Go out among them, ever moving on, whose white bones mark the way for others’ feet—who shun2 the cities, living in the wilds, and move in silence, self-contained. Who knows what they think, or dream, or hope, or suffer? Who can know? For speech among that hard-schooled lot is but a half-remembered art.
Yet something you may guess, since with the man there often goes—his dog; his silent tribute to The Book. Oh, it’s little they know of life who cannot guess the secret springs of loneliness and love that prompt the keeping of a trifling3 pet; who do not know what moves a man who daily takes his chance of life and death—man whose “breath is in his nostrils”—to lay his cheek against the muzzle4 of his comrade dog, and in the trackless miles of wilderness5 feel he has a friend. Something to hold to; something to protect.
There was old Blake—“mad, quite mad,” as everybody knew—of whom they vaguely6 said that horses, hounds, coaches, covers, and all that goes with old estates, were his—once. We knew him poor and middle-aged7. How old to us! Cheery and unpractical, with two old pointers and a fowling-piece, and a heart as warm as toast. We did not ask each other’s business there; and, judging by the dogs and gun, we put him down as a ‘remittance man.’ But that, it seems, was wrong. They were his all.
He left no letters—a little pile of paper ash; no money and no food! That was his pride. He would not sell or give away his dogs! That was his love. When he could not keep them it seemed time to go! That was his madness. But before he went, remembering a friend in hospital, he borrowed two cartridges8 and brought him in a brace9 of birds. That was old mad Blake, who ‘moved on’ and took his dogs with him, because they had always been together, and he could not leave their fate to chance. So we buried him with one on either side, just as he would have liked it!
There was Turner, who shot the crocodile that seized his dog, and reckless of the others, swam in and brought the dog to land.
There was the dog that jumped in when his master slipped from the rock, and, swimming beside him, was snapped down in his stead! And there was the boy who tried a rescue in the dark—when a rustle10, yelp11 and growl12 told that the lions had his dog—and was never seen again.
So it goes, and so it went, from year to year: a little showing now and then, like the iceberg’s tip, from which to guess the bulk below.
There was a Boy who went to seek his fortune. Call him boy or man: the years proved nothing either way! Some will be boyish always; others were never young: a few—most richly dowered few—are man and boy together. He went to seek his fortune, as boys will and should; no pressure on him from about; no promise from beyond. For life was easy there, and all was pleasant, as it may be—in a cage. ‘To-day’ is sure and happy; and there is no ‘to-morrow’—in a cage.
There were friends enough—all kind and true—and in their wisdom they said: “Here it is safe: yonder all is chance, where many indeed are called, but few—so few—are chosen. Many have gone forth13; some to return, beaten, hopeless, and despised; some to fall in sight outside; others are lost, we know not where; and ah! so few are free and well. But the fate of numbers is unheeded still; for the few are those who count, and lead; and those who follow do not think ‘How few,’ but cry ‘How strong! How free!’ Be wise and do not venture. Here it is safe: there is no fortune there!”
But there was something stronger than the things he knew, around, without, beyond—the thing that strove within him: that grew and grew, and beat and fought for freedom: that bade him go and walk alone and tell his secret on the mountain slopes to one who would not laugh—a little red retriever; that made him climb and feel his strength, and find an outlet14 for what drove within. And thus the end was sure; for of all the voices none so strong as this! And only those others reached him that would chime with it; the gentle ones which said: “We too believe,” and one, a stronger, saying: “Fifty years ago I did it. I would do it now again!”
So the Boy set out to seek his fortune, and did not find it; for there was none in the place where he sought. Those who warned him were—in the little—right: yet was he—in the greater—right too! It was not given to him as yet to know that fortune is not in time or place or things; but, good or bad, in the man’s own self for him alone to find and prove.
Time and place and things had failed him; still was effort right; and, when the first was clear beyond all question, it was instinct and not knowledge bade him still go on, saying: “Not back to the cage. Anything but that!”
When many days had passed, it was again a friend who met him, saying: “Commonsense is not cowardice16. You have made a mistake: repair it while you may. I have seen and know: there is nothing here. Come back with me, and all will be made easy.” And answer, in reason, there was none; for the little truth was all too plain, and the greater not yet seen. But that which had swelled17 to bursting and had fought within for freedom called out: “Failure is the worst of all!” And the blind and struggling instinct rose against all knowledge and all reason. “Not back to the cage! Not that!”
And the heart that had once been young spoke18 up for Auld19 Lang Syne20: the old eyes softened21 and dropped: “God speed you, Boy—Good-bye!” And as the mail-coach rumbled22 off the Boy put up his head—to try again.
The days passed, and still there was no work to do. For, those who were there already—hardened men and strong, pioneers who had roughed it—were themselves in straitened case, and it was no place for boys.
So the Boy moved on again, and with him a man in, equal plight23, but, being a man, a guide and comfort to the Boy, and one to lead him on the way. Hungry, they walked all day; yet when the sun went down and light began to fail the place where work and food and sleep should be was still far off. The mountain tracks were rough and all unknown; the rivers many, cold and swift: the country wild; none lived, few ever passed, that way. When night closed in the Boy walked on in front, and the man lagged wearily, grumbling24 at their luck. In the valley at the mountain foot they came at midnight upon water, black and still, between them and the cabin’s lights beyond; and there the man lay down. Then the Boy, turning in his anger, bade him come on; and, dragging him out upon the further bank, had found—unknowing—some little of the fortune he had come to seek.
Still, morning brought no change; still, was there no work to do. So the man gave up, and sagging25 back, was lost. And the Boy went on alone.
Rough and straight-spoken, but kindly26 men and true, were those he came among. What they could they did: what they had they gave. They made him free of board and bed; and, kinder still, now and then made work for him to do, knowing his spirit was as theirs and that his heart cried out: “Not charity, but work! Give me work!” But that they could not do, for there was no work they could not do themselves.
Thus the days and weeks went by. Willing, but unused to fend27 for himself—unfit by training for the wild rough life, heart and energy all to waste, the little he did know of no value there—the struggle with the ebbing28 tide went on; it was the wearing hopeless fight against that which one cannot grapple, and cannot even see. There was no work to be done. A few days here and there; a little passing job; a helping30 hand disguised; and then the quest again. They were all friendly—but, with the kindly habit of the place: it told the tale of hopelessness too well. They did not even ask his name; it made no difference.
Then came a day when there was nowhere else to try. Among the lounging diggers at their week-end deals he stood apart—too shy, too proud to tell the truth; too conscious of it to trust his voice; too hungry to smile as if he did not care! And then a man in muddy moleskins, with grave face, brown beard, and soft blue eyes, came over to him, saying straight: “Boy, you come along o’ me!” And he went.
It was work—hard work. But the joy of it! Shovelling31 in the icy water, in mud and gravel32, and among the boulders33, from early dawn to dark. What matter? It was work. It was not for hire, but just to help one who had helped him; to ‘earn his grub’ and feel he was a man, doing the work of his friend’s partner, ‘who was away.’
For three full weeks the Boy worked on; grateful for the toil34; grateful for the knowledge gained; most grateful that he could by work repay a kindness. And then the truth came out! The kindly fiction fell away as they sat and rested on the day of rest. “The claim could not stand two white men’s grub” had fallen from the man, accounting35 for his partner’s absence.
It was the simple and unstudied truth and calm unconsciousness of where it struck that gave the thrust its force; and in the clear still air of the Sunday morning the Boy turned hot and cold and dizzy to think of his folly36, and of the kindness he had so long imposed upon. It was a little spell before his lips would smile, and eyes and voice were firm enough to lie. Then he said gently: If he could be spared—he had not liked to ask before, but now the floods were over and the river turned perhaps it could be managed—he would like to go, as there were letters waiting, and he expected news.
Up the winding37 pathway over rocky ledge15 and grassy39 slope, climbing for an hour to the pass, the toil and effort kept the hot thoughts under. At the top the Boy sat down to rest. The green rock-crested mountains stood like resting giants all around: the rivers, silvered by the sun, threaded their ways between: the air was clear, and cool, and still. The world was very beautiful from there.
Far, far below—a brownish speck40 beside the silver streak—stood the cabin he had left. And, without warning, all came back on him. What he had mastered rose beyond control. The little child that lies hidden in us all reached out—as in the dark—for a hand to hold; and there was none. His arms went up to hide the mocking glory of the day, and, face buried in the grass, he sobbed41: “Not worth my food!”
Science tells that Nature will recoup herself by ways as well defined as those that rule mechanics. The blood flows upward—and the brain’s awhirl; the ebb29-tide sets—and there is rest. Whatever impulse sways the guiding hand, we know that often when we need it most there comes relief; gently, unbidden, unobserved.
The Boy slept, and there was peace awhile. Then came faint echoes of the waking thoughts—odd words shot out, of hope and resolution; murmured names of those at home. Once his hand went out and gently touched the turf, reaching for the friend and comrade of the past—one who knew his every mood, had heard his wildest dreams described, had seen him, hot-eyed, breathless, struggling to escape the cage; one to whom the boyish soul was often bared in foolish confidence; one who could see and hear and feel, yet never tell—a little red retriever left at home; and the boy stirred and sighed, for answer to the soft brown eyes.
No! It is not good for man to be alone. A wisp of drifting cloud came by, a breath of cooler air, and the fickle42 spirit of the mountain changed the day as with a wand. The Boy woke up shivering, dazed, bewildered: the mountain of his dreams had vanished; and his dog was not there! The cold driving mist had blotted43 out the world. Stronger and stronger grew the wind, driving the damp cold through and through; for on the bleak44 plateau of the mountain nothing broke its force.
Pale and shaken, and a little stiff, he looked about; then slowly faced the storm. It had not struck him to turn back.
The gusts45 blew stronger, and through the mist came rain, in single stinging drops—portents46 of the greater storm. Slowly, as he bent47 to breast it, the chilled blood warmed, and when the first thunderclap split overhead, and lost itself in endless roars and rumblings in the kloofs and hills around, there came a warmth about his heart and a light into his eye—mute thanksgiving that here was something he could battle with and be a man again.
On the top of the world the storms work all their fury. Only there come mist and wind and rain, thunder and lightning and hail together—the pitiless terrible hail: there, where the hare hiding in the grass may know it is the highest thing in all God’s world, and nearest to the storm—the one clear mark to draw the lightning—and, knowing, scurries48 to the sheltered slopes.
But the Boy pressed on—the little path a racing49 stream to guide him. Then in the one group of ghostly, mist-blurred rocks he stopped to drink; and, as he bent—for all the blackness of the storm—his face leaped out at him, reflected for one instant in the shallow pool; the blue-white flame of lightning, blinding his aching eyes, hissed50 down; the sickening smell of brimstone spread about; and crashing thunder close above his head left him dazed and breathless.
Heedless of the rain, blinking the blackness from his eyes, he sat still for head to clear, and limbs to feel their life again; and, as he waited, slowly there came upon a colder stiller air that other roar, so far, so dull, so uniform; so weird51 and terrifying—the voice of the coming hail.
Huddled52 beneath the shelving rock he watched the storm sweep by with awful battering53 din38 that swamped and silenced every other sound—the tearing, smashing hail that seemed to strip the mountain to its very bone.
Oh! the wanton fury of the hail; the wild, destructive charge of hordes54 of savage55 cavalry56; the stamping, smashing sweep along the narrow strip where all the fury concentrates; the long black trail of death and desolation! The birds and beasts, the things that creep and fly, all know the portents, and all flee before it, or aside. But in the darkness—in the night or mist—the slow, the weak, the helpless, and the mothers with their young—for them is little hope.
The dense57 packed column swept along, ruthless, raging, and unheeding, overwhelming all... A sudden failing of its strength, a little straggling tail, and then—the silence!
The sun came out; the wind died down; light veils of mist came slowly by—bits of floating gossamer—and melted in the clear, pure air.
The Boy stepped out once more. Miles away the black column of the falling hail sped its appointed course. Under his feet, where all had been so green and beautiful, was battered58 turf, for the time transformed into a mass of dazzling brilliants, where jagged ice-stones caught the sunlight on their countless59 facets60, and threw it back in one fierce flashing glare, blinding in its brilliance61.
On the glittering surface many things stood out.
In the narrow pathway near the spring a snake lay on its back, crushed and broken; beyond it, a tortoise, not yet dead, but bruised62 and battered through its shell; then a partridge—poor unprotected thing—the wet feathers lying all around, stripped as though a hawk63 had stricken it, and close behind it all the little brood; and further afield lay something reddish-brown—a buck—the large eyes glazed64, an ooze65 of blood upon its lips and nose. He stooped to touch it, but drew back: the dainty little thing was pulp66.
All striving for the sheltering rocks; all caught and stricken by the ruthless storm; and he, going on to face it, while others fled before—he, blindly fighting on—was spared. Was it luck? Or was there something subtle, more? He held to this, that more than chance had swayed the guiding hand of fate—that fortune holds some gifts in store for those who try; and faith resurgent moved him to a mute Te Deum, of which no more reached the conscious brain than: “It is good to be alive! But... better so than in the cage.”
Once more, a little of the fortune that he had come to seek!
At sunset, passing down the long rough gorge67, he came upon one battling with the flood to save his all—the white man struggling with the frightened beasts; the kaffir swept from off his feet; the mad bewildered oxen yielding to the stream and heading downwards68 towards the falls—and in their utmost need the Boy swam in and helped!
And there the long slow ebb was stayed: the Boy was worth his food.
But how recall the life when those who made it set so little store by all that passed, and took its ventures for their daily lot; when those who knew it had no gift or thought to fix the colours of the fading past: the fire of youth; the hopes; the toil; the bright illusions gone! And now, the Story of a Dog to conjure69 up a face, a name, a voice, or the grip of a friendly hand! And the half-dreamed sound of the tramping feet is all that is left of the live procession long since passed: the young recruits; the laggards70 and the faint; the few who saw it through; the older men—grave-eyed, thoughtful, unafraid—who judged the future by the battered past, and who knew none more nor less than man—unconscious equals of the best and least; the grey-hued years; the thinning ranks; the summons answered, as they had lived—alone. The tale untold71; and, of all who knew it, none left to picture now the life, none left to play a grateful comrade’s part, and place their record on a country’s scroll—the kindly, constant, nameless Pioneers!
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收听单词发音
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1
sheathed
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| adj.雕塑像下半身包在鞘中的；覆盖的；铠装的；装鞘了的v.将（刀、剑等）插入鞘( sheathe的过去式和过去分词 )；包，覆盖 | |
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2
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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3
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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4
muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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5
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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8
cartridges
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| 子弹( cartridge的名词复数 )； （打印机的）墨盒； 录音带盒； （唱机的）唱头 | |
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9
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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10
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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11
yelp
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| vi.狗吠 | |
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12
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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13
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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15
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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16
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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17
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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18
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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21
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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22
rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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23
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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27
fend
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| v.照料（自己），（自己）谋生，挡开，避开 | |
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28
ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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29
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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30
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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31
shovelling
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| v.铲子( shovel的现在分词 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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32
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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33
boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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34
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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35
accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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36
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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37
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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38
din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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39
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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40
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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41
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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42
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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43
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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44
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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45
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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46
portents
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| n.预兆( portent的名词复数 )；征兆；怪事；奇物 | |
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47
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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48
scurries
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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49
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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50
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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51
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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52
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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53
battering
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| n.用坏，损坏v.连续猛击( batter的现在分词 ) | |
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54
hordes
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| n.移动着的一大群( horde的名词复数 )；部落 | |
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55
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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56
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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facets
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| n.（宝石或首饰的）小平面( facet的名词复数 )；（事物的）面；方面 | |
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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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ooze
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| n.软泥，渗出物；vi.渗出，泄漏；vt.慢慢渗出，流露 | |
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pulp
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| n.果肉，纸浆；v.化成纸浆，除去...果肉，制成纸浆 | |
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gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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laggards
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| n.落后者( laggard的名词复数 ) | |
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untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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