第 42 节
作者:冬冬      更新:2021-02-20 15:54      字数:9307
  about; and   a   pleasant stream  fringed   with alders   in   the little   valley。 And
  out   of   the   chimney  into   the   sweet;  still   evening   air   rises   the   slow   white
  smoke of the supper…fire。
  I turned from the main road; and climbed the fence and walked across
  my upper field to the old wood lane。 The air was heavy and sweet with
  clover blossoms; and along the fences I could see that the raspberry bushes
  were ripening their fruit。
  So I came down the lane and heard the comfortable grunting of pigs in
  the pasture lot and saw the calves licking one another as they stood at the
  gate。
  〃How they've grown!〃 I said。
  I stopped at the corner of the barn for a moment。 From within I heard
  the   rattling   of   milk   in   a   pail   (a   fine   sound);   and   heard   a   man's   voice
  saying:
  〃Whoa; there! Stiddy now!〃
  〃Dick's milking;〃 I said。
  So I stepped in at the doorway。
  〃Lord; Mr。 Grayson!〃 exclaimed Dick; rising instantly and clasping my
  hand like a long…lost brother。
  〃I'm glad to see you!〃
  〃I'm glad to see YOU!〃
  The    warm    smell    of  the  new    milk;   the  pleasant   sound    of  animals
  stepping about in the stable; the old mare reaching her long head over the
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  stanchion to welcome   me;   and nipping at my   fingers when I rubbed her
  nose
  And   there   was   the   old   house   with   the   late   sun   upon   it;   the   vines
  hanging   green   over   the   porch;   Harriet's   trim   flower   bedI   crept   along
  quietly。 to the corner。 The kitchen door stood open。
  〃Well; Harriet!〃 I said; stepping inside。
  〃Mercy! David!〃
  I have rarely known Harriet to be in quite such a reckless mood。 She
  kept thinking of a new kind of sauce or jam for supper (I think there were
  seven; or were there twelve? on the table before I got through)。 And there
  was a new rhubarb pie such as only Harriet can make; just brown enough
  on top; and not too brown; with just the right sort of hills and hummocks
  in the crust; and here and there little sugary bubbles where a suggestion of
  the goodness came throughsuch a pie! and such an appetite to go with
  it!
  〃Harriet;〃     I  said;   〃you're    spoiling    me。   Haven't     you    heard    how
  dangerous it is to set such a supper as this before a man who is perishing
  with hunger? Have you no mercy for me?〃
  This   remark   produced   the   most   extraordinary   effect。   Harriet   was   at
  that moment standing in the corner near the pump。 Her shoulders suddenly
  began to shake convulsively。
  〃She's so glad I'm home that she can't help laughing;〃 I thought; which
  shows how penetrating I really am。
  She was crying。
  〃Why; Harriet!〃 I exclaimed。
  〃Hungry!〃 she burst out; 〃and j…joking about it!〃
  I couldn't say a single word; somethingit must have been a piece of
  the rhubarb piestuck in my throat。 So I sat there and watched her moving
  quietly   about   in   that   immaculate   kitchen。 After   a   time   I   walked   over   to
  where she stood by the table and put my arm around her quickly。 She half
  turned   her   head;   in   her   quick;   businesslike   way。   I   noted   how   firm   and
  clean and sweet her face was。
  〃Harriet;〃 I said; 〃you grow younger every year。〃
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  No response。
  〃Harriet;〃   I   said;   〃I   haven't   seen   a   single   person   anywhere   on   my
  journey that I like as much as I do you。〃
  The quick blood came up。
  〃TherethereDavid!〃 she said。
  So I stepped away。
  〃And as for rhubarb pie; Harriet〃
  When I first came to my farm years ago there were mornings when I
  woke up with the strong impression that I had just been hearing the most
  exquisite sounds of music。 I don't know whether this is at all a common
  experience; but in those days (and farther back in my early boyhood) I had
  it   frequently。   It   did   not   seem  exactly  like   music   either;   but   was   rather   a
  sense of harmony; so wonderful; so pervasive that it cannot be described。 I
  have not had it so often in recent years; but on the morning after I reached
  home it came to me as I awakened with a strange depth and sweetness。 I
  lay   for   a   moment   there   in   my   clean   bed。   The   morning   sun   was   up   and
  coming   in   cheerfully   through   the   vines   at   the   window;   a   gentle   breeze
  stirred the clean white curtains; and I could smell even there the odours of
  the garden。
  I wish I had room to tell; but I cannot; of all the crowded experiences
  of that   day;  the  renewal   of  acquaintance with   the  fields;  the  cattle;  the
  fowls; the bees; of my long talks with Harriet and Dick Sheridan; who had
  cared for my work while I was away; of the wonderful visit of the Scotch
  Preacher; of Horace's shrewd and whimsical comments upon the general
  absurdity of the head of the Grayson familyoh; of a thousand thingsand
  how   when   I   went   into   my   study   and   took   up   the   nearest   book   in   my
  favourite caseit chanced to be 〃The Bible in Spain〃it opened of itself at
  one of my favourite sages; the one beginning:
  〃Mistos amande; I am content〃
  So   it's   all over!   It has   been   a great   experience;   and   it seems   to   me
  now   that   I   have   a   firmer   grip   on   life;   and   a   firmer   trust   in   that   Power
  which orders the ages。 In a book I read not long ago; called 〃A Modern
  Utopia;〃   the   writer   provides   in   his   imaginary   perfect   state   of   society   a
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  class   of   leaders   known   as   Samurai。   And;   from   time   to   time;   it   is   the
  custom of these Samurai to cut themselves loose from the crowding world
  of men; and with packs on their backs go away alone to far places in the
  deserts or on Arctic ice caps。 I am convinced that every man needs some
  such change as this; an opportunity to think things out; to get a new grip
  on life; and a new hold on God。 But not for me the Arctic ice cap or the
  desert! I choose the Friendly Roadand all the mon people who travel in it
  or live along itI choose even the busy city at the end of it。
  I   assure   you;   friend;   that   it   is   a   wonderful   thing   for   a   man   to   cast
  himself freely for a time upon the world; not knowing where his next meal
  is   coming   from;   nor   where   he   is   going   to   sleep   for   the   night。   It   is   a
  surprising   readjuster   of   values。   I   paid   my   way;   I   think;   throughout   my
  pilgrimage;   but   I   discovered   that   stamped   metal   is   far   from   being   the
  world's only true coin。 As a matter of fact; there are many things that men
  prize more highlybecause they are rarer and more precious。
  My   friend;   if   you   should   chance   yourself   some   day   to   follow   the
  Friendly Road; you may catch a fleeting glimpse of a man in a rusty hat;
  carrying a gray bag; and sometimes humming a little song under his breath
  for the joy of being there。 And it may actually  happen; if you stop   him;
  that   he   will   take   a   tin   whistle   from   his   bag   and   play   for   you;   〃Money
  Musk;〃 or 〃Old Dan Tucker;〃 or he may produce a battered old volume of
  Montaigne from which he will read you a passage。 If such an adventure
  should befall you; know that you have met
  Your friend;
  David Grayson。
  P。 S。 Harriet bemoans most of all the unsolved mystery of the sign man。
  But it doesn't bother me in the least。 I'm glad now I never found him。 The
  poet sings his song and goes his way。 If we sought him out how horribly
  disappointed we might be! We might find him shaving; or eating sausage;
  or drinking a bottle of beer。 We might find him shaggy and unkempt where
  we    imagined     him   beautiful;    weak    where    we   thought    him   strong;    dull
  where we thought him brilliant。 Take then the vintage of his heart and let
  him go。 As for me; I'm glad some mystery is left in this world。 A thousand
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  signs   on   my   roadways   are   still   as   unexplainable;   as   mysterious;   and   as
  beguiling as this。 And I can   close my  narrative with no   better motto   for
  tired spirits than that of the country roadside:
  ' REST '
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