包、花盆、篮子、盒子和破椅子从地下室的一头搬到它的另一头，好来到他认为极有可能有老鼠洞的墙边，可是他没找到老鼠洞，倒真给他碰上了利特尔先生一个丢掉不用的旧划船练习架。他不禁对它大感兴趣，很花了点力气把它搬到楼上去，上午余下来的时间，他就在那里划啊划啊划个不停。
到了吃中饭时候（大家全把吃早饭的事给忘了），三个人面对着利特尔太太做的炖羊肉坐下来。可是这顿饭吃得惨极了，个个都尽力不去看斯图尔特平时坐的那张空着的微型椅子，它就在利特尔太太一玻璃杯水旁边。没有人吃得下，太伤心了。乔治只吃了一丁点儿甜食，别的东西一点都没碰。中饭吃完，利特尔太太又放声哭起来，说她想斯图尔特一定已经不在人世了。
“胡说八道，胡说八道！”利特尔先生咆哮说。
“如果他是死了，”乔治说，“我们应该把整个屋子里的窗帘全都拉下来。”他说着跑到窗子那里去要拉下窗帘。
“乔治！”利特尔先生用气急败坏的声音大叫。“你再不停止你那种白痴做法，我非处罚你不可。就算不对付你那种愚蠢行为，我们今天的麻烦也已经够多的了。”
但是乔治已经跑进客厅，开始要使它暗下来以表示对死者的哀悼。他把一根拉绳往下一拉，斯图尔特跌出来，扑通，落到窗台上了。
“哎呀，看在上帝分上，”乔治说，“瞧瞧这是谁，妈妈！”
“也是时候，该有人拉下卷帘了，”斯图尔特说。“我只有这句话。”他又软弱又肚子饿。
利特尔太太一看见他，大喜过望，干脆大哭下去。当然，大家都想知道这到底是怎么一回事。
“这只是一个意外事故，在任何人身上都可能发生的，”斯图尔特说。“至于我的帽子和文明棍会在老鼠洞洞口被找到，你们可以作出你们自己的结论。”
VI. A Fair Breeze
VI. A Fair Breeze
One morning when the wind was from the west, Stuart put on his sailor suit and his sailor hat, took his spyglass down from the shelf, and set out for a walk, full of the joy of life and the fear of dogs. With a rolling gait he sauntered along toward Fifth Avenue, keeping a sharp lookout.
Whenever he spied a dog through his glass, Stuart would hurry to the nearest doorman, climb his trouserleg, and hide in the tails of his uniform. And once, when no doorman was handy, he had to crawl into a yesterday’s paper and roll himself up in the second section till danger was past.
At the corner of Fifth Avenue there were several people waiting for the uptown bus, and Stuart joined them. Nobody noticed him, because he wasn’t tall enough to be noticed.
“I’m not tall enough to be noticed,” thought Stuart, “yet I’m tall enough to want to go to Seventy-second Street.”
When the bus came into view, all the men waved their canes and brief cases at the driver, and Stuart waved his spyglass. Then, knowing that the step of the bus would be too high for him, Stuart seized hold of the cuff of a gentleman’s pants and was swung aboard without any trouble or inconvenience whatever.
Stuart never paid any fare on buses, because he wasn’t big enough to carry an ordinary dime. The only time he had ever attempted to carry a dime, he had rolled the coin along like a hoop while he raced along beside it; but it had got away from him on a hill and had been snatched up by an old woman with no teeth. After that experience Stuart contented himself with the tiny coins which his father made for him out of tin foil. They were handsome little things, although rather hard to see without putting on your spectacles.
When the conductor came around to collect the fares, Stuart fished in his purse and pulled out a coin no bigger than the eye of a grasshopper.
“What’s that you’re offering me?” asked the conductor.
“It’s one of my dimes,” said Stuart.
“Is it, now?” said the conductor. “Well, I’d have a fine time explaining that to the bus company. Why, you’re no bigger than a dime yourself.”
“Yes I am,” replied Stuart angrily. “I’m more than twice as big as a dime. A dime only comes up to here on me.” And Stuart pointed to his hip. “Furthermore,” he added, “I didn’t come on this bus to be insulted.”
“I beg pardon,” said the conductor. “You’ll have to forgive me, for I had no idea that in all the world there was such a small sailor.”
“Live and learn,” muttered Stuart, tartly, putting his change purse back in his pocket.
When the bus stopped at Seventy-second
Street, Stuart jumped out and hurried across to the sailboat pond in Central Park. Over the pond the west wind blew, and into the teeth of the west wind sailed the sloops and schooners, their rails well down, their wet decks gleaming. The owners, boys and grown men, raced around the cement shores hoping to arrive at the other side in time to keep the boats from bumping. Some of the toy boats were not as small as you might think, for when you got close to them you found that their mainmast was taller than a man’s head, and they were beautifully made, with everything shipshape and ready for sea. To Stuart they seemed enormous, and he hoped he would be able to get aboard one of them and sail away to the far corners of the pond. (he was an adventurous little fellow and loved the feel of the breeze in his face and the cry of the gulls overhead and the heave of the great swell under him.)
As he sat cross-legged on the wall that surrounds the pond, gazing out at the ships through his spyglass, Stuart noticed one boat that seemed to him finer and prouder than any other. Her name was Wasp. She was a big, black schooner flying the American flag. She had a clipper bow, and on her foredeck was mounted a three-inch cannon. She’s the ship for me, thought Stuart. And the next time she sailed in, he ran over to where she was being turned around.
“Excuse me, sir,” said Stuart to the man who was turning her, “but are you the owner of the schooner Wasp?”
“I am,” replied the man, surprised to be addressed by a mouse in a sailor suit.
“I’m looking for a berth in a good ship,” continued Stuart, “and I thought perhaps you might sign me on. I’m strong and I’m quick.”
“Are you sober?” asked the owner of the Wasp.
“I do my work,” said Stuart, crisply.
The man looked sharply at him. He couldn’t help admiring the trim appearance and bold manner of this diminutive seafaring character.
“Well,” he said at length, pointing the prow of the Wasp out toward the center of the pond, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do with you. You see that big racing sloop out there?”
“I do,” said Stuart.
“That’s the Lillian B. Womrath,” said the man, “and I hate her with all my heart.”
“Then so do I,” cried Stuart, loyally.
“I hate her because she is always bumping into my boat,” continued the man, “and because her owner is a lazy boy who doesn’t understand sailing and who hardly knows a squall from a squid.”
“Or a jib from a jibe,” cried Stuart.
“Or a luff from a leech,” bellowed the man.
“Or a deck from a dock,” screamed Stuart.
“Or a mast from a mist,” yelled the man.
“But hold on, now, no more of this! I’ll tell you what we’ll do. The Lillian B. Womrath has always been able to beat the Wasp sailing, but I believe that if my schooner were properly handled it would be a different story. Nobody knows how I suffer, standing here on shore, helpless, watching the Wasp blunder along, when all she needs is a steady hand on her helm. So, my young friend, I’ll let you sail the Wasp across the pond and back, and if you can beat that detestable sloop I’ll give you a regular job.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” said Stuart, swinging himself aboard the schooner and taking his place at the wheel. “Ready about!”
“One moment,” said the man. “Do you mind telling me how you propose to beat the other boat?”
“I intend to crack on more sail,” said Stuart.
“Not in my boat, thank you,” replied the man quickly. “I don’t want you capsizing in a squall.”
“Well, then,” said Stuart, “I’ll catch the sloop broad on, and rake her with fire from my forward gun.”
“Foul means!” said the man. “I want this to be a boat race, not a naval engagement.”
“Well, then,” said Stuart cheerfully, “I’ll sail the Wasp straight and true, and let the Lillian B. Womrath go yawing all over the pond.”
“Bravo!” cried the man, “and good luck go with you!” And so saying, he let go of the Wasp’s prow. A puff of air bellied out the schooner’s headsails and she paid off and filled away on the port tack, heeling gracefully over to the breeze while Stuart twirled her wheel and braced himself against a deck cleat.
“By the by,” yelled the man, “you haven’t told me your name.”
“Name is Stuart Little,” called Stuart at the top of his lungs. “I’m the second son of Frederick C. Little, of this city.”
“Bon voyage, Stuart,” hollered his friend, “take care of yourself and bring the Wasp home safe.”
“That I will,” shouted Stuart. And he was so proud and happy, he let go of the wheel for a second and did a little dance on the sloping deck, never noticing how narrowly he escaped hitting a tramp steamer that was drifting in his path, with her engines disabled and her decks awash.
6 顺风
6 顺风
一天早晨吹西风，斯图尔特穿上水手装，戴上水手帽，从架子上拿下他的小型望远镜，动身出门散步，心中充满着对生活的喜悦，也充满着对狗的恐惧。他走着水手那种摇摇摆摆的步子，沿着第五街漫步，一路上密切提防着。
斯图尔特透过他的望远镜，一看到有狗，赶紧跑到最近一个看门人那里，爬上他的裤腿，躲在他的制服下摆里面。不过有一回，附近没有看门人，他只好爬进一份隔夜报纸，把自己卷在第二栏里，直到危险过去为止。
在第五街的拐角，有好几个人正在等公共汽车要离开闹市区，斯图尔特也挤到了他们中间。没有人注意到他，因为他还没有高到可以让人注意到他。
“我还没有高到可以让人注意到我，”斯图尔特心里说，“不过我已经高到可以上第七十二街了。”
公共汽车一来，所有的人向司机挥动他们手里的手杖和公文包，斯图尔特也挥动他手里的望远镜。接下来，斯图尔特知道公共汽车的踏级对他来说太高，他一把抓住一位先生的裤子翻边，毫不困难，也没什么不方便，就给甩上了车。
斯图尔特坐公共汽车从来不付车钱，只因为他还没有大到可以在身上带上一个普通的硬币。他只试过一次带上一个硬币，却只好像滚铁环一样，让这硬币自己滚着走，他在它旁边拼命地跑；结果在一个坡上，这硬币离开了他，被一位没牙的老太太捡去了。有过这件事以后，斯图尔特只好满足于带一些微型硬币，是他爸爸用锡箔做给他的。这是些好看的小玩意儿，只是不戴上眼镜不大容易看见它们。
售票员一路过来收车钱，斯图尔特掏他的钱包，拿出一个这种不比蚱蜢眼睛大的硬币。
“你给我的是什么玩意儿啊？”售票员问道。
“是我的一个十分钱硬币，”斯图尔特说。
“是吗？”售票员说。“我回去还得向公共汽车公司解释好半天呢。老实说，你本人并不比一个硬币大。”
“不对，我比一个硬币大，”斯图尔特生气地回答。“我比两个硬币还大一点。一个硬币只到我这里。”斯图尔特说着指住他的臀部。“再说，”他加上一句，“我上这公共汽车不是来受人污辱的。”
“对不起，”售票员说。“务必请你原谅，因为我想不到世界上有那么小的水手。”
“活到老学到老嘛，”斯图尔特咕噜了一声，狠狠地把他放零钱的钱包放回衣袋里去。
公共汽车到了第七十二街停下来，斯图尔特跳下车，急急忙忙到中央公园放模型帆船的水池去。水池上吹着西风，单桅帆船和纵帆船驶进西风吹起的浪里，它们的船栏倾斜着，湿漉漉的甲板上闪闪发亮。放这些帆船的男孩和大人绕着水池的水泥岸边飞跑，希望及时赶到水池的另一头，不让帆船撞到堤岸上。有一些模型帆船并不像你可能想的那么小，等到你靠近它们，你就会发现它们的主桅杆比一个人的头还高，它们造得很漂亮，一切都和真船一样，甚至可以到海上航行。在斯图尔特看来，它们就更是奇大无比了，他希望能登上其中一艘，把它驾驶到水池的四面八方去。（他是个爱冒险的小家伙，喜欢微风拂脸、海鸥在头顶上叫唤和身体下面大浪起伏的那种感觉。）
当他架着二郎腿，坐在围住水池的堤上，透过他的望远镜眺望帆船的时候，他注意到有一艘帆船在他眼里比其他任何一艘都漂亮，都神气。这艘帆船的名字叫黄蜂号，是一艘黑色的大纵帆船，飘着美国国旗。它有一个快速帆船的流线型船头，前甲板架着一门三英寸的大炮。斯图尔特想：“这帆船正中我的意。”接着帆船驶了过来，他马上向它要掉头的地方跑去。
“对不起，先生，”斯图尔特向正要把它掉头的一个大人说，“这艘黄蜂号纵帆船是你的吗？”
“是我的，”那人回答说，同时觉得惊讶，招呼他的竟是一只穿着水手装的老鼠。
“我正在物色一艘好船要找个活儿干，”斯图尔特接下去说，“我想，你也许能雇用我吧？我身体强壮，动作敏捷。”
“你不酗酒吧？”黄蜂号的主人问道。
“我干好我的工作，”斯图尔特干脆地说。
那人狠狠地看他。他忍不住喜欢上这微型水手那种装备齐全的样子和勇敢的神气。
“好，”他最后说，指着黄蜂号对着池子中心的船头那边，“我来告诉你我要你干什么。你看到那边那只开得飞快的单桅大帆船没有？”
“看到了，”斯图尔特说。
“那是莉莲号，”那人说，“我对它讨厌透了。”
“那么我也讨厌它，”斯图尔特忠心耿耿地叫道。
“我讨厌它，因为它老是撞我的船，”那人说下去，“因为它是一个懒孩子的，他不会操纵帆船，根本分不清飑 (1)  和鸟的区别。”
“或者艏三角帆和转帆的区别，”斯图尔特大叫。
“或者纵帆前沿和纵帆后沿的区别，”那人大喊。
“或者甲板和码头的区别，”斯图尔特大嚷。
“或者桅杆和迷雾的区别，”那人叫道。“不过到此为止，别再说下去了！我要告诉你我们怎么办。那艘莉莲号在航行上一直超过黄蜂号，不过我相信，我那只纵帆船只要驾驶得当，情形就会完全不同。没有人知道我站在这岸上有多么痛苦：束手无策，眼看着黄蜂号摇摇晃晃地走着，实际上它所需要的只是一只稳健的手把握住它的舵轮。因此，我的年轻朋友，我可以让你驾驶黄蜂号开到池子那边再开回来，只要你能击败那讨厌的单桅帆船，我可以给你一个固定工作。”
“明白，先生！”斯图尔特说着，纵身一跳就登上了那艘纵帆船，站在舵轮前面。“准备开航！”
“等一等，”那人说。“你能告诉我，你打算怎样击败莉莲号呢？”
“我打算张开更多的纵帆前进，”斯图尔特说。
“别在我的 船上这么干，谢谢你，”那人连忙回答说。“我不要你在忽然来的大风浪中翻船。”
“那么，”斯图尔特说，“我追上那单桅帆船，向它开我船头上的大炮。”
“馊主意！”那人说。“我要的只是比赛跑得快，不是打仗。”
“那么，”斯图尔特快活地说，“我要驾驶黄蜂号稳稳地笔直开，让莉莲号偏离航线，满池子乱转。”
“好！”那人叫道。“祝你好运！”他说着放开了黄蜂号的船头。一阵风把这纵帆船的艏斜帆鼓起来，船斜身掉过船头，优美地顺风开走，这时斯图尔特用脚撑着甲板上的系缆墩，转动着舵轮。
“听我说，”那人叫道，“你还没有告诉我你叫什么名字呐。”
“我叫斯图尔特•利特尔，”斯图尔特有多响叫多响。“我是本市弗雷德里克•利特尔的小儿子。”
“一路顺风，斯图尔特，”他的朋友喊着说，“自己保重，并且把黄蜂号平安开回来。”
“我会的，”斯图尔特叫道。他太得意和快活了，把手放开了舵轮一秒钟，在倾斜的甲板上还跳了一小会儿舞，一点没有注意到他有多险，差点儿就撞上了一艘漂在他航路上的坚固轮船，弄得发动机出了毛病，甲板给大浪冲刷了一通。
(1) “飑”读biāo，气象学用语，指风向突然改变，风速急剧增大的天气现象。
VII. The Sailboat Race
VII. The Sailboat Race
When the people in Central Park learned that one of the
toy sailboats was being steered by a mouse in a sailor suit, they all came running. Soon the shores of the pond were so crowded that a policeman was sent from headquarters to announce that everybody would have to stop pushing, but nobody did. People in New York like to push each other. The most excited person of all was the boy who owned the Lillian B. Womrath. He was a fat, sulky boy of twelve, named LeRoy. He wore a blue serge suit and a white necktie stained with orange juice.
“Come back here!” he called to Stuart. “Come back here and get on my boat. I want you to steer my boat. I will pay you five dollars a week and you can have every Thursday afternoon off and a radio in your room.”
“I thank you for your kind offer,” replied Stuart, “but I am happy aboard the Wasp— happier than I have ever been before in all my life.” And with that he spun the wheel over smartly and headed his schooner down toward the starting line, where LeRoy was turning his boat around by poking it with a long stick, ready for the start of the race.
“I’ll be the referee,” said a man in a bright green suit. “Is the Wasp ready?”
“Ready, sir!” shouted Stuart, touching his hat.
“Is the Lillian B. Womrath ready?” asked the referee.
“Sure, I’m ready,” said LeRoy.
“To the north end of the pond and back again!” shouted the referee. “On your mark, get set, GO!” “Go!” cried the people along the shore. “Go!” cried the owner of the Wasp. “Go!” yelled the policeman.
And away went the two boats for the north end of the pond, while the seagulls wheeled and cried overhead and the taxicabs tooted and honked from Seventy-second Street and the west wind (which had come halfway across America to get to Central Park) sang and whistled in the rigging and blew spray across the decks, stinging Stuart’s cheeks with tiny fragments of flying peanut shell tossed up from the foamy deep. “This is the life for me!” Stuart murmured to himself. “What a ship! What a day! What a race!”
Before the two boats had gone many feet, however, an accident happened on shore. The people were pushing each other harder and harder in their eagerness to see the sport, and although they really didn’t mean to, they pushed the policeman so hard they pushed him right off the concrete wall and into the pond. He hit the water in a sitting position, and got wet clear up to the third button of his jacket. He was soaked.
This particular policeman was not only a big, heavy man, but he had just eaten a big, heavy meal, and the wave he made went curling outward, cresting and billowing, upsetting all manner of small craft and causing every owner of a boat on the pond to scream with delight and consternation.
When Stuart saw the great wave approaching he jumped for the rigging, but he was too late. Towering above the Wasp like a mountain, the wave came crashing and piling along the deck, caught Stuart up and swept him over the side and into the water, where everybody supposed he would drown. Stuart had no intention of drowning. He kicked hard with his feet, and thrashed hard with his tail, and in a minute or two he climbed back aboard the schooner, cold and wet but quite unharmed. As he took his place at the helm, he could hear people cheering for him and calling, “Atta mouse, Stuart! Atta mouse!” He looked over and saw that the wave had capsized the Lillian B. Womrath but that she had righted herself and was sailing on her course, close by. And she stayed close alongside till both boats reached the north end of the pond. Here Stuart put the Wasp about and LeRoy turned the Lillian around with his stick, and away the two boats went for the finish line.
“This race isn’t over yet,” thought Stuart.
The first warning he had that there was trouble ahead came when he glanced into the Wasp’s cabin and observed that the barometer had fallen sharply. That can mean only one thing at sea—dirty weather. Suddenly a dark cloud swept across the sun, blotting it out and leaving the earth in shadow. Stuart shivered in his wet clothes. He turned up his sailor blouse closer around his neck, and when he spied the Wasp’s owner among the crowd on shore he waved his hat and called out:
“Dirty weather ahead, sir! Wind backing into the south-west, seas confused, glass falling.”
“Never mind the weather!” cried the owner.
“Watch out for flotsam dead ahead!”
Stuart peered ahead into the gathering storm, but saw nothing except gray waves with white crests. The world seemed cold and ominous. Stuart glanced behind him. There came the sloop, boiling along fast, rolling up a bow wave and gaining steadily.
“Look out, Stuart! Look out where you’re going!”
Stuart strained his eyes, and suddenly, dead ahead, right in the path of the Wasp, he saw an enormous paper bag looming up on the surface of the pond. The bag was empty and riding high, its open end gaping wide like the mouth of a cave.
Stuart spun the wheel over but it was too late: the Wasp drove her bowsprit straight into the bag andwitha fearful whooosh the schooner slowed down and came up into the wind with all sails flapping. Just at this moment Stuart heard a splintering crash, saw the bow of the Lillian plow through his rigging, and felt the whole ship tremble from stem to stern with the force of the collision.
“A collision!” shouted the crowd on shore.
In a jiffy the two boats were in a terrible tangle. Little boys on shore screamed and danced up and down. Meanwhile the paper bag sprang a leak and began to fill.
The Wasp couldn’t move because of the bag. The Lillian B. Womrath couldn’t move because her nose was stuck in the Wasp’s rigging.
Waving his arms, Stuart ran forward and fired off his gun. Then he heard, above the other voices on shore, the voice of the owner of the Wasp yelling directions and telling him what to do.
“Stuart! Stuart! Down jib! Down staysail!”
Stuart jumped for the halyards, and the jib and the forestaysail came rippling down.
“Cut away all paper bags!” roared the owner.
Stuart whipped out his pocketknife and slashed away bravely at the soggy bag until he had the deck cleared.
“Now back your foresail and give her a full!” screamed the owner of the Wasp.
Stuart grabbed the foresail boom and pulled with all his might. Slowly the schooner paid off and began to gather headway. And as she heeled over to the breeze she rolled her rail out from under the Lillian’s nose, shook herself free, and stood away to the southard. A loud cheer went up from the bank. Stuart sprang to the wheel and answered it. Then he looked back, and to his great joy he perceived that the Lillian had gone off in a wild direction and was yawing all over the pond.
Straight and true sailed the Wasp, with Stuart at the helm. After she had crossed the finish line, Stuart brought her alongside the wall, and was taken ashore and highly praised for his fine seamanship and daring. The owner was delighted and said it was the happiest day of his life. He introduced himself to Stuart, said that in private life he was Dr. Paul Carey, a surgeon-dentist. He said model boats were his hobby and that he would be delighted to have Stuart take command of his vessel at any time. Everybody shook hands with Stuart—everybody, that is, except the policeman, who was too wet and mad to shake hands with a mouse.
When Stuart got home that night, his brother George asked him where he had been all day.
“Oh, knocking around town,” replied Stuart.
7 帆船比赛
7 帆船比赛
中央公园的游客们一听说，有一艘模型帆船由一只穿水手装的老鼠掌着舵，他们就全都跑着来了。一会儿工夫，池边的岸上挤成那副样子，警察局马上派来警察，宣布每一个人必须停止相互推搡。只是这件事没有人能够做到，在纽约，人们本来就喜欢相互推来推去。所有观众中，最起劲的是拥有莉莲号的那个男孩。他是一个大块头，老绷着脸，十二岁，名字叫勒鲁瓦。他穿一套蓝色哔叽西装，打一条白色领带，领带上沾着橙汁。
“回来！”他向斯图尔特大叫。“回到这里来，上我的船。我要你驾驶我的船。我一个星期付你五块钱，外加每星期四下午放你半天假，让你的房间里有一个收音机。”
“谢谢你的好意，”斯图尔特回答，“不过我很高兴在这黄蜂号上——我一辈子里还没有这么高兴过。”他说着漂亮地转动舵轮，让他的纵帆船开到起点线上，在那里，勒鲁瓦正用一根长棍子把他的船转过来准备开始比赛。
“我来当裁判员，”一个穿亮绿色西装的人说。“黄蜂号准备好了吗？”
“准备好了，您呐！”斯图尔特碰碰帽子说。
“莉莲号准备好了吗？”裁判员问。
“当然，我准备好了，”勒鲁瓦说。
“到池子的北端再回到这里来！”裁判员叫道。“各就各位，准备，开始！”
“开始！”沿岸的观众大叫。
“开始！”黄蜂号的主人大叫。
“开始！”警察大叫。
两艘帆船朝池子的北端开去了，这时海鸥在头顶上盘旋着嘎嘎叫，第七十二街的出租车嘟嘟按喇叭，西风（它横跨美国，半路上来到了这中央公园）在帆索之间又唱又呼啸，把水花吹过甲板，从冒泡沫的水深处刮上来花生壳碎屑，打在斯图尔特的脸颊上。
“对于我来说，这是真正的生活！”斯图尔特对自己咕噜着说。“多好的一艘船啊！多好的一个日子啊！多好的一场比赛啊！”
两艘船还没开出许多英尺，岸上却出事情了。怎么啦？观众们由于抢着看比赛，互相推搡得越来越厉害，真真正正是无意之中，他们把一位警察推得太重，竟把他推过了水泥围堤，推到下面池水里去了。这警察是以坐着的姿势落到水里去的，一直湿到了上衣的第三颗纽扣，他湿透了。
这位警察碰巧不仅是个很重的大胖子，而且刚饱饱吃了一顿，那就重上加重，他落水击起的大浪向外翻，使池水高涨和翻腾起来，弄翻了形形色色的小船，使得每一个在池里有小船的人又是欢呼又是惊叫。
当斯图尔特看见巨浪冲过来的时候，他向帆索跳上去，可是已经来不及了。巨浪像座山一样在黄蜂号上面压下来，哗啦啦汹涌地冲过甲板，把斯图尔特卷了起来，冲出船边，冲到水里，所有围观的人认为他这下子非给淹死不可。斯图尔特可不打算给淹死。他用两只脚猛踢，用尾巴猛扫，一两分钟光景，他已经重新爬到纵帆船上面，又冷又湿，不过一点也没有受伤。当他又站在舵轮前面的时候，他能够听到人们为他欢呼，大叫特叫：“多棒的老鼠，斯图尔特！多棒的老鼠！”他望出去，看到巨浪倾覆了莉莲号，但是莉莲号又翻了回来，正在一路前进，离开斯图尔特很近。它一直靠得很近，直到两艘帆船到了池子的北端。到了这里，斯图尔特把黄蜂号掉过头来，勒鲁瓦也用棍子把莉莲号掉过头来，于是两艘帆船开始走它们最后一段比赛路程。
“这场比赛还没有结束，”斯图尔特心里说。
他看了一下黄蜂号的船舱，看到气压表急剧下降，于是他得到了第一个警报，麻烦来了。气压急剧下降，在海上只说明一件事——天气恶劣了。乌云一下子抹过太阳，把它遮住，让大地笼罩在阴影里。斯图尔特在他的湿衣服里发抖。他把他的水手上衣领子翻起来，把脖子裹得更紧，当他用望远镜在岸上的人群当中看到黄蜂号的主人时，他向他挥动帽子，叫道：
“坏天气来了，先生！风转西南，大海翻腾，气压表下降。”
“别管天气！”那人叫道。“注意漂浮在你正前方的破船什么的。”
斯图尔特向前看积聚起来的暴风雨，但是除了顶峰雪白的灰色大浪，什么也看不见。世界似乎又冷又充满不祥之兆。斯图尔特朝后看。那艘单桅帆船飞驰而来，扬起船头的波浪，不断地越来越近。
“小心，斯图尔特！小心你在朝什么地方走！”
斯图尔特眯起眼睛看，忽然，就在前面，就在黄蜂号的去路上，他看见了一个大纸袋在池子水面上赫然出现。纸袋是空的，飘得很高，袋口张大了像个山洞口。斯图尔特连忙转动舵轮，可是太晚了：黄蜂号已经把它的船头斜桁一直冲进了口袋，可怕地呼的一声，这纵帆船慢下来，所有的帆拍动着卷入风中。就在这时候，斯图尔特听到劈里啪啦的碎裂声，只见莉莲号的船头插到他的索具里，感觉到整只船从船头到船尾被撞得摇来晃去。
“撞船了，”岸上的观众大叫。
两艘帆船一下子可怕地搅缠在一起。岸上的孩子们又是哇哇尖叫，又是蹦蹦乱跳。这时候纸袋爆出一条裂缝，开始进水了。
由于那纸袋，黄蜂号动不了。由于船头插在黄蜂号的索具上，莉莲号也动不了。
斯图尔特挥动双臂，跑到前面去开大炮。接着他听到，黄蜂号主人的叫声压倒了岸上所有人的叫声，他大叫着指点他，告诉他该怎么办。
“斯图尔特！斯图尔特！降下！降下艏三角帆！”
斯图尔特立刻向升降索那儿跳去，艏三角帆降下来了。
“把整个纸袋割开！”那人大叫。
斯图尔特掏出他的小刀，勇敢地割破湿淋淋的纸袋，直到甲板上面空了，船前面畅通了。
“现在重新升起你的前桅帆，让它鼓起来！”黄蜂号的主人尖声急叫。
斯图尔特抓住前桅帆的下桁，用尽力气拉。纵帆船慢慢地斜过来，开始前进。等到它顺风行驶的时候，它的帆索甩脱了莉莲号的船头，现在它自由了，两艘帆船分开了，它朝南开走。岸上响起很响的欢呼声。斯图尔特跳到舵轮前面回应这些欢呼声。接着他回过头去看，很高兴地看到莉莲号离开了，漫无目的，偏离了航线，在整个水池乱转。
黄蜂号有斯图尔特掌舵，稳稳地一直向前走。过了终点线以后，斯图尔特把它开到围堤旁边停泊下来。他被大家拉上岸，由于他卓越的水手本色和勇敢精神，受到大家高度赞扬。黄蜂号的主人更是欢天喜地，说这是他一生中最快活的日子。他向斯图尔特自我介绍，说在日常生活中他是保罗•卡里医生，一位牙外科医师。他说玩模型帆船是他的爱好，很高兴以后让斯图尔特随时驾驶他的这艘帆船。每一个人同斯图尔特握手——不过这每一个人不包括那位警察，他又是浑身湿淋淋，又是气得要命，没有兴趣跟一只老鼠握手。
那天晚上斯图尔特回到家，他的哥哥乔治问他，他一整天到底上哪儿去了。
“噢，就在城里闲逛呗，”斯图尔特回答说。
VIII. Margalo
VIII. Margalo
Because he was so small, Stuart was often hard to find around the house. His father and his mother and his brother George seldom could locate him by looking for him—usually they had to call him; and the house often echoed with cries of “Stuart! Stooo-art!” You would come into a room, and he might be curled up in a chair, but you wouldn’t see him. Mr. Little was in constant fear of losing him and never finding him again. He even made him a tiny red cap, such as hunters wear, so that he would be easier to see.
One day when he was seven years old, Stuart was in the kitchen watching his mother make tapioca pudding. He was feeling hungry, and when Mrs. Little opened the door of the electric refrigerator to get something, Stuart slipped inside to see if he could find a piece of cheese. He supposed, of course, his mother had seen him, and when the door swung shut and he realized he was locked in, it surprised him greatly.
“Help!” he called. “It’s dark in here. It’s cold in this refrigerator. Help! Let me out! I’m getting colder by the minute.”
But his voice was not strong enough to penetrate the thick wall. In the darkness he stumbled and fell into a saucer of prunes. The juice was cold. Stuart shivered, and his teeth chattered together. It wasn’t until half an hour later that Mrs. Little again opened the door and found him standing on a butter plate, beating his arms together to try to keep warm, and blowing on his hands, and hopping up and down.
“Mercy!” she cried. “Stuart, my poor little boy.”
“How about a nip of brandy?” said Stuart.
“I’m chilled to the bone.”
But his mother made him some hot broth instead, and put him to bed in his cigarette box with a doll’s hot-water bottle against his feet. Even so, Stuart caught a bad cold, and this turned into bronchitis, and Stuart had to stay in bed for almost two weeks.
During his illness, the other members of the family were extremely kind to Stuart. Mrs. Little played tick-tack-toe with him. George made him a soap bubble pipe and a bow and arrow. Mr. Little made him a pair of ice skates out of two paper clips.
One cold afternoon Mrs. Little was shaking her dustcloth out of the window when she noticed a small bird lying on the windowsill, apparently dead. She brought it in and put it near the radiator, and in a short while it fluttered its wings and opened its eyes. It was a pretty little hen-bird, brown, with a streak of yellow on her breast. The Littles didn’t agree on what kind of bird she was.
“She’s a wall-eyed vireo,” said George, scientifically.
“I think she’s more like a young wren,” said Mr. Little. Anyway, they fixed a place for her in the living room, and fed her, and gave her a cup of water. Soon she felt much better and went hopping around the house, examining everything with the greatest care and interest. Presently she hopped upstairs and into Stuart’s room where he was lying in bed.
“Hello,” said Stuart. “Who are you? Where did you come from?”
“My name is Margalo,” said the bird, softly, in a musical voice. “I come from fields once tall with wheat, from pastures deep in fern and thistle; I come from vales of meadowsweet, and I love to whistle.”
Stuart sat bolt upright in bed. “Say that again!” he said.
“I can’t,” replied Margalo. “I have a sore throat.”
“So have I,” said Stuart. “I’ve got bronchitis. You better not get too near me, you might catch it.”
“I’ll stay right here by the door,” said Margalo.
“You can use some of my gargle if you want to,” said Stuart. “And here are some nose drops, and I have plenty of Kleenex.”
“Thank you very much, you are very kind,” replied the bird.
“Did they take your temperature?” asked Stuart, who was beginning to be genuinely worried about his new friend’s health.
“No,” said Margalo, “but I don’t think it will be necessary.”
“Well, we better make sure,” said Stuart, “because I would hate to have anything happen to you. Here. ...” And he tossed her the thermometer. Margalo put it under her tongue, and she and Stuart sat very still for three minutes. Then she took it out and looked at it, turning it slowly and carefully.
“Normal,” she announced. Stuart felt his heart leap for gladness. It seemed to him that he had never seen any creature so beautiful as this tiny bird, and he already loved her.
“I hope,” he remarked, “that my parents have fixed you up with a decent place to sleep.”
“Oh, yes,” Margalo replied. “I’m going to sleep in the Boston fern on the bookshelf in the living room. It’s a nice place, for a city location. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I shall go to bed—I see it’s getting dark outside. I always go to bed at sundown. Good night, sir!”
“Please don’t call me “sir,”” cried Stuart. “Call me Stuart.”
“Very well,” said the bird. “Good night, Stuart!” And she hopped off, with light, bouncing steps.
“Good night, Margalo,” called Stuart. “See you in the morning.”
Stuart settled back under the bedclothes again. “There’s a mighty fine bird,” he whispered, and sighed a tender sigh.
When Mrs. Little came in, later, to tuck Stuart in for the night and hear his prayers, Stuart asked her if she thought the bird would be quite safe sleeping down in the living room.
“Quite safe, my dear,” replied Mrs. Little.
“What about that cat Snowbell?” asked Stuart, sternly.
“Snowbell won’t touch the bird,” his mother said. “You go to sleep and forget all about it.” Mrs. Little opened the window and turned out the light.
Stuart closed his eyes and lay there in the dark, but he couldn’t seem to go to sleep. He tossed and turned, and the bedclothes got all rumpled up.
He kept thinking about the bird downstairs asleep in the fern. He kept thinking about Snowbell and about the way Snowbell’s eyes gleamed. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, he switched on the light. “There’s just something in me that doesn’t trust a cat,” he muttered. “I can’t sleep, knowing that Margalo is in danger.”
Pushing the covers back, Stuart climbed out of bed. He put on his wrapper and slippers. Taking his bow and arrow and his flashlight, he tiptoed out into the hall. Everybody had gone to bed and the house was dark. Stuart found his way to the stairs and descended slowly and cautiously into the living room, making no noise. His throat hurt him, and he felt a little bit dizzy.
“Sick as I am,” he said to himself, “this has got to be done.”
Being careful not to make a sound, he stole across to the lamp by the bookshelf, shinnied up the cord, and climbed out onto the shelf. There was a faint ray of light from the street lamp outside, and Stuart could dimly see Margalo, asleep in the fern, her head tucked under her wing.
“Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast,” he whispered, repeating a speech he had heard in the movies. Then he hid behind a candlestick and waited, listening and watching. For half an hour he saw nothing, heard nothing but the faint ruffle of Margalo’s wings when she stirred in dream. The clock struck ten, loudly, and before the sound of the last stroke had died away Stuart saw two gleaming yellow eyes peering out from behind the sofa.
“So!” thought Stuart. “I guess there’s going to be something doing after all.” He reached for his bow and arrow.
The eyes came nearer. Stuart was frightened, but he was a brave mouse, even when he had a sore throat. He placed the arrow against the cord of the bow and waited. Snowbell crept softly toward the bookshelf and climbed noiselessly up into the chair within easy reach of the Boston fern where Margalo was asleep. Then he crouched, ready to spring. His tail waved back and forth. His eyes gleamed bright. Stuart decided the time had come. He stepped out from behind the candlestick, knelt down, bent his bow, and took careful aim at Snowbell’s left ear—which was the nearest to him.
“This is the finest thing I have ever done,” thought Stuart. And he shot the arrow straight into the cat’s ear.
Snowbell squealed with pain and jumped down and ran off toward the kitchen.
“A direct hit!” said Stuart. “Thank heaven! Well, there’s a good night’s work done.” And he threw a kiss toward Margalo’s sleeping form.
It was a tired little mouse that crawled into bed a few minutes later—tired but ready for sleep at last.
8 小鸟玛加洛
8 小鸟玛加洛
斯图尔特太小了，所以在家里常常很难找到他。他的爸爸、妈妈和哥哥乔治靠眼睛难得能把他找到——他们经常得叫唤他，屋里也就经常响起叫“斯图尔特！斯——图——尔——特！”的回声。你来到一个房间里，他很可能蜷伏在哪一把椅子上，可你不一定能看到他。利特尔先生一直害怕把他给丢掉，再也找不到他了。他甚至给他做了一顶小红帽，像猎人戴的那种，这样就比较容易看到他一些。
斯图尔特七岁那年，有一天在厨房里看着他的妈妈做木薯粉布丁。他觉得饿了，当利特尔太太打开电冰箱的门要去拿点什么东西的时候，斯图尔特溜进了电冰箱，想看看是不是能找到一片干酪吃吃。当然，他以为他妈妈已经看见他，等到冰箱门一下子关上，他明白他给关在里面了，这使他大惊失色。
“救命啊！”他大喊大叫。“这里面黑咕隆咚的。这冰箱里冷死了。救命啊！放我出去！我这会儿越来越冷了。”
但是他的嗓子发出来的声音，还没有大得足够穿过冰箱的厚壁。在黑暗中他绊了一跤，落到了一碟李子汁里。那李子汁太冷了。斯图尔特直打哆嗦，他的上下牙齿捉对儿打架。这么下去，一直到半个小时以后，利特尔太太又打开冰箱门找东西，这才发现他正站在一碟牛油上，两条胳臂互相拍来拍去好歹取点暖，又在手上吹气，又用两脚蹦上跳下。
“天啊！”她叫道。“斯图尔特，我可怜的小宝贝！”
“喝口白兰地酒怎么样？”斯图尔特说。“我都冻到骨头里了。”
但是他妈妈没让他喝酒，给他烧了点滚烫的清汤，把他放在他那张香烟盒子床上，又在他的脚下放上洋娃娃的热水瓶。尽管这样，斯图尔特还是害上了重感冒，重感冒又转成支气管炎，这一来，斯图尔特在床上前后几乎躺了整整两个星期。
在他生病期间，家里其他成员对斯图尔特关怀备至，好到极点。利特尔太太陪他画“连城”游戏（这游戏大家都知道，在纸上画一个井字，两个人玩，轮流在空格里画○或×，谁先连成一行就赢）。哥哥乔治给他做了吹肥皂泡的管子，还做了一副弓箭。利特尔先生给他用两个回形针做了一双滑冰鞋。
一天下午很冷，利特尔太太正往窗外抖她的抹布，忽然看到外面窗台上躺着一只小鸟，显然已经死了。但她还是把它拿进屋，放在靠近暖气管的地方，真没想到，过了一会儿，它竟扇动它的翅膀，睁开它的眼睛。这是一只很好看的小雌鸟，棕色，胸口上有一道黄条纹。利特尔一家人对它是只什么鸟意见不一。
“这是一只大眼睛绿鹃，”乔治科学地说。
“我想它更像是一只小鹪鹩，”利特尔先生说。
不管怎么样，他们在客厅给它找了个栖身的地方，喂它吃东西，又给它一杯水。这小鸟很快就觉得好多了，在屋子里到处跳，用极大的关心和兴趣仔细看每一样东西。接着它蹦蹦跳跳上楼，来到斯图尔特正在卧床的房间。
“你好，”斯图尔特说。“你是谁啊？你是从什么地方来的？”
“我的名字叫玛加洛，”那小鸟用唱歌似的声音温柔地说。“我来自曾经长满高高麦子的田野，我来自长满浓密蕨草和蓟草的牧场，我来自长满绣绒菊的溪谷，我爱吹口哨。”
斯图尔特一下子在床上把身子坐直。“再说一遍，”他说。
“我不能，”玛加洛回答说，“我喉咙痛。”
“我也喉咙痛，”斯图尔特说。“我害了支气管炎。你最好不要太靠近我，你会传染上的。”
“我就待在这房门口，”玛加洛说。
“如果你愿意，你可以用一点我的含漱液，”斯图尔特说。“这里有些滴鼻子的药水，我还有许多纸巾。”
“太谢谢了，你心地非常好，”小鸟回答说。
“他们给你量过体温吗？”斯图尔特问道，他真正开始关心他这位新朋友的健康了。
“没有，”玛加洛说，“不过我认为这没有必要。”
“可我们还是弄弄清楚，保险点好，”斯图尔特说，“因为我最不愿意你会出什么事。来吧……”他说着把体温表递给它。
玛加洛把体温表含到它的舌头底下，它和斯图尔特一声不响地坐了三分钟。接着它把体温表拿出来看，仔细地、慢慢地转过来转过去看。
“体温正常，”它说。
斯图尔特觉得他的心高兴得怦怦跳。他好像还没见过有任何动物跟这小鸟一样美丽的。他已经爱上它了。
“我希望，”他说，“我的爸爸妈妈已经给你安排好了一个舒服的睡觉地方。”
“噢，是的，”玛加洛回答说。“我要睡在客厅书架上的波士顿肾蕨草里。现在，如果你能原谅我，我想我这就要去睡觉了——我看到外面已经在黑下来。我一向太阳下山就睡觉的。晚安，少爷。”
“请不要叫我‘少爷’，”斯图尔特叫道。“就叫我斯图尔特吧。”
“好的，”小鸟说。“晚安，斯图尔特！”它说着用轻快的步子，一蹦一跳地走了。
“晚安，玛加洛，”斯图尔特叫道。“明天早晨见。”
斯图尔特重新躺到被子底下。“真有这么一只美极了的小鸟，”他悄悄地说了一声，充满柔情地叹了一口气。
利特尔太太稍后进来给斯图尔特盖好被子睡觉，并且听他的祷告，斯图尔特问她，小鸟睡在下面客厅里，她是不是认为小鸟非常安全。
“非常安全，我亲爱的，”利特尔太太回答说。
“那只猫，那野茉莉会怎么样？”斯图尔特坚持问。
“野茉莉不会碰那小鸟，”他的妈妈说。“你睡吧，把这些事都给我忘掉。”利特尔太太打开窗子，关掉电灯。
斯图尔特闭上眼睛躺在黑暗中，可是看来他没法睡着。他翻来覆去，被子卷成一团。他一直在想着躺在楼下蕨草上的那只小鸟，他一直在想着野茉莉和野茉莉两只眼睛闪闪发光的样子。最后他再也忍受不下去，打开了电灯。“我心里就是有这种想法，不能信任一只猫，”他嘟囔说。“我知道玛加洛正处在危险之中，我睡不着。”
斯图尔特掀掉被子，下了床。他穿上晨衣和拖鞋。他拿起了弓箭和手电筒，踮起了脚尖走到外面走廊。所有的人都在睡觉，屋里一片漆黑。斯图尔特摸着路走到楼梯口，小心地慢慢下楼，来到客厅里，不发出一点声音。他喉咙痛，头有点晕。
“尽管我在生病，”他心里说，“这件事我还是得做。”
他小心着不弄出一点响声，偷偷地过去，走到书架旁边的灯那儿，沿着拉灯绳爬上书架。外面街灯透进来一点微弱的亮光，斯图尔特朦朦胧胧看到了玛加洛，它睡在蕨草里，头塞在翅膀底下。
“睡眠驻在你的眼睛里，和平驻在你心中，”他悄悄地背他在电影里听来的话。接着他躲到一个蜡烛台后面等着，竖起了耳朵听，张大了眼睛看。有半个小时他什么东西也没看见，任何声音也没听到，只有玛加洛在梦中动弹时翅膀的轻微簌簌声。钟很响地敲响十下，最后一下钟声还没有完全消失，斯图尔特就看见两只闪光的黄眼睛从沙发后面向外偷看。
“一点不错！”斯图尔特想。“我猜想就是会有什么花样。”他伸手去拿弓箭。
那双眼睛靠近了。斯图尔特给吓坏了，但他是一只勇敢的老鼠，尽管他在喉咙痛。他把箭扣好弓弦，等着。野茉莉轻轻地向书架爬过来，悄没声儿地爬上一把椅子，从那儿很容易就可以够到玛加洛正在睡觉的波士顿肾蕨草。接着它把身体一缩，准备起跳。它的尾巴前后摆动。它的眼睛发出凶光。斯图尔特当机立断，时间到了。他从蜡烛台后面出来，一只脚跪下，拉开了弓，仔细瞄准着野茉莉的左耳朵——这一只耳朵离他最近。
“这是我有生以来所做的最痛快的事，”他想。他把箭一直射到猫的耳朵上。
野茉莉痛得尖叫一声，跳到地上，向厨房逃去了。
“一箭中的！”斯图尔特说。“谢谢老天爷！好，事情办完，可以好好睡觉了。”他向睡着的玛加洛抛了个飞吻。
几分钟后爬上床的是只精疲力竭的小老鼠——精疲力竭，但终于可以睡上一大觉了。
IX. A Narrow Escape
IX. A Narrow Escape
Margalo liked it so well at the Littles’ house she decided to stay for a while instead of returning to the open country. She and Stuart became fast friends, and as the days passed it seemed to Stuart that she grew more and more beautiful. He hoped she would never go away from him.
One day when Stuart had recovered from bronchitis he took his new skates and put on his ski pants and went out to look for an ice pond. He didn’t get far. The minute he stepped out into the street he saw an Irish terrier, so he had to shinny up an iron gate and jump into a garbage can, where he hid in a grove of celery.
While he was there, waiting for the dog to go away, a garbage truck from the Department of Sanitation drove up to the curb and two men picked up the can. Stuart felt himself being hoisted high in the air. He peered over the side and saw that in another instant he and everything in the can would be dumped into the big truck.
“If I jump now I’ll kill myself,” thought Stuart. So he ducked back into the can and waited. The men threw the can with a loud bump into the truck, where another man grabbed it, turned it upside down, and shook everything out. Stuart landed on his head, buried two feet deep in wet slippery garbage. All around him was garbage, smelling strong. Under him, over him, on all four sides of him—garbage. Just an enormous world of garbage and trash and smell. It was a messy spot to be in. He had egg on his trousers, butter on his cap, gravy on his shirt, orange pulp in his ear, and banana peel wrapped around his waist.
Still hanging on to his skates, Stuart tried to make his way up to the surface of the garbage, but the footing was bad. He climbed a pile of coffee grounds, but near the top the grounds gave way under him and he slid down and landed in a pool of leftover rice pudding.
“I bet I’m going to be sick at my stomach before I get out of this,” said Stuart.
He was anxious to work his way up to the top of the pile because he was afraid of being squashed by the next can-load of garbage. When at last he did succeed in getting to the surface, tired and smelly, he observed that the truck was not making any more collections but was rumbling rapidly along. Stuart glanced up at the sun. “We’re going east,” he said to himself. “I wonder what that means.”
There was no way for him to get out of the truck, the sides were too high. He just had to wait.
When the truck arrived at the East River, which borders New York City on the east and which is a rather dirty but useful river, the driver drove out onto the pier, backed up to a garbage scow, and dumped his load. Stuart went crashing and slithering along with everything else and hit his head so hard he fainted and lay quite still, as though dead. He lay that way for almost an hour, and when he recovered his senses he looked about him and saw nothing but water. The scow was being towed out to sea.
“Well,” thought Stuart, “this is about the worst thing that could happen to anybody. I guess this will be my last ride in this world.” For he knew that the garbage would be towed twenty miles out and dumped into the Atlantic Ocean. “I guess there’s nothing I can do about it,” he thought, hopelessly. “I’ll just have to sit here bravely and die like a man. But I wish I didn’t have to die with egg on my pants and butter on my cap and gravy on my shirt and orange pulp in my ear and banana peel wrapped around my middle.”
The thought of death made Stuart sad, and he began to think of his home and of his father and mother and brother and of Margalo and Snowbell and of how he loved them (all but Snowbell) and of what a pleasant place his home was, specially in the early morning with the light just coming in through the curtains and the household stirring and waking. The tears came into his eyes when he realized that he would never see them again. He was still sobbing when a small voice behind him whispered:
“Stuart!”
He looked around, through his tears, and there,
sitting on a Brussels sprout, was Margalo.
“Margalo!” cried Stuart. “How did you get here?”
“Well,” said the bird, “I was looking out the window this morning when you left home and I happened to see you get dumped into the garbage truck, so I flew out the window and followed the truck, thinking you might need help.”
“I’ve never been so glad to see anybody in all my life,” said Stuart. “But how are you going to help me?”
“I think that if you’ll hang onto my feet,” said Margalo, “I can fly ashore with you. It’s worth trying anyway. How much do you weigh?”
“Three ounces and a half,” said Stuart.
“With your clothes on?” asked Margalo.
“Certainly,” replied Stuart, modestly.
“Then I believe I can carry you all right.”
“Suppose I get dizzy,” said Stuart.
“Don’t look down,” replied Margalo.
“Then you won’t get dizzy.”
“Suppose I get sick at my stomach.”
“You’ll just have to be sick,” the bird
replied. “Anything is better than death.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Stuart agreed.
“Hang on, then! We may as well get
started.”
Stuart tucked his skates into his shirt, stepped gingerly onto a tuft of lettuce, and took a firm grip on Margalo’s ankles. “All ready!” he cried.
With a flutter of wings, Margalo rose into the sky, carrying Stuart along, and together they flew out over the ocean and headed toward home.
“Pew!” said Margalo, when they were high in the air, “you smell awful, Stuart.”
“I know I do,” he replied, gloomily.
“I hope it isn’t making you feel bad.”
“I can hardly breathe,” she answered. “And my heart is pounding in my breast. Isn’t there something you could drop to make yourself lighter?”
“Well, I could drop these ice skates,” said Stuart.
“Goodness me,” the little bird cried, “I didn’t know you had skates hidden in your shirt. Toss those heavy skates away quickly or we will both come down in the ocean and perish.” Stuart threw his skates away and watched them fall down, down, till they disappeared in the gray waves below. “That’s better,” said Margalo. “Now we’re all right. I can already see the towers and chimneys of New York.”
Fifteen minutes later, in they flew through the open window of the Littles’ living room and landed on the Boston fern. Mrs. Little, who had left the window up when she missed Margalo, was glad to see them back, for she was beginning to worry. When she heard what had happened and how near she had come to losing her son, she took Stuart in her hand, even though his clothes smelled nasty, and kissed him. Then she sent him upstairs to take a bath, and sent George out to take Stuart’s clothes to the cleaner.
“What was it like, out there in the Atlantic Ocean?” inquired Mr. Little, who had never been very far from home.
So Stuart and Margalo told all about the ocean, and the gray waves curling with white crests, and the gulls in the sky, and the channel buoys and the ships and the tugs and the wind making a sound in your ears. Mr. Little sighed and said some day he hoped to get away from business long enough to see all those fine things.
Everyone thanked Margalo for saving Stuart’s life; and at suppertime Mrs. Little presented her with a tiny cake, which had seeds sprinkled on top.
9 死里逃生
9 死里逃生
玛加洛太喜欢利特尔家了，它决定在这里待一阵，暂时不回空旷的田野去。它和斯图尔特成了好朋友，一天天过去，斯图尔特觉得它越来越漂亮了。他希望它永远不要离开他。
斯图尔特的支气管炎好了以后，有一天他带着新滑雪鞋，穿上滑雪裤，出门去找一个结了冰的水池。但是他没有走多远。他出门刚到街上，就看见一头爱尔兰犬，因此他只好爬上一扇铁门，跳进一个垃圾桶，在那里，他躲在一棵芹菜里面。
他正在那里等狗走开，卫生部门一辆垃圾车开到路边，两个人把垃圾桶拿起来。斯图尔特只觉得自己给高高举到半空。他从桶边偷偷朝外一看，看到转眼工夫，他和桶里所有东西就要倒进这辆大卡车里了。
“如果我现在跳下去，我的性命就没有了，”斯图尔特想。因此他缩回桶里等着。那两个人把垃圾桶很响地砰的一声扔上了卡车，车上另一个人接住了它，把它颠倒过来，将里面的东西全摇出来。斯图尔特脚在上头在下落到湿漉漉、黏糊糊的垃圾里，足足有两英尺深。他周围全是垃圾，臭极了。他的下面，他的上面，他的四面八方——只有垃圾。就是一个巨大的垃圾、废物和臭气的世界。这是进了一个乱七八糟的天地。他的裤子上有鸡蛋，他的帽子上有牛油，他的衬衫上有肉汁，他的耳朵里有橘子瓤，他的腰围着香蕉皮。
斯图尔特仍旧紧紧抓住他的滑雪鞋。他试图挣扎到垃圾顶上，但是没有站得住脚的地方。他爬上一堆咖啡渣，可是快爬到顶的时候，咖啡渣在他脚底下塌下去，他也就跟着滑下去了，落到一摊吃剩的米饭布丁里。
“我打赌，我还没离开这里就要吐出来了，”斯图尔特说。
他急着要爬到垃圾顶上，因为他怕再倒下来一桶垃圾，那他就要给压扁了。等到他最后总算到了垃圾顶上，又是筋疲力尽，又是浑身发臭，看到卡车再不收垃圾，却是很快地轰隆轰隆一直向前开。斯图尔特抬头看看太阳。“我们在朝东走，”他对自己说。“我不知道这是怎么回事。”
他一点儿没有办法下车，拦板太高了。他只好等待机会。
卡车来到东河。这条河在东面贴着纽约市，十分脏，但是很有用。卡车司机把车开到那个凸出来的码头上，把车尾退到一只装垃圾的平底驳船上面，对准它把车斗翘起来，将一车的垃圾倒下去。就这样，斯图尔特和车上所有的垃圾一起，哗哗哗地直往下滑，他的头还给狠狠撞了一下，撞昏了，躺着一动不动，跟死了一样。他这样躺了近半个小时，等到恢复知觉，他朝四面张望，可除了水什么也看不见。这平底驳船正被拖到大海里去。
“可好，”斯图尔特想，“这是任何人能碰到的最倒霉的事情。我猜想，这是我在这个世界上的最后一次航行了。”因为他知道，这些垃圾要拖出去二十英里，倒进大西洋去。“我想我是一点办法也没有了，”他毫无希望地想着。“我只好勇敢地坐在这里，死得像个男子汉大丈夫。不过我不希望死的时候裤子上是鸡蛋，帽子上是牛油，衬衫上是肉汁，耳朵里是橘子瓤，腰上还围着香蕉皮。”
想到死，斯图尔特觉得很难过，他开始想到他的家，想到他的爸爸妈妈和哥哥，想到玛加洛和野茉莉，想到他多么爱他们（除了野茉莉），想到他的家是个多么快活的地方，特别是在大清早，亮光刚透过窗帘照进来，一家人有动静了，醒来了的时候。他明白他将永远不能再看见所有这些了，这时候眼泪涌上他的眼睛。他还在那里抽抽搭搭，身后有一个很细小的声音悄悄地说：
“斯图尔特！”
他转过头去看，透过泪水，在那里，在一棵球芽甘蓝上蹲着的是——玛加洛。
“玛加洛！”斯图尔特叫道。“你怎么到这儿来了？”
“这个嘛，”小鸟说，“今天早晨你离开家的时候，我正在往窗外看，正好看到你给倒进垃圾卡车，于是我飞出窗口，跟着那卡车飞，心想你也许需要我的帮助。”
“在我这一辈子里，看到人还没有这么高兴过，”斯图尔特说。“可是你怎么帮助我呢？”
“我想，”玛加洛说，“只要你抓住我的脚，我可以带着你飞回岸上去。反正值得试一试。你一共有多重？”
“三盎司半 (1)  ，”斯图尔特说。
“连衣服在内吗？”玛加洛问道。
“当然，”斯图尔特谦虚地回答。
“这样的话，我相信我把你吊走不成问题。”
“万一我头晕呢？”斯图尔特说。
“你不要朝下看，”玛加洛回答说。“不朝下看你不会头晕的。”
“万一我要吐呢？”
“你就是要吐，”小鸟回答说。“反正也比死好。”
“对，这话没错，”斯图尔特同意。
“那么抓住了！我们该动身了。”
斯图尔特把他的滑雪鞋塞在衬衫里，小心翼翼地踏到一棵生菜上面，紧紧抓住玛加洛的脚脖子。“准备好了！”他叫道。
玛加洛拍动翅膀，吊着斯图尔特，一下子飞上了天。他们飞过大海，一直朝家里飞。
“哎呀！”当他们飞在高空的时候，玛加洛说。“你的气味难闻极了，斯图尔特。”
“我知道，”他难过地回答说。“但愿不会让你太难受。”
“我气都透不过来了，”小鸟回答说。“我的心在我的胸口里怦怦直跳。你能扔掉点什么，让你更轻一点吗？”
“这个，我可以扔掉这双滑雪鞋，”斯图尔特说。
“天啊，”小鸟叫道，“我不知道你在你的衬衫里还藏着滑雪鞋。赶快把那双沉甸甸的滑雪鞋扔掉，要不然我们两个都得掉到大洋里去完蛋。”
斯图尔特把他这双滑雪鞋扔掉，看着它们落下去，落下去，直到它们消失在底下灰色的大浪里。
“这样好一点，”玛加洛说。“现在我们没事了。我已经看到纽约的塔楼和烟囱。”
十五分钟以后，他们飞进利特尔家客厅的窗口，降落到波士顿肾蕨草上面。利特尔太太想念玛加洛的时候打开了窗子，现在看到他们回来了很高兴，因为她已经开始担心了。当她听说发生了什么事情，听说她差一丁点儿就会失去她的儿子时，她抱起了斯图尔特，尽管他的衣服气味难闻，她还是亲亲他。接着她叫他上楼去好好洗个澡，叫乔治把斯图尔特的衣服扔到外面洗衣机里去。
“在外面大西洋，那是个什么样子啊？”利特尔先生从来没有远离过家，问道。
于是斯图尔特和玛加洛把大洋的事全告诉了他，什么灰色大浪涌起来啦，浪峰上是白泡沫啦，天上飞着海鸥啦，还有航道浮标、轮船和拖船啦，耳朵里都是风声啦。利特尔先生叹了口气，说他希望有一天也能摆脱点公务，时间长得够他去看看所有这些好看的东西。
大家都感谢玛加洛救了斯图尔特的命。吃饭的时候，利特尔太太请它吃一个小蛋糕，蛋糕顶上撒满了种子。
(1) 一盎司等于28.35克，三盎司半就是99.225克，也就是我们的二两还不到一点儿。
X. Springtime
X. Springtime
Snowbell, the cat, enjoyed nighttime more than daytime. Perhaps it was because his eyes liked the dark.But I think it was because there are always so many worth-while things going on in New York at night.
Snowbell had several friends in the neighborhood. Some of them were house cats, others were store cats. He knew a Maltese cat in the AandPeople, a white Persian in the apartment house next door, a tortoise-shell in the delicatessen, a tiger cat in the basement of the branch library, and a beautiful young Angora who had escaped from a cage in a pet shop on Third Avenue and had gone to live a free life of her own in the tool house of the small park near Stuart’s home.
One fine spring evening Snowbell had been calling on the Angora in the park. He started home, late, and it was such a lovely night she said she would walk along with him to keep him company. When they got to Mr. Little’s house, the two cats sat down at the foot of a tall vine which ran up the side of the house past George’s bedroom. This vine was useful to Snowbell, because he could climb it at night and crawl into the house through George’s open window. Snowbell began telling his friend about Margalo and Stuart.
“Goodness,” said the Angora cat, “you mean to say you live in the same house with a bird and a mouse and don’t do anything about it?”
“That’s the situation,” replied Snowbell. “But what can I do about it? Please remember that Stuart is a member of the family, and the bird is a permanent guest, like myself.”
“Well,” said Snowbell’s friend, “all I can say is, you’ve got more self-control than I have.”
“Doubtless,” said Snowbell. “However, I sometimes think I’ve got too much self-control for my own good. I’ve been terribly nervous and upset lately, and I think it’s because I’m always holding myself in.”
The cats’ voices grew louder, and they talked so loudly that they never heard a slight rustling in the vine a few feet above their heads. It was a gray pigeon, who had been asleep there and who had awakened at the sound of cats and begun to listen. “This sounds like an interesting conversation,” said the pigeon to himself. “Maybe I’d better stay around and see if I can learn something.”
“Look here,” he heard the Angora cat say to Snowbell, “I admit that a cat has a duty toward her own people, and that under the circumstances it would be wrong for you to eat Margalo. But I’m not a member of your family and there is nothing to stop me from eating her, is there?”
“Nothing that I can think of offhand,” said Snowbell.
“Then here I go,” said the Angora, starting up the vine. The pigeon was wide awake by this time, ready to fly away; but the voices down below continued.
“Wait a minute,” said Snowbell, “don’t be in such a hurry. I don’t think you’d better go in there tonight.”
“Why not?” asked the other cat.
“Well, for one thing, you’re not supposed to enter our house. It’s unlawful entry, and you might get into trouble.”
“I won’t get into any trouble,” said the Angora.
“Please wait till tomorrow night,” said
Snowbell, firmly. “Mr. and Mrs. Little will be going out tomorrow night, and you won’t be taking such a risk. It’s for your own good I’m suggesting this.”
“Oh, all right,” agreed the Angora. “I guess I can wait. But tell me where I’ll find the bird, after I do get in.”
“That’s simple,” said Snowbell. “Climb this vine, enter George’s room through the open window, then go downstairs and you’ll find the bird asleep in the Boston fern on the bookcase.”
“Easy enough,” said the Angora, licking her chops. “I’m obliged to you, sir.”
“Well, the old thing!” whispered the pigeon to himself, and he flew away quickly to find a piece of writing paper and a pencil. Snowbell said goodnight to his friend and climbed up the vine and went in to bed.
Next morning Margalo found a note on the branch of her fern when she woke. It said:
BEWARE OF A STRANGE CAT WHO WILL
COME BY NIGHT. It was signed A WELL
WISHER. She kept the note under her wing all day long, wondering what she had better do, but she didn’t dare show it to anyone—not even to Stuart. She couldn’t eat, she was so frightened.
“What had I better do?” she kept saying to herself.
Finally, just before dark, she hopped up to an open window and without saying anything to anybody she flew away. It was springtime, and she flew north, just as fast as she could fly, because something inside her told her that north was the way for a bird to go when spring comes to the land.
10 春天
10 春天
野茉莉，就是那只猫，喜欢夜里胜过白天。也许因为它的眼睛喜欢黑。但我想是因为纽约夜里总是有那么多有意思的事情在发生。
野茉莉在附近有几个朋友。有一些是家里养的猫，有一些是商店什么的养的猫。它在AP公司认识一只青灰色的短毛马耳他猫，在隔壁公寓大楼认识一只白色的波斯猫，在熟食店认识一只花斑猫，在图书馆分馆底层认识一只豹猫，此外，它还认识一只年轻漂亮的安哥拉猫，这安哥拉猫从第三街一家宠物商店的笼子里逃出来，如今在靠近斯图尔特家那个小公园的工具间里过自己的自由自在的生活。
一个春天美丽的傍晚，野茉莉到小公园去看那只安哥拉猫。它回家时已经很晚了，安哥拉猫说夜色那么好，很高兴陪它这位男朋友多散散步。它们一直来到利特尔先生家，两只猫在一棵很高的葡萄树下蹲下来。这棵葡萄树的藤从墙边爬上去，经过乔治的卧室。因此这棵葡萄树对野茉莉十分有用，它夜里可以爬藤上去，钻进乔治开着的窗口进屋。野茉莉跟它这位女朋友谈着谈着，讲起了玛加洛和斯图尔特的事。
“天啊，”安哥拉猫说，“你是说，你跟一只小鸟和一只小老鼠住在同一座房子里，却一点事情也不做吗？”
“就是这么回事，”野茉莉回答说。“可我又有什么办法呢？请你记住，斯图尔特是这一家的小少爷，而小鸟是位常住的客人，跟我自己一样。”
“那么，”野茉莉这位女朋友说，“我能够说的就是，你自我控制的能力比我强得多。”
“那是没有疑问的，”野茉莉说。“不过有时候我想，我也太过分自我控制而不考虑自己的利益了。近来我极其紧张和难受，我想这是因为我一直自我控制的缘故。”
两只猫越说越响，说得太响了，就听不见在它们头顶几英尺高的葡萄藤上的轻微簌簌声。这是一只灰色鸽子，它在那里本来睡着了，却被两只猫的说话声吵醒了，于是开始竖起耳朵听。“它们这番谈话听上去很有趣，”它对自己说。“也许我不妨留下来，看看我是不是能听到点什么。”
“你听我说，”鸽子听到安哥拉猫对野茉莉说，“我也承认，一只猫对它的自己人是有一种义务，在这种环境里，你去吃玛加洛是错的。不过我不是你们家的一员，没有任何东西可以阻止我去吃它，对不对？有什么东西可以阻止我吗？”
“眼下我还想不出有什么东西可以阻止你，”野茉莉说。
“那么我去了，”安哥拉猫说着跳上葡萄藤。这时那只鸽子已经完全醒了，正准备飞走，可下面声音又响起来。
“等一等，”野茉莉说，“不要那么急嘛。我认为今天晚上你最好不要进屋。”
“为什么不要进屋？”另一只猫问道。
“就为了一个缘故，你是不可以进我们家的。这是非法闯入，你会有麻烦。”
“我不会有任何麻烦，”安哥拉猫说。
“请等到明天晚上吧，”野茉莉坚决地说。“利特尔先生和太太明天晚上要出去，你就不会冒那么大的风险了。我这么跟你说，都是为了你好。”
“那好吧，”安哥拉猫答应了。“我想我能够等一等。不过告诉我，我真进去了，在什么地方能找到那只小鸟呢？”
“那很简单，”野茉莉说。“爬上这葡萄藤，通过开着的窗口进乔治的房间，然后下楼，你会找到那小鸟睡在书架上的波士顿肾蕨草里。”
“那太容易了，”安哥拉猫舔着它的嘴说。“谢谢你，朋友。”
“哼，那老家伙！”鸽子对自己咕咕一声，很快地飞走，去找来一张纸和一支铅笔。
这时候，野茉莉和它的朋友道了晚安，爬上葡萄藤，进屋睡觉去了。
第二天早晨玛加洛醒来，在它的蕨草枝上找到了一张字条。字条上说：
当心一只陌生猫，它晚上要来。
好心人（签名）
玛加洛把字条整天藏在它的翅膀底下，考虑它该怎么办才好，但是它又不敢把字条给任何人看——哪怕是斯图尔特。它吃不下，它太害怕了。
“我怎么办呢？”它不停地对自己说。
最后，就在天黑之前，它跳到一个开着的窗口，没跟任何人说一声，就飞走了。这是春天，它朝北飞，有多快飞多快，因为它内心里有个声音告诉它说，当春天降临大地的时候，北方是鸟儿飞去的地方。
XI. The Automobile
XI. The Automobile
For three days everybody hunted all over the house for Margalo without finding so much as a feather.
“I guess she had spring fever,” said George. “A normal bird doesn’t stay indoors this kind of weather.”
“Perhaps she has a husband somewhere and has gone to meet him,” suggested Mr. Little.
“She has not!” sobbed Stuart, bitterly.
“That’s just a lot of nonsense.”
“How do you know?” asked George.
“Because I asked her one time,” cried
Stuart. “She told me she was a single bird.”
Everybody questioned Snowbell closely, but the cat insisted he knew nothing about Margalo’s disappearance. “I don’t see why you have to make a pariah out of me just because that disagreeable little chippy flew the coop,” said Snowbell, irritably.
Stuart was heartbroken. He had no appetite, refused food, and lost weight.
Finally he decided that he would run away from home without telling anybody, and go out into the world and look for Margalo. “While I am about it, I might as well seek my fortune, too,” he thought.
Before daybreak next morning he got out his biggest handkerchief and in it he placed his toothbrush, his money, his soap, his comb and brush, a clean suit of underwear, and his pocket compass.
“I ought to take along something to remember my mother by,” he thought. So he crept into his mother’s bedroom where she was still asleep, climbed the lamp cord to her bureau, and pulled a strand of Mrs.
Little’s hair from her comb. He rolled the hair up neatly and laid it in the handkerchief with the other things. Then he rolled everything up into a bundle and tied it onto one end of a wooden match. With his gray felt hat cocked jauntily on one side of his head and his pack slung across his shoulder, Stuart stole softly out of the house.
“Good-by, beautiful home,” he whispered.
“I wonder if I will ever see you again.”
Stuart stood uncertainly for a moment in the street in front of the house. The world was a big place in which to go looking for a lost bird. North, south, east, or west—which way should he go? Stuart decided that he needed advice on such an important matter, so he started uptown to find his friend Dr. Carey, the surgeon-dentist, owner of the schooner Wasp.
The doctor was glad to see Stuart. He took him right into his inner office where he was busy pulling a man’s tooth. The man’s name was Edward Clydesdale, and he had several wads of gauze in his cheek to hold his mouth open good and wide. The tooth was a hard one to get out, and the Doctor let Stuart sit on his instrument tray so they could talk during the operation.
“This is my friend, Stuart Little,” he said to the man with the gauze in his cheek.
“How ‘oo oo, Soo’rt,” replied the man, as best he could.
“Very well, thank you,” replied Stuart.
“Well, what’s on your mind, Stuart?” asked Dr. Carey, seizing hold of the man’s tooth with a pair of pincers and giving a strong pull.
“I ran away from home this morning,” explained Stuart. “I am going out into the world to seek my fortune and to look for a lost bird. Which direction do you think I should start out in?”
Dr. Carey twisted the tooth a bit and racked it back and forth. “What color is the bird?” he asked.
“Brown,” said Stuart.
“Better go north,” said Dr. Carey.
“Don’t you think so, Mr. Clydesdale?”
“’ook in ‘entral ‘ark,” said Mr.
Clydesdale.
“What?” cried Stuart.
“I ‘ay, ‘ook in ‘entral ‘ark,” said Mr.
Clydesdale.
“He says look in Central Park,” explained Dr. Carey, tucking another big wad of gauze into Mr. Clydesdale’s cheek. “And it’s a good suggestion. Oftentimes people with decayed teeth have sound ideas. Central Park is a favorite place for birds in the spring.” Mr. Clydesdale was nodding his head vigorously, and seemed about to speak again.
“If ‘oo ‘on’t ‘ocate a ‘ird in ‘entral ‘ark, ‘ake a ‘ew ‘ork ‘ew ‘aven and ‘artford ‘ailway ‘n ‘ook in ‘onnecticut.”
“What?” cried Stuart, delighted at this new kind of talk. “What say, Mr.
Clydesdale?”
“If ‘oo ‘on’t ‘ocate a ‘ird in ‘entral ‘ark, ‘ake a ‘ew ‘ork ‘ew ‘aven and ‘artford ‘ailway ‘n ‘ook in ‘onnecticut.”
“He says if you can’t locate the bird in Central Park, take a New York New Haven and Hartford Railway train and look in Connecticut,” said Dr. Carey. Then he removed the rolls of gauze from Mr. Clydesdale’s mouth. “Rinse, please!” he said.
Mr. Clydesdale took a glass of
mouthwash that was beside the chair and rinsed his mouth out.
“Tell me this, Stuart,” said Dr. Carey.
“How are you traveling? On foot?”
“Yes, sir,” said Stuart.
“Well, I think you’d better have a car. As soon as I get this tooth out, we’ll see what can be done about it. Open, please, Mr. Clydesdale.”
Dr. Carey grabbed the tooth with the pincers again, and this time he pulled so long and so hard and with such determination that the tooth popped out, which was a great relief to everybody, particularly to Mr. Clydesdale. The Doctor then led Stuart into another room. From a shelf he took a tiny automobile, about six inches long—the most perfect miniature automobile Stuart had ever seen. It was bright yellow with black fenders, a streamlined car of graceful design. “I made this myself,” Dr. Carey said. “I enjoy building model cars and boats and other things when I am not extracting teeth. This car has a real gasoline motor in it. It has quite a good deal of power—do you think you can handle it, Stuart?”
“Certainly,” replied Stuart, looking into the driver’s seat and blowing the horn. “But isn’t it going to attract too much attention? Won’t everybody stop and stare at such a small automobile?”
“They would if they could see you,” replied Dr. Carey, “but nobody will be able to see you, or the car.”
“Why not?” asked Stuart.
“Because this automobile is a thoroughly modern car. It’s not only noiseless, it’s invisible.
Nobody can see it.”
“I can see it,” remarked Stuart.
“Push that little button!” said the Doctor, pointing to a button on the instrument panel. Stuart pushed the button. Instantly the car vanished from sight.
“Now push it again,” said the Doctor.
“How can I push it when I can’t see it?” asked Stuart.
“Feel around for it.”
So Stuart felt around until his hand came in contact with a button. It seemed like the same button, and Stuart pushed it. He heard a slight grinding noise and felt something slip out from under his hand.
“Hey, watch out!” yelled Dr. Carey. “You pushed the starter button. She’s off! There she goes! She’s away! She’s loose in the room—now we’ll never catch her.” He grabbed Stuart up and placed him on a table where he wouldn’t be hit by a runaway car.
“Oh, mercy! Oh, mercy!” Stuart cried when he realized what he had done. It was a very awkward situation. Neither Dr. Carey nor Stuart could see the little automobile, yet it was rushing all over the room under its own power, bumping into things. First there came a crashing noise over by the fireplace. The hearth broom fell down. Dr. Carey leapt for the spot and pounced on the place where the sound had come from. But though he was quick, he had hardly got his hands on the place when there was another crash over by the wastebasket. The Doctor pounced again. Pounce! Crash! Pounce! Crash! The Doctor was racing all over the room, pouncing and missing. It is almost impossible to catch a speedy invisible model automobile even when one is a skillful dentist.
“Oh, oh,” yelled Stuart, jumping up and down. “I’m sorry, Dr. Carey, I’m dreadfully sorry!”
“Get a butterfly net!” shouted the Doctor.
“I can’t,” said Stuart. “I’m not big enough to carry a butterfly net.”
“That’s true,” said Dr. Carey. “I forgot. My apologies, Stuart.”
“The car is bound to stop sometime,” said Stuart, “because it will run out of gas.”
“That’s true, too,” said the Doctor. And so he and Stuart sat down and waited patiently until they no longer heard any crashing sounds in the room. Then the Doctor got down on his hands and knees and crawled cautiously all over, feeling here and there, until at last he found the car. It was in the fireplace, buried up to its hubs in wood ashes. The Doctor pressed the proper button and there it stood in plain sight again, its front fenders crumpled, its radiator leaking, its headlights broken, its windshield shattered, its right rear tire punctured, and quite a bit of yellow paint scratched off the hood.
“What a mess!” groaned the Doctor. “Stuart, I hope this will be a lesson to you: never push a button on an automobile unless you are sure of what you are doing.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Stuart, and his eyes filled with tears, each tear being smaller than a drop of dew. It had been an unhappy morning, and Stuart was already homesick. He was sure that he was never going to see Margalo again.
11 汽车
11 汽车
一家人满屋寻找玛加洛，整整找了三天，可是连它的一根羽毛也没找到。
“我猜想它是害了春倦症，”乔治说。“在这种气候，一只正常的鸟是不待在室内的。”
“也许它在什么地方有个丈夫，上它那儿去了，”利特尔先生猜想。
“它没有丈夫，”斯图尔特难过地哭鼻子说。“这完全是瞎说。”
“你又怎么知道？”乔治问他。
“因为我有一回问过它，”斯图尔特哭着说。“它告诉我说，它是单身的。”
大家紧紧地盘问野茉莉，可是这只猫一口咬定，说玛加洛失踪它一点儿也不知情。“我不明白，只因为这只讨厌的吱吱喳喳的小东西飞走了，你们为什么非把我当贱民对待不可，”野茉莉生气地说。
斯图尔特心碎了。他吃不下，他不肯吃东西，他瘦了。最后他决定不跟任何人说一声，离家出走，到外面的世界里去寻找玛加洛。“我一面寻找它，同时也可以寻找我自己的幸福，”他想。
第二天天没亮，他拿出他一块最大的手绢，把他的牙刷、他的钱、他的肥皂、他的梳子和刷子、他的一套干净内衣裤和他的袖珍指南针一股脑儿放在里面。
“我还应该带点什么，好用它来记住我的妈妈，”他想。于是他溜到他妈妈的卧室。他妈妈还在睡觉，他爬电灯拉绳到她的梳妆台上，从利特尔太太的梳子上拉出一根她的头发。他把这根头发整齐地卷好，和其他东西一起放在手绢里。然后他把所有的东西打成一个包袱，拴在一根木头火柴的头上。他再把他那顶灰色呢帽斜斜地戴在头上，把那个包袱扔到肩上，就悄悄地溜出了房子。
“再见了，美丽的家，”他轻轻地说。“不知道我还会不会再见到你们。”
斯图尔特在门口的大街上没有把握地站了一会儿。去找一只失踪的小鸟，这个世界太大了。东，南，西，北——他该朝哪一个方向走呢？斯图尔特拿定了主意，这么重大的事情，需要别人一点指教，于是他动身出城去找他的朋友卡里医生，就是那位牙外科医师，也就是那艘纵帆船黄蜂号的主人。
医生看到斯图尔特很高兴。他马上把他带到他里面的诊室，他在那里正忙着给一位病人拔牙。这个人叫爱德华•克莱德斯代尔，他的腮帮子里塞着好几团纱布，为了让他把嘴好好张大。要拔的那颗牙很牢，医生就让斯图尔特坐在他的工具盆里，这样他一面拔牙，一面可以和斯图尔特讲话。
“这一位是我的朋友，斯图尔特•利特尔，”他向嘴里塞着纱布的病人介绍说。
“你—噢—噢—好，”那人尽可能清楚点回答。
“很好，谢谢你，”斯图尔特回答。
“好，斯图尔特，你有什么心事？”卡里医生问道，同时用拔牙钳子夹紧病人要拔的牙，狠狠地拉。
“我今天早晨离家出走了，”斯图尔特解释说。“我要到世界上去寻找我的幸福，并且寻找我的一只失踪了的小鸟。你认为我该朝哪一个方向走呢？”
卡里医生把那颗牙敲敲，然后前后摇动。“那小鸟是什么颜色的？”
“棕色，”斯图尔特说。
“朝北走比较好，”卡里医生说。“你不这样认为吗，克莱德斯代尔先生？”
“噢翁肮公肮噢噢，”克莱德斯代尔先生说。
“你说什么？”斯图尔特叫道。
“我饿噢翁肮公肮噢噢，”克莱德斯代尔先生说。
“他说到中央公园找找，”卡里医生替克莱德斯代尔先生翻译，一边说着，一边在他的腮帮子里面又塞了一大团纱布。“这个主意不错。有坏牙的人常常有好主意。中央公园在春天里是小鸟们喜欢的地方。”
克莱德斯代尔先生起劲地点他的头，好像又要说话了。
“噢是待翁肮公肮噢不噢那噢，哦纽哦火欵噢肮诶狄格欧去噢。”
“什么？”斯图尔特叫道，他听到这种新的说话方式十分高兴。“你说什么，克莱德斯代尔先生？”
“噢是待翁肮公肮噢不噢那噢，哦纽哦火欵噢肮诶狄格欧去噢。”
“他说，要是在中央公园找不到那鸟，坐纽约火车到康涅狄格州去找，”卡里医生说。这时候他把克莱德斯代尔嘴里一团团的纱布夹出来。“请漱口吧，”他说。
克莱德斯代尔先生拿起椅子旁边的一杯漱口水漱口。
“你告诉我，斯图尔特，”卡里医生说。“你怎么去呢？用两只脚走着去吗？”
“是的，医生，”斯图尔特说。
“不过我想你最好有辆汽车。只等我把这颗牙拔掉，我们来看看有什么办法。请把嘴张开，克莱德斯代尔先生。”
卡里医生又用钳子夹住那颗牙，不过这一回他拔了很长时间，也很用力，决心那么大，那颗牙终于拔出来了，每一个人都大大松了口气，特别是克莱德斯代尔先生。
接着医生把斯图尔特带到另外一个房间。他从一个架子上拿起一辆小汽车，大约六英寸长——这是斯图尔特看到过的最精美的模型汽车。这汽车亮黄色，有黑色的挡泥板，流线型，设计得很优美。
“这是我自己做的，”卡里医生说。“不拔牙的时候，我喜欢做模型汽车、模型帆船和其他东西。这辆汽车内部有个真正的汽油发动机。它的马力很大——你想你能驾驶它吗，斯图尔特？”
“当然能，”斯图尔特回答说，仔细看里面的司机驾驶座，按按喇叭。“不过它不是会吸引很多人注意吗？这么小的一辆汽车，大家不会停下来看吗？”
“如果他们看得见你，他们会的，”卡里医生回答说。“不过没有人能看到你，或者看到这辆车。”
“为什么？”斯图尔特问道。
“因为这汽车绝对新式，不但无声，而且无形。没有人能看见它。”
“可我看得见，”斯图尔特提出。
“你按一下那颗小按钮！”医生指着仪器板上一颗按钮说。
斯图尔特把那按钮一按，汽车马上看不见了。
“现在再按它一下，”医生说。
“我看不见它，我怎么能按呢？”斯图尔特问。
“用手去摸到它。”
于是斯图尔特用手在它周围摸，摸到了一颗按钮。看来它就是原先那颗，于是一按。他听到很轻的转动声音，感觉到什么东西从他手底下滑走了。
“嘿，小心！”卡里医生大叫。“你按错了，你按了开车按钮。车就开了！它开走了！它离开了！它在房间里乱窜了——现在我们怎么也没办法捉住它。”他把斯图尔特抱起来，放到一张桌子上，在那里，他就不会被一辆乱窜的汽车撞倒。
“噢，天啊！噢，天啊！”斯图尔特一明白他做了什么事，就不由得叫起来。这种情形真是太尴尬了。卡里医生也好，斯图尔特也好，都看不见那辆小汽车，可它依靠自己的力量满房间横冲直撞，撞到各种各样东西上面去。首先是壁炉旁边传来啪嗒声。扫壁炉的扫帚倒下来了。卡里医生连忙跳到那里，向原先发出声音的位置猛扑上去。他也算是快了，可他还没把手伸到那地方，字纸篓旁边又一声哗啦！医生又往那里跑。刚跑到！啪嗒！刚跑到！哗啦！医生在整个房间团团转地赛跑，跑到了又错过了。一辆超速行驶而又看不见的模型汽车，它几乎是不可能逮住的，哪怕这个人是技术一流的牙科医生。
“噢，噢，”斯图尔特在桌子上蹦蹦跳跳，一点不停。“我很抱歉，卡里医生，我说不出地抱歉！”
“拿个捉蝴蝶的网兜来！”医生叫道。
“我没法办，”斯图尔特说。“我还没有大到能够拿动捉蝴蝶的网兜。”
“那倒不假，”卡里医生说。“我忘记了。请你原谅，斯图尔特。”
“汽车到头来总要停下的，”斯图尔特说，“因为它的汽油总会用光的。”
“这也不假，”医生说。
于是他和斯图尔特两个人坐下来，耐心地一直等到房间里再听不到啪嗒声和哗啦声以及轰隆声、扑通声。然后医生连手带脚趴在地上，小心翼翼地满地爬，这里摸摸那里摸摸，直到最后，他终于把车找到了。它在壁炉里，火灰一直埋到它半个车轮那么高。医生按了一下正确的按钮，它又清清楚楚地看得见了，它的前挡泥板已经扭弯，它的散热器在漏，它的车头灯破了，它的挡风玻璃碎了，它的右面后车胎给戳穿了，车篷上很大一片黄漆刮掉了。
“一堆破烂！”医生叹气说。“斯图尔特，我希望这对你来说是一个教训：在汽车上，除非你清清楚楚明明白白你是在做什么，绝对不要动手去按一颗按钮。”
“是的，医生，”斯图尔特说，同时他的眼睛里噙着泪水，每一滴泪水比一滴露水还要小。这是一个不愉快的上午，斯图尔特已经想家了。他毫不怀疑，他永远也见不到玛加洛了。
XII. The Schoolroom
XII. The Schoolroom
While Dr. Carey was making repairs on the car, Stuart went shopping. He decided that, since he was about to take a long motor trip, he should have the proper clothes. He went to a doll’s shop, where they had things which were the right size for him, and outfitted himself completely, with new luggage, suits, shirts, and accessories. He charged everything and was well pleased with his purchases. That night he slept at the Doctor’s apartment.
The next morning, Stuart started early, to avoid traffic. He thought it would be a good idea to get out on the road before there were too many cars and trucks. He drove through Central Park to One Hundred and Tenth Street, then over to the West Side Highway, then north to the Saw Mill River Parkway. The car ran beautifully and although people were inclined to stare at him,
Stuart didn’t mind. He was very careful not to press the button which had caused so much trouble the day before. He made up his mind that he would never use that button again.
Just as the sun was coming up, Stuart saw a man seated in thought by the side of the road. Stuart steered his car alongside, stopped, and put his head out.
“You’re worried about something, aren’t you?” asked Stuart.
“Yes, I am,” said the man, who was tall and mild.
“Can I help you in any way?” asked Stuart in a friendly voice.
The man shook his head. “It’s an impossible situation, I guess,” he replied. “You see, I’m the Superintendent of Schools in this town.”
“That’s not an impossible situation,” said Stuart. “It’s bad, but it’s not impossible.”
“Well,” continued the man, “I’ve always got problems that I can’t solve. Today, for instance, one of my teachers is sick—Miss Gunderson her name is. She teaches Number Seven school. I’ve got to find a substitute for her, a teacher who will take her place.”
“What’s the matter with her?” asked Stuart.
“I don’t know, exactly. The doctor
says she may have rhinestones,” replied the Superintendent.
“Can’t you find another teacher?” asked Stuart.
“No, that’s the trouble. There’s nobody in this
town who knows anything; no spare teachers, no anything. School is supposed to begin in an hour.”
“I will be glad to take Miss Gunderson’s place for a day, if you would like,” suggested Stuart agreeably.
The Superintendent of Schools looked up.
“Really?”
“Certainly,” said Stuart. “Glad to.”
He opened the door of the little car and stepped out. Walking around to the rear, he opened the baggage compartment and took out his suitcase. “If I’m to conduct a class in a schoolroom, I’d better take off these motoring togs and get into something more suitable,” he said. Stuart climbed the bank, went into the bushes, and was back in a few minutes wearing a pepper-and-salt jacket, old striped trousers, a Windsor tie, and spectacles. He folded his other clothes and packed them away in the suitcase.
“Do you think you can maintain discipline?” asked the Superintendent.
“Of course I can,” replied Stuart. “I’ll make the work interesting and the discipline will take care of itself. Don’t worry about me.”
The man thanked him and they shook hands.
At quarter before nine the scholars had gathered in School Number Seven. When they missed Miss Gunderson and word got round that there would be a substitute, they were delighted.
“A substitute!” somebody whispered to somebody else. “A substitute, a substitute!”
The news traveled fast, and soon everyone in the schoolroom knew that they were all to have a rest from Miss Gunderson for at least a day and were going to have the wonderful experience of being taught by a strange teacher whom nobody had ever seen before.
Stuart arrived at nine. He parked his car briskly at the door of the school, stalked boldly into the room, found a yardstick leaning against Miss Gunderson’s desk, and climbed hand-over-hand to the top. There he found an inkwell, a pointer, some pens and pencils, a bottle of ink, some chalk, a bell, two hairpins, and three or four books in a pile. Stuart scrambled nimbly up to the top of the stack of books and jumped for the button on the bell. His weight was enough to make it ring, and Stuart promptly slid down, walked to the front of the desk, and said:
“Let me have your attention, please!”
The boys and girls crowded around the desk
to look at the substitute. Everyone talked at once, and they seemed to be very much pleased. The girls giggled and the boys laughed and everyone’s eyes lit up with excitement to see such a small and good-looking teacher, so appropriately dressed.
“Let me have your attention, please!” repeated Stuart. “As you know, Miss Gunderson is sick and I am taking her place.”
“What’s the matter with her?” asked Roy Hart, eagerly.
“Vitamin trouble,” replied Stuart. “She took Vitamin D when she needed A. She took B when she was short of C, and her system became overloaded with riboflavin, thiamine hydrochloride, and even with pyridoxine, the need for which in human nutrition has not been established. Let it be a lesson for all of us!” He glared fiercely at the children and they made no more inquiries about Miss Gunderson.
“Everyone will now take his or her seat!” commanded Stuart. The pupils filed obediently down the aisles and dropped into their seats, and in a moment there was silence in the classroom. Stuart cleared his throat. Seizing a coat lapel in either hand, to make himself look like a professor, Stuart began:
“Anybody absent?”
The scholars shook their heads.
“Anybody late?”
They shook their heads.
“Very well,” said Stuart, “what’s the first
subject you usually take up in the morning?”
“Arithmetic,” shouted the children.
“Bother arithmetic!” snapped Stuart.
“Let’s skip it.”
There were wild shouts of enthusiasm at this suggestion. Everyone in the class seemed perfectly willing to skip arithmetic for one morning.
“What next do you study?” asked Stuart.
“Spelling,” cried the children.
“Well,” said Stuart, “a
misspelled word is an abomination in the sight of everyone. I consider it a very fine thing to spell words correctly and I strongly urge every one of you to buy a Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary and consult it whenever you are in the slightest doubt. So much for spelling. What’s next?”
The scholars were just as pleased to be let out of spelling as they were about arithmetic, and they shouted for joy, and everybody looked at everybody else and laughed and waved handkerchiefs and rulers, and some of the boys threw spit balls at some of the girls. Stuart had to climb onto the pile of books again and dive for the bell to restore order. “What’s next?” he repeated.
“Writing,” cried the scholars.
“Goodness,” said Stuart in disgust, “don’t you
children know how to write yet?”
“Certainly we do!” yelled one and all.
“So much for that, then,” said Stuart.
“Social studies come next,” cried Elizabeth Gardner, eagerly.
“Social studies? Never heard of them,” said Stuart. “Instead of taking up any special subject this morning, why wouldn’t it be a good idea if we just talked about something.”
The scholars glanced around at each other in expectancy.
“Could we talk about the way it feels to hold a snake in your hand and then it winds itself around your wrist?” asked Arthur Greenlaw.
“We could, but I’d rather not,” replied Stuart.
“Could we talk about sin and vice?” pleaded Lydia Lacey.
“Nope,” said Stuart. “Try again.”
“Could we talk about the fat woman at the circus and she had hair all over her chin?” begged Isidor Feinberg, reminiscently.
“No,” said Stuart. “I’ll tell you, let’s talk about the King of the World.” He looked all around the room hopefully to see how the children liked that idea.
“There isn’t any King of the World,” said Harry Jamieson in disgust.
“What’s the diff?” said Stuart. “There ought to be one.”
“Kings are old-fashioned,” said Harry.
“Well, all right then, let’s talk about the
Chairman of the World. The world gets into a lot of trouble because it has no chairman. I would like to be Chairman of the World myself.”
“You’re too small,” said Mary Bendix.
“Oh, fish feathers!” said Stuart. “Size has nothing to do with it. It’s temperament and ability that count. The Chairman has to have ability and he must know what’s important. How many of you know what’s important?”
Up went all the hands.
“Very good,” said Stuart, cocking one leg across the other and shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “Henry Rackmeyer, you tell us what is important.”
“A shaft of sunlight at the end of a dark afternoon, a note in music, and the way the back of a baby’s neck smells if its mother keeps it tidy,” answered Henry.
“Correct,” said Stuart. “Those are the important things. You forgot one thing, though. Mary Bendix, what did Henry Rackmeyer forget?”
“He forgot ice cream with chocolate sauce on it,” said Mary quickly.
“Exactly,” said Stuart. “Ice cream is
important. Well now, if I’m going to be
Chairman of the World this morning, we’ve got to have
some rules, otherwise it will be too confusing, with
everyone running every which way and helping himself to things and
nobody behaving. We’ve got to have some laws if we’re going to play this game. Can anybody suggest any good laws for the world?”
Albert Fernstrom raised his hand. “Don’t eat mushrooms, they might be toadstools,” suggested Albert.
“That’s not a law,” said Stuart, “that’s merely a bit of friendly advice. Very good advice, Albert, but advice and law are not the same. Law is much more solemn than advice. Law is extremely solemn. Anybody else think of a law for the world?”
“Nix on swiping anything,” suggested John Poldowski, solemnly.
“Very good,” said Stuart. “Good law.”
“Never poison anything but rats,” said
Anthony Brendisi.
“That’s no good,” said Stuart. “It’s unfair to rats. A law has to be fair to everybody.”
Anthony looked sulky. “But rats are unfair to us,” he said. “Rats are objectionable.”
“I know they are,” said Stuart. “But from a rat’s point of view, poison is objectionable. A Chairman has to see all sides to a problem.”
“Have you got a rat’s point of view?” asked Anthony. “You look a little like a rat.”
“No,” replied Stuart, “I have more the point of view of a mouse, which is very different. I see things whole. It’s obvious to me that rats are underprivileged. They’ve never been able to get out in the open.”
“Rats don’t like the open,” said Agnes Beretska.
“That’s because whenever they come out, somebody socks them. Rats might like the open if they were allowed to use it. Any other ideas for laws?” Agnes Beretska raised her hand. “There ought to be a law against fighting.”
“Impractical,” said Stuart. “Men like to fight. But you’re getting warm, Agnes.”
“No scrapping?” asked Agnes, timidly. Stuart shook his head.
“Absolutely no being mean,” suggested Mildred Hoffenstein.
“Very fine law,” said Stuart. “When I am Chairman, anybody who is mean to anybody else is going to catch it.”
“That won’t work,” remarked Herbert Prendergast. “Some people are just naturally mean. Albert Fernstrom is always being mean to me.”
“I’m not saying it’ll work,” said Stuart.
“It’s a good law and we’ll give it a try.
We’ll give it a try right here and now. Somebody do something mean to somebody. Harry Jamieson, you be mean to Katharine Stableford. Wait a minute, now, what’s that you’ve got in your hand, Katharine?”
“It’s a little tiny pillow stuffed with sweet balsam.”
“Does it say “For you I pine, for you I balsam” on it?”
“Yes,” said Katharine.
“Do you love it very much?” asked Stuart.
“Yes, I do,” said Katharine.
“O.k., Harry, grab it, take it away!”
Harry ran over to where Katharine sat, grabbed the little pillow from her hand, and ran back to his seat, while Katharine screamed.
“Now then,” said Stuart in a fierce voice, “hold on, my good people, while your Chairman consults the book of rules!” He pretended to thumb through a book. “Here we are. Page 492. “Absolutely no being mean.”
Page 560. “Nix on swiping anything.” Harry Jamieson has broken two laws—the law against being mean and the law against swiping. Let’s get Harry and set him back before he becomes so mean people will hardly recognize him any more! Come on!”
Stuart ran for the yardstick and slid down, like a fireman coming down a pole in a firehouse. He ran toward Harry, and the other children jumped up from their seats and raced up and down the aisles and crowded around Harry while Stuart demanded that he give up the little pillow. Harry looked frightened, although he knew it was just a test. He gave Katharine the pillow.
“There, it worked pretty well,” said Stuart.
“No being mean is a perfectly good law.” He
wiped his face with his handkerchief, for he was quite warm
from the exertion of being Chairman of the World. It had taken more running and leaping and sliding than he had imagined. Katharine was very much pleased to have her pillow back.
“Let’s see that little pillow a minute,” said Stuart, whose curiosity was beginning to get the better of him. Katharine showed it to him. It was about as long as Stuart was high, and Stuart suddenly thought what a fine sweet-smelling bed it would make for him. He began to want the pillow himself.
“That’s a very pretty thing,” said Stuart, trying to hide his eagerness. “You don’t want to sell it, do you?”
“Oh, no,” replied Katharine. “It was a present to me.”
“I suppose it was given you by a boy you met at Lake Hopatcong last summer, and it reminds you of him,” murmured Stuart, dreamily.
“Yes, it was,” said Katharine, blushing.
“Ah,” said Stuart, “summers are wonderful,
aren’t they, Katharine?”
“Yes, and last summer was the most wonderful summer I have ever had in all my life.”
“I can imagine,” replied Stuart. “You’re sure you wouldn’t want to sell that little pillow?” Katharine shook her head.
“Don’t know as I blame you,” replied Stuart, quietly. “Summertime is important. It’s like a shaft of sunlight.”
“Or a note in music,” said Elizabeth Acheson.
“Or the way the back of a baby’s neck smells if its mother keeps it tidy,” said Marilyn Roberts.
Stuart sighed. “Never forget your summertimes, my dears,” he said. “Well, I’ve got to be getting along. It’s been a pleasure to know you all. Class is dismissed!”
Stuart strode rapidly to the door, climbed into the car, andwitha final wave of the hand drove off in a northerly direction, while the children raced alongside and screamed “Good-by, good-by, good-by!” They all wished they could have a substitute every day, instead of Miss Gunderson.
12 教室
12 教室
趁卡里医生在修理那辆汽车，斯图尔特上商店去买东西。他决定下来，既然他要坐汽车去作长途旅行，他就该有像样的衣服。他走进一家卖洋娃娃的玩具店，那里会有适合他尺寸的各种东西，让他完全装备起来，像新的手提箱、套装、衬衫和零碎用品。他买了所有的东西，对买来的东西很满意。那天晚上他就睡在医生的公寓里。
第二天早晨，斯图尔特一早动身，避开交通繁忙的时刻。他想这是个好主意，在小汽车大卡车太多之前就到公路上。他开车穿过中央公园到第一百一十号街，然后开到西区公路，然后朝北到锯木厂河干道。汽车走得很棒，虽然路人想看看他，斯图尔特却一点不在乎。他十分小心谨慎，不去按昨天闯了大祸的那颗按钮。他拿定主意，再也不用那颗按钮了。
正当太阳升起来的时候，斯图尔特看见一个人坐在路边埋着头想心事。斯图尔特在他旁边刹住了车，停下来，把头探出车窗。
“你是在担心什么事吧？”斯图尔特问他。
“不错，我是在担心，”那人说，他又高又温和。
“我能够帮你点什么忙吗？”斯图尔特用友好的声音问他。
那人摇摇头。“我想我陷入绝境了，”他回答说。“你知道，我是管本城各学校的教育厅长。”
“这也不可能是什么绝境，”斯图尔特说。“事情可能很糟，但不会没有办法的。”
“事情是这样，”那人说下去，“我老是遇到我没有办法解决的问题。就说今天吧，我的一位老师病了——她的名字叫冈德森小姐。她教第七小学。我得找代课老师来代替她上课。”
“她怎么啦？”斯图尔特问道。
“我也不清楚。医生说她可能害了什么病，”教育厅长回答说。
“你找不到代课老师吗？”斯图尔特问道。
“找不到，就为这件事伤脑筋。这个城没有人懂得点什么，没有多出来的老师，一个也没有。可过一个小时学校就要上课了。”
“如果你愿意，我很高兴给冈德森小姐代一天课，”斯图尔特欣然提议。
那位教育厅长抬起头来看。
“真的？”
“当然，”斯图尔特说。“很乐意。”他打开小汽车的车门走出来。他绕到车后面，打开行李厢，拿出他的手提箱。“如果我要在教室里教一个班，我最好脱下这身开汽车的衣服，换上一身更合适的，”他说。斯图尔特爬上人行道，钻进一丛矮树。等到他几分钟后回来，已经是上穿一件芝麻呢上装，下着一条条子西裤，脖子上蓬蓬松松地打了一条蝴蝶结式丝绸领带，鼻子上加上一副眼镜。他把脱下来的衣服折好，放进手提箱。
“你想你能够维持好秩序吗？”教育厅长问道。
“当然能够，”斯图尔特回答。“我会教得趣味盎然，秩序自然而然就好了。不用担心我。”
那人谢谢他，两个人握了手。
八点三刻，小学生们已经都到第七小学来了。他们惦念冈德森小姐，忽然听说要来代课老师，非常高兴。
“代课老师！”一个学生悄悄地传给另一个。“代课老师！”
这消息传得快，一转眼工夫，教室里每一个学生都知道，他们至少有一天要停上冈德森小姐的课，而尝尝由一位没人见过的陌生老师教他们的特别滋味。
斯图尔特九点钟来到学校。他快捷地把他的汽车停在学校门口，雄赳赳气昂昂地大踏步走进教室。他看见一把码尺靠在冈德森小姐的桌子旁边，两手交替着从这把码尺爬上了桌子，看到一个嵌在桌子上的墨水缸、一根教鞭、几支钢笔和铅笔、一瓶墨水、一些粉笔、一个用手按的铃、两个发夹和一叠三四本书。斯图尔特灵活地爬到那叠书上面，一纵身跳到铃的按钮上。他的重量足够让铃丁零零响起来。接着他敏捷地从那铃滑到桌子上，走到桌子前面，对大家说：
“我要请大家专心上课！”
男生女生把老师的桌子团团围住，要看看这位代课老师。所有学生同时七嘴八舌、唧唧喳喳地说起话来，看上去十分高兴。女生们咯咯笑，男生们哈哈笑，每个人的眼睛里亮起兴奋的眼光，因为看到这么小这么好看的一位老师，还穿得那么讲究。
“我要请大家专心上课！”斯图尔特再说一遍。“你们都知道，冈德森小姐生病了，我现在来代她的课。”
“她怎么啦？”罗伊急着问。
“都是吃维生素吃出来的毛病，”斯图尔特回答说。“该吃维生素A，她吃了维生素D。她缺少维生素C，她却吃了维生素B。她的身体里变得核黄素、氢氯化物硫胺素，甚至吡哆醇过量，弄得人的营养系统不能适应。让这件事情成为我们大家的教训吧！”他狠狠地看看这些孩子，他们也就不再继续询问冈德森小姐的事了。
“现在请大家回到自己的座位上去！”斯图尔特吩咐大家。
学生们乖乖地沿着课桌椅间一条条过道回去，坐到他们的位子上，有好一会儿整个教室寂静无声。斯图尔特清清他的嗓子。他用双手各抓住上装的一条翻领，一副教授的派头，然后开口：
“有人缺席吗？”
学生们摇头。
“有人迟到吗？”
学生们摇头。
“很好，”斯图尔特说。“你们早上通常上的第一门课是什么？”
“算术，”孩子们大声说。
“算术，去它的吧！”斯图尔特厉声说。“让我们跳过它。”
一听到这个主意，全班热烈欢呼。每一个学生看来都完全乐意跳过算术，哪怕是一个早晨也好。
“接下来你们学什么？”
“拼写，”孩子们大叫。
“很好，”斯图尔特说，“一个拼错的字在大家眼里是一个丢脸的东西。我认为把字拼对是件大好事，因此我强烈希望，你们每人买一本《韦氏大学生词典》，有任何最小的疑问也查查它。拼写就上到这里了。接下来是什么？”
学生们对放掉拼写和放掉算术同样高兴，他们热烈欢呼，你看看我我看看你，又是哈哈笑，又是挥舞手绢和尺，有些男生向女生扔蘸口水的纸团。斯图尔特又不得不爬到那叠书上面往铃上面跳，让丁零零的铃声使大家静下来。
“接下来上什么？”他再问一遍。
“作文，”学生们叫道。
“天啊，”斯图尔特厌恶地说，“你们这些孩子还不会作文？”
“我们当然会作文！”大家异口同声叫道。
“那么这门课就到此为止，”斯图尔特说。
“下一门课是社会课，”伊丽莎白很急地叫道。
“社会课？从来没有听说过，”斯图尔特说。“今天早晨干脆不上什么社会课，就是随便谈点什么，这主意难道不好吗？”
学生们转过头来互相看，希望什么人开口。
“我们能谈谈抓住一条蛇，让它缠在手腕间的那种感觉吗？”阿瑟问道。
“可以，不过我觉得还是不谈这个好，”斯图尔特回答说。
“我们可以谈谈罪过和邪恶行为吧？”莉迪亚求他。
“不行，”斯图尔特说。“再想想别的。”
“我们可以谈谈马戏班那个胖女人吗，她下巴上全是胡子？”伊西多回想着看马戏的事，求他说。
“不，”斯图尔特说。“我来告诉你们，让我们来谈谈世界之王吧。”他环顾教室，希望看到孩子们有多么喜欢这个话题。
“根本没有什么世界之王，”哈里不以为然地说。
“那有什么关系？”斯图尔特说。“应该 有一个。”
“什么王不王的，都过时了，”哈里说。
“那好吧，那么让我们谈谈世界的主席。世界麻烦多，就因为没有一个主席。我自己就想当上世界的主席。”
“你太小了，”玛丽说。
“噢，不搭界！”斯图尔特说。“这跟个子大小一点关系也没有。要紧的是气质和能力。主席必须有能力，他必须知道什么是重要的。你们有多少人知道什么是重要的？”
所有的手都举起来。
“非常好，”斯图尔特说，架起了二郎腿，把两只手插进上装口袋。“亨利，你先告诉我们，什么是重要的。”
“阴暗下午到头来出现的一束阳光，音乐的一个音符，一个小宝宝脖子后面的香味——如果他的妈妈一直把它洗得干干净净的话，”亨利回答。
“正确，”斯图尔特说。“这些东西都是重要的。不过你还忘记了一样东西。玛丽，亨利忘记了什么呢？”
“他忘记了冰淇淋加上巧克力酱，”玛丽脱口而出。
“一点不错，”斯图尔特说。“冰淇淋是重要的。好，如果今天早晨我当上世界的主席，我们就得定下些规矩，定下些法律，要不然就乱套了，每个人各干各的，自己想什么就要什么，没有人循规蹈矩。我们要玩游戏必须有规则。你们有什么人能为这个世界提出些好法律吗？”
艾伯特举手。“不要吃蘑菇，它们可能是毒蕈，”艾伯特提议说。
“这不是法律，”斯图尔特说，“这只是一点善意的忠告。是很好的忠告，艾伯特，不过忠告和法律不是一回事。法律比忠告更加严格。法律极其严格。还有什么人能给世界想出一条法律来吗？”
“严禁偷窃抢劫，”约翰•波多夫斯基严肃地提议。
“非常好，”斯图尔特说。“是条好法律。”
“严禁毒死任何东西，老鼠除外，”安东尼说。
“这不好，”斯图尔特说。“这对于老鼠不公平。法律面前，人人平等，都要公平。”
安东尼看上去有点不高兴。“可老鼠对我们就不公平，”他说。“老鼠叫人讨厌。”
“我知道它们是这样，”斯图尔特说。“不过从老鼠的观点来说，毒是叫人讨厌的。主席必须全方位看问题。”
“你有老鼠的观点吗？”安东尼问道。“你看上去有点儿像老鼠。”
“不，”斯图尔特说。“我耗子的观点更多，那是很不一样的。我全面看问题。对于我来说，老鼠显然被剥夺了基本权利。它们从来不能在光天化日下走出来。”
“老鼠不喜欢光天化日，”阿格妮丝说。
“那是因为它们一出来就要挨打，老鼠过街，人人喊打嘛。如果允许它充分享受在光天化日下自由行走的权利，它们会喜欢光天化日的。关于法律大家还有什么想法？”
阿格妮丝举手。“应该有条法律反对打架。”
“不切实际，”斯图尔特说。“男人喜欢打架。不过你挺热心，阿格妮丝。”
“不可以吵架呢？”阿格妮丝胆怯地问。斯图尔特摇摇头。
“严禁卑鄙下流，”米尔德里德建议。
“非常好的一条法律，”斯图尔特说。“我当了主席，任何人对任何人卑鄙下流就是犯了这一条法律。”
“那没用，”赫伯特指出。“有人天生就是卑鄙下流。艾伯特一直对我很卑鄙下流。”
“我不是说它就有用，”斯图尔特说，“不过这是一条好法律，我们就要让它试行。就在这里，从现在起，我们就来试行。什么人对什么人做件什么卑鄙下流的事吧。哈里，你来对凯瑟琳做件卑鄙下流的事。等一等，凯瑟琳你说，你手里拿着什么？”
“是个小香袋，里面塞满了香喷喷的凤仙花。”
“它上面写着‘我把你思想，我给你闻香’？”
“对，”凯瑟琳说。
“你非常喜欢它吗？”
“是的，我太喜欢了，”凯瑟琳说。
“那好，哈里，抓住它，把它拿走！”
哈里一下子跑到凯瑟琳的座位那里，从她手上一把抢过小香袋，又跑回自己的座位上，这时凯瑟琳尖叫起来。
“好，”斯图尔特用很凶的口气说，“现在等着，我的好人民，让你们的主席查阅法律全书！”他装出用拇指翻书的样子。“这里有了。第492页。‘严禁卑鄙下流。’第560页。‘严禁偷窃抢劫。’哈里共犯了两条法律——严禁卑鄙下流的法律和严禁偷窃抢劫的法律。让我们抓住哈里，让他回复到变得如此卑鄙下流以致叫人都认不出来他以前的样子！来吧！”
斯图尔特跑到码尺那里，像消防队员在消防队里滑下下楼滑竿那样，抱着码尺一直滑到下面地上。他向哈里跑过去，其他孩子也从他们的座位上跳起来，沿着座位间的通道，有的从那边跑过来，有的从这边跑过去，围住了哈里，这时斯图尔特吩咐他把小香袋还出来。哈里看上去吓坏了，虽然他明白这只是一个试验。他把香袋还给了凯瑟琳。
“你们瞧，这法律非常有效，”斯图尔特说。“严禁卑鄙下流是一条完美的法律。”他用手绢擦擦脸，因为行使世界主席的权力让他热起来了。他又要跑，又要跳，又要滑下来，这些动作比他想像的还要多。凯瑟琳很高兴拿回她那个小香袋。
“请你把那个小香袋给我们看一会儿好吗？”斯图尔特说，他自己开始克制不住对它的好奇心了。凯瑟琳把她的小香袋给他看。这小香袋有斯图尔特的身高那么长，斯图尔特忽然想到，它可以给他当一张很好的香喷喷的床用。他自己开始想要这个小香袋了。
“这东西非常漂亮，”斯图尔特说，想要掩盖自己的猴急相。“你不想把它卖了吗？”
“噢，不想，”凯瑟琳回答说。“它是别人送给我的礼物。”
“我猜想是去年夏天你在霍帕孔湖休养，遇到了一个男孩子，他把它送给了你，这小香袋让你想起了他，”斯图尔特梦想似的说。
“对，是这么回事，”凯瑟琳说，她脸都红了。
“啊，”斯图尔特说，“夏天是美好的，对吗，凯瑟琳？”
“对，去年夏天是我一辈子里度过的最美好的一个夏天。”
“我可以想像出来，”斯图尔特回答说。“你断定你不想卖掉这个小香袋吗？”
凯瑟琳摇摇她的头。
“正如我责怪你们的，你们不知道，”斯图尔特安静地回答说，“夏天是重要的。它就像一束阳光。”
“或者音乐的一个音符，”伊丽莎白•艾奇逊说。
“或者一个小宝宝脖子后面的香味——如果他的妈妈一直把它洗得干干净净的话，”玛丽琳说。
斯图尔特叹了口气。“永远不要忘记你们那些夏天，我亲爱的朋友们，”他说。“好，我必须动身了。认识你们大家真是快乐。下课了！”
斯图尔特很快地迈开大步走到校门口，爬上汽车，最后挥了一下手，开车朝北走了，这时候孩子们在他旁边一面飞快地跑，一面大叫：“再见，再见，再见！”他们全都希望每天有一位代课老师来代冈德森小姐的课。
XIII. Ames’ Crossing
XIII. Ames’ Crossing
In the loveliest town of all, where the houses were white and high and the elm trees were green and higher than the houses, where the front yards were wide and pleasant and the back yards were bushy and worth finding out about, where the streets sloped down to the stream and the stream flowed quietly under the bridge, where the lawns ended in orchards and the orchards ended in fields and the fields ended in pastures and the pastures climbed the hill and disappeared over the top toward the wonderful wide sky, in this loveliest of all towns Stuart stopped to get a drink of sarsaparilla.
Parking his car in front of the general store, he stepped out and the sun felt so good that he sat down on the porch for a few moments to enjoy the feeling of being in a new place on a fine day. This was the most peaceful and beautiful spot he had found in all his travels. It seemed to him a place he would gladly spend the rest of his life in, if it weren’t that he might get homesick for the sights of New York and for his family, Mr. and Mrs. Frederick C. Little and George, and if it weren’t for the fact that something deep inside him made him want to find Margalo.
After a while the storekeeper came out to smoke a cigarette, and he joined Stuart on the front steps. He started to offer Stuart a cigarette but when he noticed how small he was, he changed his mind.
“Have you any sarsaparilla in your store?” asked Stuart. “I’ve got a ruinous thirst.”
“Certainly,” said the storekeeper.
“Gallons of it. Sarsaparilla, root beer, birch beer, ginger ale, Moxie, lemon soda, Coca Cola, Pepsi Cola, Dipsi Cola, Pipsi Cola, Popsi Cola, and raspberry cream tonic. Anything you want.”
“Let me have a bottle of sarsaparilla, please,” said Stuart, “and a paper cup.”
The storekeeper went back into the store and returned with the drink. He opened the bottle, poured some out into the cup, and set the cup down on the step below Stuart, who whipped off his cap, lay down on his stomach, and dipped up some of the cool refreshing drink, using his cap as a dipper.
“That’s very refreshing,” remarked Stuart. “There’s nothing like a long, cool drink in the heat of the day, when you’re traveling.”
“Are you going far?” asked the storekeeper.
“Perhaps very far,” replied Stuart. “I’m
looking for a bird named Margalo. You haven’t sighted her, have you?”
“Can’t say I have,” said the storekeeper.
“What does she look like?”
“Perfectly beautiful,” replied Stuart, wiping the sarsaparilla off his lips with the corner of his sleeve. “She’s a remarkable bird. Anybody would notice her. She comes from a place where there are thistles.”
The storekeeper looked at Stuart closely.
“How tall are you?” he asked.
“You mean in my stocking feet?” said Stuart.
“Yes.”
“Two inches nothing and a quarter,” answered
Stuart. “I haven’t been measured recently, however. I may have shot up a bit.”
“You know,” said the storekeeper, thoughtfully, “there’s somebody in this town you really ought to meet.”
“Who’s that?” asked Stuart, yawning.
“Harriet Ames,” said the storekeeper.
“She’s just your size—maybe a trifle shorter, if anything.”
“What’s she like?” asked Stuart. “Fair, fat, and forty?”
“No, Harriet is young and she is quite pretty. She is considered one of the best dressed girls in this town, too. All her clothes are tailored specially for her.”
“That so?” remarked Stuart.
“Yes. Harriet’s quite a girl. Her people, the Ameses, are rather prominent in this town. One of her ancestors used to be the ferryman here in Revolutionary days. He would carry anybody across the stream—he didn’t care whether they were British soldiers or American soldiers, as long as they paid their fare. I guess he did pretty well. Anyway, the Ameses have always had plenty of money. They live in a big house with a lot of servants. I know Harriet would be very much interested to meet you.”
“That’s very kind of you,” replied Stuart, “but
I’m not much of a society man these days. Too much on the move. I never stay long anywhere—I blow into a town and blow right out again, here today, gone tomorrow, a will o’ the wisp. The highways and byways are where you’ll find me, always looking for Margalo. Sometimes I feel that I’m quite near to her and that she’s just around the turn of the road. Other times I feel that I’ll never find her and never hear her voice again. Which reminds me, it’s time I was on my way.” Stuart paid for his drink, said good-by to the storekeeper, and drove off. But Ames’ Crossing seemed like the finest town he had ever known, and before he reached the end of the main street he swerved sharp left, turned off onto a dirt road, and drove down to a quiet spot on the bank of the river. That afternoon he swam and lay on his back on the mossy bank, his hands crossed under his head, his thoughts returning to the conversation he had had with the storekeeper.
“Harriet Ames,” he murmured.
Evening came, and Stuart still lingered by the stream.
He ate a light supper of a cheese sandwich and a drink of water, and slept that night in the warm grass with the sound of the stream in his ears.
In the morning the sun rose warm and bright and Stuart slipped into the river again for an early dip. After breakfast he left his car hidden under a skunk cabbage leaf and walked up to the post office. While he was filling his fountain pen from the public inkwell he happened to glance toward the door and what he saw startled him so that he almost lost his balance and fell into the ink. A girl about two inches high had entered and was crossing the floor toward the mail boxes. She wore sports clothes and walked with her head held high. In her hair was a stamen from a flower.
Stuart began to tremble from excitement.
“Must be the Ames girl,” he said to himself. And he kept out of sight behind the inkwell as he watched her open her mail box, which was about a quarter of an inch wide, and pull out her letters. The storekeeper had told the truth:
Harriet was pretty. And of course she was the only girl Stuart had ever encountered who wasn’t miles and miles taller than he was. Stuart figured that if the two of them were to walk along together, her head would come a little higher than his shoulder. The idea filled him with interest. He wanted to slide down to the floor and speak to her, but he didn’t dare. All his boldness had left him and he stayed hidden behind the inkwell until Harriet had gone. When he was sure that she was out of sight, he stole out of the post office and slunk down the street to the store, half hoping that he would meet the beautiful little girl, half fearing that he would.
“Have you any engraved stationery?” he asked the storekeeper. “I’m behind on my correspondence.”
The storekeeper helped Stuart up onto the counter and found some letter paper for him—small paper, marked with the initial L. Stuart whipped out his fountain pen and sat down against a five-cent candy bar and began a letter to Harriet:
“MY DEAR MISS AMES,” he wrote. “I am a young person of modest proportions. By birth I am a New Yorker, but at the moment I am traveling on business of a confidential nature. My travels have brought me to your village. Yesterday the keeper of your local store, who has an honest face and an open manner, gave me a most favorable report of your character and appearance.”
At this point in the letter Stuart’s pen ran dry from the long words and Stuart had to get the storekeeper to lower him head-first into a bottle of ink so that he could refill the pen. Then he went back to letter writing. ...
“Pray forgive me, Miss Ames,” continued Stuart, “for presuming to strike up an acquaintance on so slender an excuse as your physical similarity; but of course the fact is, as you yourself must know, there are very few people who are only two inches in height. I say “two inches”—actually I am somewhat taller than that. My only drawback is that I look something like a mouse. I am nicely proportioned, however. Am also muscular beyond my years. Let me be perfectly blunt: my purpose in writing this brief note is to suggest that we meet. I realize that your parents may object to the suddenness and directness of my proposal, as well as to my somewhat mouselike appearance, so I think probably it might be a good idea if you just didn’t mention the matter to them. What they don’t know won’t hurt them. However, you probably understand more about dealing with your father and mother than I do, so I won’t attempt to instruct you but will leave everything to your good judgment.
“Being an outdoors person, I am camped by the river in an attractive spot at the foot of Tracy’s Lane. Would you care to go for a paddle with me in my canoe? How about tomorrow afternoon toward sundown, when the petty annoyances of the day are behind us and the river seems to flow more quietly in the long shadows of the willows? These tranquil spring evenings are designed by special architects for the enjoyment of boatmen. I love the water, dear Miss Ames, and my canoe is like an old and trusted friend.” Stuart forgot, in the excitement of writing Harriet, that he did not own a canoe.
“If you wish to accept my invitation, be at the river tomorrow about five o’clock. I shall await your arrival with all the eagerness I can muster. And now I must close this offensive letter and catch up with my affairs.
Yours very truly,
STUART LITTLE.”
After Stuart had sealed his letter in an envelope, he turned to the storekeeper.
“Where can I get hold of a canoe?” he asked.
“Right here,” replied the storekeeper. He walked over to his souvenir counter and took down a little birchbark canoe with the words SUMMER MEMORIES stamped on the side. Stuart examined it closely.
“Does she leak?” asked Stuart.
“It’s a nice canoe,” replied the storekeeper, bending it gently back into shape with his fingers. “It will cost you seventy-five cents plus a penny tax.”
Stuart took out his money and paid the man. Then he looked inside the canoe and noticed that there were no paddles.
“What about paddles?” he said, making his voice sound businesslike. The storekeeper hunted around among the souvenirs but he couldn’t seem to find any paddles, so he went over to the ice cream counter and came back with two little cardboard spoons—the kind you use for eating ice cream on picnics.
“These will work out all right as paddles,” he said.
Stuart took the spoons, but he was disgusted with the looks of them.
“They may work out all right,” said Stuart, “but I would hate to meet an American Indian while I had one of these things in my hand.”
The storekeeper carried the canoe and the paddles out in front of the store and set them down in the street. He wondered what this tiny boatman would do next, but Stuart never hesitated. Taking a piece of thread from his pocket, he lashed the paddles to the thwarts, swung the canoe lightly up on his head, and walked off with it as calmly as though he were a Canadian guide. He was very proud of his ability with boats and he liked to show off.
13 艾姆斯镇
13 艾姆斯镇
这座城镇比一切城镇都漂亮：一座座房子是白的，高高的，一棵棵榆树是绿的，比这些房子还要高；一个个前院宽大可爱，一个个后院矮树丛很多，值得一看；一条条街道斜着向下，通往一条小河，这条小河静静地在桥下流过；一块块草地连着果园，一个个果园连着田野，一片片田野连着牧场，一个个牧场爬上山头，在山顶消失，但见那边美丽的天空无边无际——就在这座比一切城镇都漂亮的城镇里，斯图尔特停下车来，要弄口菝葜汽水喝喝。
把汽车泊在一家杂货店前面以后，他下了车，感到太阳这么好，就在门廊上坐下，享受在大晴天来到一个新地方的那种舒服感觉。在他的整个旅途中，这是他找到的最平静最美丽的地方。他感到他很乐意在这样一个地方度过他的余生，要不是他会思念纽约的景色，会思念他的家，弗雷德里克•利特尔先生和太太以及乔治，要不是他的内心深处有个愿望要找到玛加洛的话。
过了一会儿，店老板出来抽烟，和斯图尔特一起坐在前门台阶上。他打算请斯图尔特抽支烟，可是看到斯图尔特那么小，他又改变主意了。
“你的店里有菝葜汽水吗？”斯图尔特问道。“我渴死了。”
“当然有，”店老板说。“有不知多少加仑。有菝葜汽水，沙示汽水，桦啤，干姜水，柠檬汽水，可口可乐，百事可乐，千事可乐，万事可乐，事事可乐，还有悬钩子奶油健身露。你要什么有什么。”
“请给我一瓶菝葜汽水就够了，”斯图尔特说，“再给我一个纸杯。”
店老板走到店里，拿着一瓶菝葜汽水回来。他打开瓶子，倒了一点到纸杯里，把这杯菝葜汽水放在斯图尔特下面一级踏级上。斯图尔特摘下帽子，肚子贴地趴下来，用他的帽子当勺子，舀起清凉的饮料来喝。
“真解渴，”斯图尔特说。“大热天走远路，再没有东西比得上大大喝一顿清凉饮料了。”
“你要去的地方远吗？”店老板问道。
“也许非常 远，”斯图尔特回答。“我在找一只小鸟，叫玛加洛的。请问你见过它吗？”
“不能说我见过，”店老板说。“它长什么模样？”
“美丽极了，”斯图尔特回答说，同时用他的袖口擦掉嘴唇上的汽水。“它是一只与众不同的小鸟。谁见了都会注意到它的。它来自一个长蓟草的地方。”
店老板靠近点细看斯图尔特。
“你有多高？”他问道。
“你是说用你们的尺？”
“对。”
“两英寸整再加一英寸的四分之一，”斯图尔特回答。“不过最近我没量过。我可能又高了一点。”
“你知道，”店老板思考着说，“这城里有一个人你实在应该去见一见。”
“什么人？”斯图尔特打着哈欠问道。
“哈丽特•艾姆斯，”店老板说。“她就你那么大小——甚至说不定还矮一些。”
“她什么模样？”斯图尔特问道。“漂亮，肥胖，四十岁？”
“不，哈丽特很年轻，十分漂亮。而且她被公认为本城衣着最好的姑娘之一。她所有的衣服都是专门为她裁制的。”
“是这样？”斯图尔特说。
“是的。哈丽特真是个出色的姑娘。她一家人，艾姆斯家的人，在本城十分有名。她的一位祖先在美国独立战争 (1)  时期一直在这里的渡口摆渡。他把什么人都渡过河——也不管他们是英国兵还是美国兵，只要他们付摆渡的钱就行。我猜想他干得很好。反正艾姆斯家的人一直很有钱。他们住在一座大房子里，有许多仆人。我相信哈丽特会很高兴看到你的。”
“谢谢你，”斯图尔特回答说，“不过这些日子我不大爱交际。走得太厉害了。我在什么地方都待不久——我一下子进一个城，我一下子又离开一个城，今天在这里，明天在那里，行踪不定。在公路上和偏僻小路上可以找到我，我一直在寻找玛加洛。有些时候，我觉得离它很近了，它好像就在路拐弯的地方。另一些时候，我又觉得我将永远找不到它，再也不能听到它的声音。我倒想起来，现在我该上路了。”
斯图尔特付了汽水的钱，告别了店老板，开车走了。
可是艾姆斯镇似乎是他所知道的城镇中最好的城镇，在到达大街尽头之前，他向左一个急转弯，开进一条泥路，一直开下去，来到河边一个很安静的地点。那天下午他游了一番泳，仰卧在长满青苔的岸边，双手交叉放在头底下，回想起和店老板的那番对话。
“哈丽特•艾姆斯，”他咕噜了一声。
天晚了，斯图尔特仍旧逗留在河边。他简单地吃了个干酪三明治，喝了点水，那天夜里他就睡在温暖的草丛里，耳朵里尽是流水的声音。
早晨太阳暖和明亮，斯图尔特又下河洗了个早晨的澡。吃过早饭，他把汽车藏在一片观音莲叶子底下，走着上邮局去。正当他站在公用墨水壶边上给自己那支自来水笔吸墨水的时候，他偶然朝门口一看，他看到的东西使他的心猛地一跳，差点儿身体失去平衡，跌到墨水里去。是一个大约两英寸高的姑娘走进门，走过地板，朝着邮箱走去。她穿着一身便服，走起路来头抬得高高的。她的头发上插着一点从一朵花上掐下来的雄蕊。
斯图尔特激动得浑身颤抖。
“这一定就是艾姆斯家的那位姑娘了，”他心里说。
他在墨水壶后面躲起来不让人看到，偷看她打开她那约四分之一英寸宽的邮箱，拉出她的信。店老板没说错：这位哈丽特是漂亮。当然，她是斯图尔特碰到的唯一一个不是比他高许多英寸许多英寸的姑娘。斯图尔特琢磨，如果他们两个一起并排走，她的头大概在他的肩膀上面一点。这个想法使他充满兴趣。他真想滑到下面地板上，走过去和她讲讲话，但是他不敢。他的勇气全部失去了，他就那么躲在墨水壶后面，直到哈丽特走掉。
等他断定她已经走得看不见的时候，才偷偷地走出邮局，再偷偷摸摸地顺着街道来到一家店。一路上他半是希望能够看到那美丽的小姑娘，半又是害怕会看到她。
“你有什么现成的文具吗？”他问店老板。“我写信要来不及了。”
店老板帮助斯图尔特上了柜台，给他找到一些信纸——很小的纸，上面有个字母“L” (2)  。斯图尔特掏出他的自来水笔，背靠着一块五分钱的糖条坐下来，开始给哈丽特写信。他写道：
我亲爱的艾姆斯小姐：
我是一个中等身材的年轻人。我出生在纽约，可目前我正为一件忠于朋友的事作长途旅行。我的旅行把我带到了你的家乡。昨天，你们本地一家店的老板——他相貌忠厚，性格开朗——把你的性格和外表向我作了最可爱的介绍。
信写到这里，斯图尔特那支小自来水笔由于写了这么多字，墨水没有了，斯图尔特只好拜托店老板把他头朝下倒提着悬在一瓶墨水上面，让他给他的自来水笔灌上墨水。接着他重新回去写他那封信。他接下去写道：
艾姆斯小姐，请原谅我这样冒昧地请求和你相识，只为了一个微不足道的理由，即我们的大小相似。不过事实当然是，想来你自己一定也知道，很少有人是只有两英寸高的。我说“两英寸”，实际上我比这尺寸稍微还高一丁点儿。我唯一的欠缺是，我看上去有点儿像老鼠。不过我身材匀称。而且我肌肉发达，超过我的年龄。让我直言不讳吧？我写这封短信的目的是希望我们能见一次面。我考虑到你的父母会反对我这样突然和开门见山的求见，以及我有点像老鼠的相貌，因此我想，你最好暂时不要跟他们提起这件事。他们不知道的事不会伤他们的心。但是怎么对待你的爸爸妈妈，你可能比我懂得，因此我不打算教你怎么样怎么样了，而让一切由你明断。
由于我是一个出门的人，我如今搭了个帐篷住在河边，在特莱西街街尾一个非常迷人的地点。你可以跟我一起划小划子游游河吗？明天傍晚太阳快下山的时候怎么样，那时白天的无谓烦扰离开了我们，而小河在柳树长长的阴影间流得好像也更安静了。这些宁静的春天傍晚，都是专门的建筑师为划船人的快乐而设计出来的。我爱水，亲爱的艾姆斯小姐，我的小划子犹如一个可以信赖的老朋友。
斯图尔特在给哈丽特写信的狂热中忘记了，他还没有一只小划子呢。
如果你肯接受我的邀请，请在明天五点钟左右到河边来。我将衷心企盼着你的到来。现在我必须结束这封唐突的信，赶去做我的事了。
无比忠诚于你的
斯图尔特•利特尔
斯图尔特把信装进信封，再把信封封好，然后才向店老板转过身去。
“我到哪里能弄到一只小划子呢？”他问。
“就在这里，”店老板回答。他走到他的纪念品柜台，拿下一只印第安人的桦树皮小划子，边上印着“夏日回忆”几个字。斯图尔特仔细地检查了它。
“它漏水吗？”斯图尔特问道。
“是只很好的小划子，”店老板回答说，悄悄用他的指头轻轻地把它弯了弯，使它恢复样子。“它卖七角五分，外加一分钱税。”
斯图尔特拿出钱来付给店老板。然后他朝小划子里面看，注意到它没有船桨。
“船桨怎么啦？”他说，故意让声音有点做生意的味道。
店老板在纪念品中到处找，可是看来没能找到船桨，于是他干脆走到冰淇淋柜台，拿了两把纸板小匙子回来——野餐时吃冰淇淋用的那一种。
“它们当船桨用正合适，”他说。
斯图尔特接过匙子，但是对它们的样子大倒胃口。
“它们用起来可能没问题，”斯图尔特说，“不过让我手里拿着这样的东西，我可不愿和美洲印第安人见面。”
店老板把小划子和船桨拿到店门口，放在街上。他真不知道这个划船的小家伙接下来怎么办，可斯图尔特从来不慌不忙。他从他的口袋里掏出一根线，把船桨扎在划手座上，然后把小划子轻轻甩到他的头顶，举着它走了，镇静得就像他是个加拿大向导。他为自己对付小划子的能力感到非常自豪，很高兴露这么一手。
(1) 美国独立战争（1775—1783）是美国摆脱英国统治获得自由的战争。
(2) L是斯图尔特的姓利特尔（Little）的首字母。
XIV. An Evening on the River
XIV. An Evening on the River
When Stuart arrived at his camp site by the river, he was tired and hot. He put the canoe in the water and was sorry to see that it leaked badly. The birch bark at the stern was held together by a lacing, and the water came in through the seam. In a very few seconds the canoe was half full of water.
“Darn it!” said Stuart, “I’ve been swindled.” He had paid seventy-six cents for a genuine Indian birchbark canoe, only to find that it leaked.
“Darn, darn, darn,” he muttered.
Then he bailed out his canoe and hauled it up on the beach for repairs. He knew he couldn’t take Harriet out in a leaky boat—she wouldn’t like it. Tired though he was, he climbed a spruce tree and found some spruce gum. With this he plugged the seam and stopped the leak. Even so, the canoe turned out to be a cranky little craft.
If Stuart had not had plenty of experience on the water, he would have got into serious trouble with it. It was a tippy boat even for a souvenir. Stuart carried stones from the beach down to the water’s edge and ballasted the canoe with the stones until it floated evenly and steadily. He made a back-rest so that Harriet would be able to lean back and trail her fingers in the water if she wished. He also made a pillow by tying one of his clean handkerchiefs around some moss. Then he went for a paddle to practise his stroke. He was angry that he didn’t have anything better than a paper spoon for a paddle, but he decided that there was nothing he could do about it. He wondered whether Harriet would notice that his paddle was really just an ice cream spoon.
All that afternoon Stuart worked on the canoe, adjusting ballast, filling seams, and getting everything shipshape for the morrow. He could think of nothing else but his date with Harriet. At suppertime he took his ax, felled a dandelion, opened a can of deviled ham, and had a light supper of ham and dandelion milk. After supper, he propped himself up against a fern, bit off some spruce gum for a chew, and lay there on the bank dreaming and chewing gum. In his imagination he went over every detail of tomorrow’s trip with Harriet. With his eyes shut he seemed to see the whole occasion plainly—how she would look when she came down the path to the water, how calm and peaceful the river was going to be in the twilight, how graceful the canoe would seem, drawn up on the shore. In imagination he lived every minute of their evening together.
They would paddle to a large water-lily pad upstream, and he would invite Harriet to step out on the pad and sit awhile. Stuart planned to wear his swimming trunks under his clothes so that he could dive off the lily pad into the cool stream. He would swim the crawl stroke, up and down and all around the lily pad, while Harriet watched, admiring his ability as a swimmer. (stuart chewed the spruce gum very rapidly as he thought about this part of the episode.)
Suddenly Stuart opened his eyes and sat up. He thought about the letter he had sent and he wondered whether it had ever been delivered. It was an unusually small letter, of course, and might have gone unnoticed in the letterbox. This idea filled him with fears and worries. But soon he let his thoughts return to the river, and as he lay there a whippoorwill began to sing on the opposite shore, darkness spread over the land, and Stuart dropped off to sleep.
The next day dawned cloudy. Stuart had to go up to the village to have the oil changed in his car, so he hid the canoe under some leaves, tied it firmly to a stone, and went off on his errand, still thinking about Harriet and wishing it were a nicer day. The sky looked rainy.
Stuart returned from the village with a headache, but he hoped that it would be better before five o’clock.
He felt rather nervous, as he had never taken a girl canoeing before. He spent the afternoon lying around camp, trying on different shirts to see which looked best on him and combing his whiskers. He would no sooner get a clean shirt on than he would discover that it was wet under the arms, from nervous perspiration, and he would have to change it for a dry one. He put on a clean shirt at two o’clock, another at three o’clock, and another at quarter past four. This took up most of the afternoon. As five o’clock drew near, Stuart grew more and more nervous. He kept looking at his watch, glancing up the path, combing his hair, talking to himself, and fidgeting. The day had turned chilly
and Stuart was almost sure that there was going to be rain.He couldn’t imagine what he would do if it should rain just as Harriet Ames showed up to go canoeing.
At last five o’clock arrived. Stuart heard someone coming down the path. It was Harriet. She had accepted his invitation. Stuart threw himself down against a stump and tried to strike an easy attitude, as though he were accustomed to taking girls out. He waited till Harriet was within a few feet of him, then got up.
“Hello there,” he said, trying to keep his voice from trembling.
“Are you Mr. Little?” asked Harriet.
“Yes,” said Stuart. “It’s nice of you
to come.”
“Well, it was very good of you to ask me,” replied Harriet. She was wearing a white sweater, a tweed skirt, short white wool socks, and sneakers. Her hair was tied with a bright colored handkerchief, and Stuart noticed that she carried a box of peppermints in her hand.
“Not at all, glad to do it,” said Stuart. “I only wish we had better weather. Looks rather sticky, don’t you think?” Stuart was trying to make his voice sound as though he had an English accent.
Harriet looked at the sky and nodded. “Oh, well,” she said, “if it rains, it rains.”
“Sure,” repeated Stuart, “if it rains, it rains. My canoe is a short distance up the shore. May I help you over the rough places in the path?” Stuart was a courteous mouse by nature, but Harriet said she didn’t need any help. She was an active girl and not at all inclined to stumble or fall. Stuart led the way to where he had hidden the canoe, and Harriet followed, but when they reached the spot Stuart was horrified to discover that the canoe was not there. It had disappeared.
Stuart’s heart sank. He felt like crying.
“The canoe is gone,” he groaned.
Then he began racing wildly up and down the bank, looking everywhere. Harriet joined in the search, and after a while they found the canoe—but it was a mess. Some one had been playing with it. A long piece of heavy string was tied to one end. The ballast rocks were gone. The pillow was gone. The back rest was gone. The spruce gum had come out of the seam. Mud was all over everything, and one of the paddles was all bent and twisted. It was just a mess. It looked just the way a birchbark canoe looks after some big boys are finished playing with it.
Stuart was heartbroken. He did not know what to do. He sat down on a twig and buried his head in his hands. “Oh, gee,” he kept saying, “oh, gee whiz.”
“What’s the trouble?” asked Harriet.
“Miss Ames,” said Stuart in a trembling
voice, “I assure you I had everything beautifully arranged—everything. And now look!”
Harriet was for fixing the canoe up and going out on the river anyway, but Stuart couldn’t stand that idea.
“It’s no use,” he said bitterly, “it wouldn’t be the same.”
“The same as what?” asked Harriet.
“The same as the way it was going to be, when I was thinking about it yesterday. I’m afraid a woman can’t understand these things. Look at that string!It’s tied on so tight I could never get it off.”
“Well,” suggested Harriet, “couldn’t we just let it hang over in the water and trail along after us?”
Stuart looked at her in despair. “Did you ever see an Indian paddling along some quiet unspoiled river with a great big piece of rope dragging astern?” he asked.
“We could pretend we were fishing,” said Harriet, who didn’t realize that some people are fussy about boats.
“I don’t want to pretend I’m fishing,” cried Stuart, desperately. “Besides, look at that mud! Look at it!” He was screaming now.
Harriet sat down on the twig beside Stuart. She offered him a peppermint but he shook his head.
“Well,” she said, “it’s starting to rain, and I guess I’d better be running along if you are not going to take me paddling in your canoe. I don’t see why you have to sit here and sulk. Would you like to come up to my house? After dinner you could take me to the dance at the Country Club. It might cheer you up.”
“No, thank you,” replied Stuart. “I don’t know how to dance. Besides, I plan to make an early start in the morning. I’ll probably be on the road at daybreak.”
“Are you going to sleep out in all this rain?” asked Harriet.
“Certainly,” said Stuart. “I’ll crawl in under the canoe.”
Harriet shrugged her shoulders. “Well,” she said, “good-by, Mr. Little.”
“Good-by, Miss Ames,” said Stuart. “I am sorry our evening on the river had to end like this.”
“So am I,” said Harriet. And she walked away along the wet path toward Tracy’s Lane, leaving Stuart alone with his broken dreams and his damaged canoe.
14 河上一晚
14 河上一晚
斯图尔特来到他的河边营地，又是累，又是热。他把小划子放在水上，看到它漏得厉害，感到很难过。桦树皮在船尾的地方用一根带子扎起来，水从缝里流进来了。几秒钟工夫，半只小划子已经都是水。
“该死！”斯图尔特说。“我给骗了。”他花了七角六分钱要买一只真正的印第安人桦树皮小划子，结果它是漏水的。
“该死，该死，该死，”他嘟囔着。
接着他舀干小划子里的水，把它拉上岸来修理。他知道他不能带哈丽特出来坐一只漏船——她不会喜欢这样的。他尽管很累，还是爬上一棵云杉树，找到一些云杉树脂汁。他用它们来堵住裂缝，补了漏。即使这样，这小划子还是变成了一只古怪的小船。要不是斯图尔特有丰富的航海经验，他会有大麻烦的。尽管只是个纪念品，但这是一只摇摇晃晃的船。斯图尔特把石头从岸上搬到水边，用一块又一块石头来稳定小划子，直到它浮得平稳为止。他还做了一张靠背，这样，哈丽特可以往后靠，如果高兴，还可以把手指插在水里玩水。他还做了一个垫子，用一块干净手绢包上一些青苔扎起来。接着他去拿船桨来练习划船。他很生气，竟然只能用纸羹匙来当船桨用，但是他算定，这件事他也没有别的办法了。他不知道哈丽特是不是会注意到，他的船桨实际上只是吃冰淇淋用的匙子。
一个下午斯图尔特都花在小划子上，校正压船的石头，填补裂缝，为了明天让这小划子像模像样。除了他跟哈丽特的约会，他什么也顾不上想。吃晚饭的时候，他拿起他的斧子，砍倒了一棵蒲公英，打开一罐辣味火腿，就这样吃火腿和喝蒲公英汁，简单地吃了一顿晚饭。吃完晚饭，他用一棵蕨草支撑着自己，敲出一点云杉树脂汁来嚼，云杉树脂汁可以做口香糖嘛。他就这样躺在河边，一面遐想，一面嚼他的“口香糖”。在他的想像中，他想到明天和哈丽特一起游河的每一个细节。眼睛闭上，他好像清楚地看到整个过程——她沿着小路走到河边来是什么样子，在暮色中小河将是何等安静，拉到岸上的小划子看上去有多么可爱。在想像中，他经历了他们俩一起度过这个晚上的每一分钟。他们将把小划子划到上游一大片睡莲叶子那里去。他请哈丽特踏上那片叶子坐一会儿。斯图尔特计划好在外衣里穿上游泳裤，这样，他就可以脱掉外面的衣服，从这片叶子跳到清凉的河中去游泳。他要游狗爬式，绕着睡莲叶子游来游去，而哈丽特在睡莲叶子上看着，赞美他的游泳本领。（想到这里，他嘴里的“口香糖”嚼得更快了。）
斯图尔特忽然张开眼睛坐起来。他想起了那封寄出的信，他不知道它是不是给送去了。它当然是封小得少见的信，也许会在信箱里没给看到。一想到这一点，他不由得担惊受怕。可是很快他又让他的思路回到河上，当他躺在那里的时候，一只三声夜鹰在对岸鸣唱起来，夜色笼罩大地，斯图尔特睡着了。
第二天天亮时满天是云。斯图尔特得到村里去给汽车加油，因此他把小划子藏在一些树叶底下，牢牢拴在一块石头上，然后去办他的事，心里仍旧想着哈丽特，只希望这一天天气好一些。天看上去要下雨。
斯图尔特从村里回来，头有点痛，他希望五点钟以前会好些。他觉得十分兴奋，因为他以前还从来没有带一位姑娘一起坐过小划子。他一个下午在帐篷里躺着，又试穿一件件衬衫，看哪一件穿上最好看，又梳他的胡子。一件干净衬衫刚穿上，他就发现它在胳肢窝底下是湿的，这是由于紧张得出汗的缘故，这一来他又只好换一件干的。他两点钟穿上第一件干净衬衫，三点钟穿上第二件干净衬衫，四点一刻穿上第三件干净衬衫。这样花去了大半个下午。五点钟越来越近，斯图尔特越来越紧张。他不住地低头看手表，抬头看小路，梳头发，自言自语，坐立不安。天已经转冷，斯图尔特几乎断定这就要下雨。他无法想像，万一就在哈丽特•艾姆斯露脸，要乘小划子的时候下起雨来，他可怎么办。
最后五点钟到了。斯图尔特听见有人顺着小路走来。是哈丽特。她接受了他的邀请。斯图尔特一屁股坐下来，背靠一个树墩，想装出无所谓的样子，好像他一向跟姑娘们出来惯了。他一直等到哈丽特离他只有几英尺，这才站起来。
“你好，”他说，尽量让他的声音不发抖。
“你是利特尔先生吗？”哈丽特问道。
“是的，”斯图尔特说。“谢谢你到这里来。”
“我也谢谢你请我来，”哈丽特回答。她穿一件白色羊毛套衫、一条花呢裙子、一双白色羊毛短袜、一双运动鞋。她的头发用一条颜色鲜艳的头巾包住，斯图尔特注意到，她手里拿着一包薄荷糖。
“没什么，很高兴这样做，”斯图尔特说。“我只希望我们有更好的天气。看上去不大好，你不觉得吗？”斯图尔特拼命要使他的话听上去有英国人的口音。
哈丽特抬头看看天空，点点头。“噢，得了，”她说，“天要下雨总是要下的。”
“一点不错，”斯图尔特重复她的话，“天要下雨总是要下的。我的小划子在岸上不远的地方。我可以扶你过小路上那些不平的地方吗？”斯图尔特天生是只有礼貌的老鼠，可哈丽特说她不需要任何帮忙。她是个灵活的姑娘，一点没有会绊跤或者摔倒的样子。斯图尔特带路到他藏起小划子的地方，哈丽特跟在后面，但等他们来到那个地点，斯图尔特一下子吓坏了——他发现那小划子不在那里，它已经无影无踪。
斯图尔特的心沉了下去。他觉得想哭。
“小划子不见了，”他哼哼说。
接着他发疯似的在岸上跑上跑下，到处寻找。哈丽特也跟他一起找。过了一会儿，他们终于把小划子找到了——可它已经变成一堆破烂。有人玩过它。一条很长的粗绳子拴着它的一头。压船的石头没有了。垫子没有了。靠背没有了。堵裂缝的云杉树脂汁脱落了。到处是泥巴，有一把船桨已经扭得弯弯曲曲。就是一堆破烂。就像一只桦树皮小划子让大孩子们玩完以后的样子。
斯图尔特心碎了。他不知道怎么办好。他在一根树枝上坐下来，双手抱着头。“噢，哎呀，”他说个不停，“噢，哎呀，哦唷！”
“出什么事了？”哈丽特问。
“艾姆斯小姐，”斯图尔特声音发抖地说，“我向你保证，一切事情我本来安排得妥妥帖帖的——一切事情 。可现在瞧！”
哈丽特打算把小划子装好，还是到河上去玩，可是斯图尔特一听这个主意简直受不了。
“没有用，”他伤心地说，“不会跟原来一样了。”
“跟什么原来一样？”哈丽特问。
“跟我昨天设想的样子一样。这些事情我怕女人是没有办法明白的。你看那根绳子！它扎得那么紧，我永生永世也解它不下来！”
“那么，”哈丽特建议，“我们就不能让它漂在水上，跟在我们后面吗？”
斯图尔特绝望地看着她。“你看见过印第安人在平静的河上划小划子，船尾有拖着一根粗绳子的吗？”他问道。
“我们可以装作在钓鱼，”哈丽特说，她不理解有人为了船的事那么烦恼。
“我不想装作我在钓鱼，”斯图尔特绝望地叫道。“再说，你看那些泥巴！看看它们！”他现在已经是在急叫了。
哈丽特在树枝上斯图尔特的身边坐下来。她递给他一片薄荷糖，但是他摇摇头。
“那好吧，”她说，“开始下雨了，我想，如果你不带我去划小划子，我还是快点走好。我不明白你为什么要坐在这里愁眉苦脸的。你愿意上我家去吗？吃完晚饭，你可以带我去乡村俱乐部跳舞。这样可能会让你快活起来。”
“不，谢谢你，”斯图尔特回答说。“我不会跳舞。再说，我打算明天早晨一早出发。到天亮的时候，我可能已经在路上了。”
“下雨你打算在外面睡觉吗？”哈丽特问他。
“当然，”斯图尔特说。“我可以爬到小划子底下去。”
哈丽特耸耸肩。“那么，”她说，“再见了，利特尔先生。”
“再见，艾姆斯小姐，”斯图尔特说。“我很抱歉，我们在河边的傍晚不得不这样结束。”
“我也是，”哈丽特说。她顺着湿漉漉的小路朝特莱西街走去，留下斯图尔特单独和他破碎的梦以及他破碎的小划子在一起。
XV. Heading North
XV. Heading North
Stuart slept under the canoe that night. He awakened at four to find that the rain had stopped.
The day would break clear. Already the birds were beginning to stir and make bright sounds in the branches overhead. Stuart never let a bird pass without looking to see if it was Margalo.
At the edge of the town he found a filling station and stopped to take on some gas.
“Five, please,” said Stuart to the attendant.
The man looked at the tiny automobile in amazement.
“Five what?” he asked.
“Five drops,” said Stuart. But the man
shook his head and said that he couldn’t sell such a small amount of gas.
“Why can’t you?” demanded Stuart. “You need the money and I need the gas. Why can’t we work something out between us?”
The filling station man went inside and came back with a medicine dropper. Stuart unscrewed the cap of the tank and the man put in five drops of gasoline. “I’ve never done anything like this before,” he said.
“Better look at the oil, too,” said Stuart.
After everything had been checked and the money had been paid, Stuart climbed in, started the engine, and drove out onto the highway. The sky was growing brighter, and along the river the mists of morning hung in the early light. The village was still asleep. Stuart’s car purred along smoothly. Stuart felt refreshed and glad to be on the move again.
Half a mile out of town the road forked. One road seemed to go off toward the west, the other road continued north. Stuart drew up to the side of the northbound road and got out to look the situation over. To his surprise he discovered that there was a man sitting in the ditch, leaning against a signpost. The man wore spurs on his legs. He also wore a heavy leather belt, and Stuart realized that he must be a repairman for the telephone company.
“Good morning,” said Stuart in a friendly voice. The repairman raised one hand to his head in a salute. Stuart sat down in the ditch beside him and breathed deeply of the fresh, sweet air. “It’s going to be a fine day,” he observed.
“Yes,” agreed the repairman, “a fine day. I am looking forward to climbing my poles.”
“I wish you fair skies and a tight grip,” said Stuart. “By the way, do you ever see any birds at the tops of your poles?”
“Yes, I see birds in great numbers,” replied the repairman.
“Well, if you ever run across a bird named Margalo,” said Stuart, “I’d appreciate it if you would drop me a line. Here’s my card.”
“Describe the bird,” said the repairman, taking out pad and pencil.
“Brown,” said Stuart. “Brown, with a streak of yellow on her bosom.”
“Know where she comes from?” asked the man.
“She comes from fields once tall with wheat, from
pastures deep in fern and thistle; she comes from vales of meadowsweet, and she loves to whistle.”
The repairman wrote it all down briefly. “Fields—wheat—pastures, fern and thistle. Vales, meadowsweet. Enjoys whistling.” Then he put the pad back in his pocket, and tucked Stuart’s card away in his wallet. “I’ll keep my eyes open,” he promised.
Stuart thanked him. They sat for a while in silence. Then the man spoke.
“Which direction are you headed?” he asked.
“North,” said Stuart.
“North is nice,” said the repairman.
“I’ve always enjoyed going north. Of course, south-west is a fine direction, too.”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” said Stuart, thoughtfully.
“And there’s east,” continued the repairman. “I once had an interesting experience on an easterly course. Do you want me to tell you about it?”
“No, thanks,” said Stuart.
The repairman seemed disappointed, but he kept right on talking. “There’s something about north,” he said, “something that sets it apart from all other directions. A person who is heading north is not making any mistake, in my opinion.”
“That’s the way I look at it,” said Stuart. “I rather expect that from now on I shall be traveling north until the end of my days.”
“Worse things than that could happen to a person,” said the repairman.
“Yes, I know,” answered Stuart.
“Following a broken telephone line north,
I have come upon some wonderful places,” continued the repairman. “Swamps where cedars grow and turtles wait on logs but not for anything in particular; fields bordered by crooked fences broken by years of standing still; orchards so old they have forgotten where the farmhouse is. In the north I have eaten my lunch in pastures rank with ferns and junipers, all under fair skies with a wind blowing. My business has taken me into spruce woods on winter nights where the snow lay deep and soft, a perfect place for a carnival of rabbits. I have sat at peace on the freight platforms of railroad junctions in the north, in the warm hours andwiththe warm smells. I know fresh lakes in the north, undisturbed except by fish and hawk and, of course, by the Telephone Company, which has to follow its nose. I know all these places well. They are a long way from here—don’t forget that. And a person who is looking for something doesn’t travel very fast.”
“That’s perfectly true,” said Stuart.
“Well, I guess I’d better be going.
Thank you for your friendly remarks.”
“Not at all,” said the repairman. “I hope you find that bird.”
Stuart rose from the ditch, climbed into his car, and started up the road that led toward the north. The sun was just coming up over the hills on his right.
As he peered ahead into the great land that stretched before him, the way seemed long. But the sky was bright, and he somehow felt he was headed in the right direction.
THE END
15 朝北走
15 朝北走
那天夜里，斯图尔特睡在小划子底下。
他四点钟醒来，看见雨已经停了。天亮以后会是个大好天。头顶树枝上的小鸟已经在活动，发出清亮的声音。每只鸟飞过去，斯图尔特都要看看它是不是玛加洛。
在城郊他找到了一个加油站，停下来给汽车加上些汽油。
“请来五……”斯图尔特对加油站那人说。
那人惊讶地看着这辆一丁点儿大的小汽车。
“五什么？”他问道。
“五滴，”斯图尔特说。
可是那人摇摇头，说他不能卖那么一点儿汽油。
“为什么不能呢？”斯图尔特问道。“你要的是钱，我要的是汽油。我们为什么不能商量商量，想出个办法呢？”
加油站那人进屋拿出来一个滴药水用的滴管。斯图尔特旋开汽车油箱的盖子，那人滴进五滴汽油。
“我以前还从来没有做过这样的事，”那人说。
“还是看着点汽油吧，”斯图尔特说。
汽车检查过，钱也付了以后，斯图尔特上车开动发动机，把车开到公路上。天空越来越亮，一路过去，晨雾透进了最早的亮光。村子还在睡梦中，斯图尔特的汽车平稳地呼呼开走。斯图尔特觉得精力恢复了，很高兴又上了路。
到了离城半英里的地方，公路岔开了。一条路向西，一条路向北。斯图尔特把车开到朝北走的那条路一边，下车来看看情况。让他奇怪的是，他发现有一个人坐在沟里，背靠着一个路标。那人腿上戴着靴刺，腰间围了一条粗皮带。斯图尔特明白，这一定是个电话公司的修理工人。
“你早，”斯图尔特用友好的口气说。那修理工人把一只手举到头上打了个招呼。斯图尔特走到沟里，坐到他身边，深深吸一口甜甜的新鲜空气。“接下来是个大晴天，”他观察着说。
“没错，”修理工人同意他的话，“是个大晴天。我这就要爬我的电线杆了。”
“我祝愿你天气好，抓得紧，”斯图尔特说。“我说，你在那些电线杆顶上看见什么鸟吗？”
“是的，我看见的鸟可多了，”修理工人说。
“那好，如果你碰巧看见一只鸟叫玛加洛的，”斯图尔特说，“如果你能写几个字给我，我将感激不尽。这是我的名片。”
“请说说这鸟的模样吧，”修理工人拿出记事本和铅笔说。
“棕色，”斯图尔特说。“棕色，胸口有一道黄条纹。”
“知道它是哪里来的吗？”那人问。
“它来自曾经长满高高麦子的田野；它来自长满浓密的蕨草和蓟草的牧场；它来自长满绣绒菊的溪谷；它爱吹口哨。”
那修理工人把这些全扼要记下来了。“田野……麦子……牧场，蕨草和蓟草，溪谷，绣绒菊。喜欢吹口哨。”接着他把本子放回衣兜，把斯图尔特的名片插进他的皮夹子。“我会注意看的，”他答应说。
斯图尔特谢过他。他们又默默坐了一会儿。接下来那人开了口。
“你朝哪个方向走？”他问道。
“朝北，”斯图尔特说。
“朝北走好，”修理工人说。“我一向喜欢朝北走。当然，西南也是好方向。”
“对，我想也是，”斯图尔特沉思着说。
“还有东边，”修理工人说下去。“有一回我朝东走，碰到了一件有趣的事。你要我把这件事讲给你听吗？”
“不了，谢谢，”斯图尔特说。
修理工人似乎很失望，不过他还是说下去。“关于北边也有些东西，”他说，“这些东西使它和所有其他方向不同。一个人朝北走，依我看是一点不错的。”
“我也就是这么看，”斯图尔特说。“我很希望，从现在起我将一直朝北走，直到我的生命结束。”
“一个人会碰到比那更糟糕的事情，”修理工人说。
“是的，我知道，”斯图尔特回答。
“随着一根坏了的电话线朝北走，我曾经到过一些很奇怪的地方，”修理工人说下去。“一些沼泽长着雪松，乌龟在木块上等待，但又不等待着什么东西；一些田地被歪斜的篱笆围住，篱笆一动不动地立久了，都毁坏了；果园老得都忘掉农场房子原先在哪里。在北方，我曾经在蔓生着蕨草和桧树的牧场吃过饭，它们全在美丽的天空下，清风徐来。我的工作曾经让我在冬夜里到云杉林中，那儿雪又深又松软，是兔子过狂欢节的最佳场所。我曾经安静地坐在北方铁路枢纽站的站台上，在温暖的时刻，闻着温暖的气息。我知道北方一些活水的湖泊，丝毫不受惊扰，除了鱼和鹰，自然，还有电话公司，电话公司必须笔直向前。我很熟悉所有这些地方。它们离开这里很远很远——这一点可不要忘了。一个在寻找东西的人，他是不会走得很快的。”
“这话完全不假，”斯图尔特说。“好，我想我该上路了。谢谢你对我说的友好的话。”
“没什么，”修理工人说。“我希望你找到那只鸟。”
斯图尔特从沟里出来，爬上他的汽车，开始顺着朝北的路开。太阳刚从右边的山冈升起来。他向前面一望无际的广阔土地看去，路显得很长。但天空是明亮的，他总感觉到，他正朝着正确的方向走。