A Winter Walk

　　Henry David Thoreau

　　The wind has gently murmured through the blinds，or puffed with feathery softness against the windows，and occasionally sighed like a summer zephyr lifting the leaves along, the livelong night. The meadow mouse has slept in his snug gallery in the sod, the owl has sat in a hollow tree in the depth of the swamp,the rabbit, the squirrel，and the fox have all been housed. The watch-dog has lain quiet on the hearth，and the cattle have stood silent in their stalls. The earth itself has slept, as it were its first,not its last sleep，save when some street sign or woodhouse door has faintly creaked upon its hinge,cheering forlorn nature at her midnight work-the only sound awake twixt Venus and Mars-advertising us of a remote inward warmth,a divine cheer and fellowship,where gods are met together,but where it is very bleak for men to stand.But while the earth has slumbered,all the air has been alive with feathery flakes descending,as if some northern Ceres reigned,showering her silvery grain over all the fields.

　　We sleep,and at length awake to the still reality of a winter morning.The snow lies warm as cotton or down upon the window sill:the broadened sash and frosted panes admit a dim and private light, which enhances the snug cheer within. The stillness of the morning is impressive. The floor creaks under our feet as we move toward the window to look abroad through some clear space over the fields，we see the roofs stand under their snow burden. From the eaves and fences hang stalactites of snow, and in the yard stand stalagmites covering some concealed core. The trees and shrubs rear white arms to the sky on every side;and where were walls and fences，we see fantastic forms stretching in frolic gambols across the dusky landscape，as if Nature had strewn her fresh designs over the fields by night as models for man's art.

　　Silently we unlatch the door, letting the drift fall in，and step abroad to face the cutting air. Already the stars have lost some of their sparkle，and a dull，leaden mist skirts the horizon. A lurid brazen light in the east proclaims the approach of day, while the western landscape is dim and spectral still，and clothed in a somber Tartarean light, like the shadowy realms. They are infernalsounds only that you hear-the crowing of cocks，the barking of dogs, the chopping of wood, the lowing of kine, all seem to come from Pluto's barnyard and beyond the Styx-not for any melancholy they suggest, but their twilight bustle is too solemn and mysterious for earth. The recent tracks of the fox or otter, in the yard，remind us that each hour of the night is crowded with events, and the primeval nature is still working and making tracks in the snow. Opening the gate, we tread briskly along the lone country road，crunching the dry and crisped snow under our feet, or aroused by the sharp, clear creak of the wood sled，just starting for the distant market, from the early farmer's door, where it has lain the summer long，dreaming amid the chips and stubble;while far through the drifts and powdered windows we see the farmer's early candle，like a paled star, emitting a lonely beam，as if some severe virtue were at its matins there. And one by one the smokes begin to ascend from the chimneys amid the trees and snows.

　　We hear the sound of woodchopping at the farmers'doors, far over the frozen earth，the baying of the house-dog，and the distant clarion of the cock- though the thin and frosty air conveys only the finer particles of sound to our ears, with short and sweet vibrations，as the waves subside soonest on the purest and lightest liquids，in which gross substances sink to the bottom. They come clear and bell—like, and from a greater distance in the horizons, as if there were fewer impediments in summer to make them faint and ragged. The ground is sonorous, like seasoned wood，and even the ordinary rural sounds are melodious, and the jingling of the ice on the trees is sweet and liquid. There is the least possible moisture in the atmosphere, all being dried up or congealed, and if is of such extreme tenuity and elasticity that it becomes a source of delight. The withdrawn and tense sky seems groined like the aisles of a cathedral，and

　　the polished air sparkles as if there were crystals of ice floating in it. As they who have resided in Greenland tell us that when it freezes "the sea smokes like burning turf-land, and a fog or mist arises, called frost-smoke，“which”cutting smoke frequently raises blisters on the face and hands, and is very pernicious to the health." But this pure, stinging cold is an elixir to the lungs，and not so much a frozen mist as a crystallized midsummer haze,refined and purified by cold.

　　In winter, nature is a cabinet of curiosities, full of dried specimens, in their natural order and position. The meadows and forests are a hortus siccus. The leaves and grasses stand perfectly pressed by the air without screw or gum, and the bird's nests are not hung on an artificial twig, but where they builded them.

　　But now, while we have loitered, the clouds have gathered again, and a few straggling snowflakes are beginning to descend. Faster and faster they fall, shutting out the distant objects from sight. The snow falls on every wood and field, and no crevice is forgotten;by the river and the pond, on the hill and in the valley.Quadrupeds are confined to their coverts and the birds sit upon their perches this peaceful hour. There is not so much sound as in fair weather, but silently and gradually every slope, and the gray walls and fences, and the polished ice, and the sere leaves, which were not buried before, are concealed, and the tracks of men and beasts are lost. With so little effort does nature reassert her rule and blot out the trace of men. Hear how Homer has described the same:“The snowflakes fall thick and fast on a winter's day. The winds are lulled, and the snow falls incessant,covering the tops of the mountains, and the hills, and the plains where the lotus tree grows, and the cultivated fields, and they are falling by the inlets and shores of the foaming sea, but are silently dissolved by the waves." The snow levels all things, and infolds them deeper in the bosom of nature, as, in the slow summer; vegetation creeps up to the entablature of the temple,and the turrets of the castle, and helps her to prevail over art.

　　冬日漫步

　　[美]亨利·大衛(wèi)·梭羅

　　微風緩緩地吹著百葉窗，吹在窗上，非常溫柔，像羽毛似的;偶爾也會猶如幾聲嘆息，聽起來像夏日漫漫長夜里風輕撫著樹葉的聲音。在鋪著草皮的地下，田鼠正在地洞里呼呼大睡，貓頭鷹則在沼澤地深處的一棵空心樹里蹲著，兔子、松鼠、狐貍都呆在家里。看門的狗靜靜地躺在暖爐旁，牛羊在欄里悄無聲息。連大地都在沉睡—但這不是壽終正寢，而是忙碌一年后第一次美美地睡上一覺。夜已經深了，大自然還在忙碌著，只有街上一些招牌或小木屋的門軸不時嘎吱嘎吱地響，給沉寂的大自然來一點慰藉。也只有這些聲音，預示著在茫茫宇宙中，在金星和火星之間，天地萬物中還有一些是清醒的。我們想起了看似遙遠卻也許近在心中的“溫暖感覺”，還有那些只有天神們在相聚時才能感受到的—一種神圣的鼓舞和難得的交情，而這些對于凡人是不勝蒼涼的。大地此刻在酣睡，可是空氣還很活躍，鵝毛大雪漫天飛舞，好像是一個北方的五谷女神，正在把她的銀種子撒在我們的田野上。

　　我們也進入了夢鄉(xiāng)，等到醒來時，恰是冬季的早晨。世界靜悄悄的，雪下了厚厚的一層。窗欞上像鋪了柔軟的棉花或羽絨;窗格子顯得寬了些，玻璃上爬滿了冰紋，看起來黯淡而神秘，使家里變得更加溫馨舒適。早晨的寂靜真令人難忘。我們踏著吱吱作響的地板來到窗口前，站在一塊沒有結冰的地方，眺望田野風景。屋頂被皚皚白雪筱蓋著，雪凍成的冰條掛在屋檐下和柵欄上;院子里的雪柱像竹筍一樣立著，雪柱里有沒有藏著什么東西，就無從知曉了。樹木和灌木向四面八方伸展著它們白色的枝干;原來是墻壁和籬笆的地方，形態(tài)更加奇妙，在昏暗的大地上，它們向左右延伸，似乎在跳躍，仿佛一夜的工夫，大自然就重新設計了一幅田野美境，供人類的藝術家來臨摹。

　　我們靜靜地拔去了門閂，讓飛雪飄進屋里;走出屋外，寒風如刀割般迎面撲來。星星有點黯淡無光，地平線上籠罩了一層深色沉重的薄霧。東方露出一點耀眼的古銅色光彩，預示著天就要亮了;可是西邊的景物，還是很模糊，一片昏暗，無聲無響，似乎是籠罩著地獄之光，鬼影撲現(xiàn)著，好像是非人間。耳邊的聲音也有點陰氣森森—雞鳴犬吠，木柴斷裂的聲音，牛群低沉的叫聲—這一切好像來自陰陽河彼岸冥王星的農場;倒不是這些聲音本身特別凄涼，只是天還沒有亮，所以聽起來很肅穆很神秘，不像是來自于人間。院子里，雪地上，狐貍和水獺所留下的印跡清晰可見，這些提醒我們:即使是在冬夜最寂靜的時候，自然界里的生物也在時時刻刻活動著，并且在雪地里留下足跡。打開大門，我們邁著輕快的腳步，踏上僻靜的鄉(xiāng)村小路，雪很干很脆，踩上去發(fā)出吱吱的響聲;早起的農夫，駕著雪橇，到遠處的市場上去趕集。這輛雪橇整個夏天都閑置在農夫的門口，如今與木屑稻梗做伴，可算是有了用武之地。它尖銳、清晰、刺耳的聲音，可真能讓早起趕路的人頭腦清醒。透過堆滿積雪的農舍，我們看見農夫早早地把蠟燭點亮了，就像一顆孤寂的星星，散發(fā)著稀落的光，宛如某種樸素的美德在作晨禱。接著，煙囪里冒出的炊煙從樹叢和雪堆里裊裊升起。

　　我們能聽見農夫劈砍柴火的聲音，大地冰封，不時有雞鳴狗叫聲傳出。寒冷的空氣，只能把那些尖銳的聲音傳入我們的耳朵，那些聲音聽起來短促悅耳;凡是清醇輕盈的液體，稍有波動也很快停止，因為里面的晶體硬塊，很快沉到底下去了。聲音從地平線的遠處傳來，像鐘聲一樣清晰響亮，冬天的空氣清新，不像夏天那樣混合著許多雜質，因而聲音聽來也不像夏天那樣刺耳模糊。走在冰封的土地上，聲音猶如敲擊堅硬的木塊那樣洪亮，甚至是鄉(xiāng)村里最平凡的聲響，都聽起來美妙動聽，樹上的冰條，互相撞擊，聽起來像鈴聲一樣悅耳，樂在其中。空氣里幾乎沒有水分，水蒸氣不是干化，就是凝固成霜了。空氣十分稀薄而且似乎帶彈性，人呼吸進去，頓感心曠神恰。天空似乎被繃緊了，往后移動，從下向上望，感覺像置身于大教堂中，頭上是一塊塊連在一起的弧形的屋頂，空氣被過濾得純粹明凈，好像有冰晶沉浮在中間，正如格陵蘭的居民告訴我們的，當那里結冰的時候，“海就冒煙，像大火爆發(fā)的威力;而且伴有霧氣升騰，稱為煙霧;這煙霧能讓人的手和臉起疙腫脹，并對人體有害。”但是我們這里的空氣，雖然冰寒刺骨，但是質地清純，可以滋養(yǎng)心肺，提神醒腦。我們不會把它當作凍霜，而會把它看作仲夏霧氣的結晶，經過嚴寒的凝結，變得更加清純了。

　　大自然在冬天就是一間美術品陳列室，各種干枯了的標本按照它們生長的次序，擺得井然有序。草原和樹林成了一座“植物標本館”。樹葉和野草保持著完美的形態(tài)，在空氣的壓力下，不需要用螺絲釘或膠水來固定。巢不用掛在假樹上，雖然樹已經枯萎了，可那畢竟是真樹，鳥兒在哪里建的，還保留在哪里。

　　就在我們四處游蕩的這會兒，天空又有陰云密布，雪花紛然而落。雪越下越大，遠處的景物漸漸地脫離了我們的視線。雪花光顧了每一棵樹和田野，無孔不入，痕跡遍布河邊、湖畔、小山和低谷。四足動物都躲藏起來了，小鳥在這平和的時刻里也休息了，周圍幾乎聽不到任何聲音，比好天氣的日子更加寧靜。可是，漸漸地，山坡、灰墻和籬笆、光亮的冰還有枯葉，所有原來沒有被白雪覆蓋的，現(xiàn)在都被埋住了，人和動物的足跡也消失了。大自然輕而易舉地就實施了它的法規(guī)，把人類行為的痕跡抹擦得干干凈凈。聽聽荷馬的詩:“冬天里，雪花降落，又多又快。風停了，雪下個不停，覆蓋了山頂和丘陵，覆蓋了長著酸棗樹的平原和耕地;在波瀾壯闊的海灣海岸邊，雪也紛紛地下著，只是雪花落到海里，就被海水悄無聲息地融化了。”白雪充塞了所有的事物，使萬物平等，把它們深深地裹在自然的懷抱里;就像漫漫夏季里的植被，爬上廟宇的柱頂，爬上堡壘的角樓，覆蓋人類的藝術品。