[转载]A Winter walk

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 towards 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 shru-bs rear white arms to the sky on every side; and where were. wails 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 cuffing 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 infernal sounds 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 wood chopping 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 than 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 it 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. 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.

…

Let us go into this deserted woodman' s hut, and see how he has passed the long winter nights and the short and stormy days. For here man has lived under this south hillside, and it seems a civilized and public spot. We have such associations as when the traveler stands by the ruins of

Palmyra or Hecatompolis. Singing birds and flowers perchance have begun to appear here, for flowers as well as weeds follow in the footsteps of man. These hemlocks whispered over his head, these hickory logs were his fuel, and these pitch pine roots kindled his fire; yonder fuming rill in the hollow, whose thin and airy vapor still ascends as busily as ever, though he is far off now, was his well. These hemlock boughs, and the straw upon this raised platform, were his bed, and this broken dish held his drink. But he has not been here this season, for the phoebes built their nest upon this shelf last summer. I find some embers left as if he had but just gone out, where he baked his pot of beans; and while at evening he smoked his pipe, whose stemless bowl lies in the ashes, chatted with his only companion, if perchance he had any, about the depth of the snow on the morrow, already falling fast and thick without, or disputed whether the last sound was the screech of an owl, or the creak of a bough, or imagination only; and through his broad chimney-throat, in the late winter evening, ere he stretched himself upon the straw, he looked up to learn the progress of the storm, and, seeing the bright stars of Cassiopeia's Chair shining brightly down upon him, fell contentedly asleep.

 See how many traces from which we may learn the chopper's history! From this stump we may guess the sharpness of his axe, and from the slope of the stroke, on which side he stood, and whether he cut down the tree without going round it or changing hands; and, from the flexure of the splinters, we may know which way it fell. This one chip contains inscribed on it the whole history of the woodchopper and of the world. On this scrap of paper, which held his sugar or salt, perchance, or was the wadding of his gun, sitting on a log in the forest, with what interest we read the tattle of cities, of those larger huts, empty and to let, like this, in High Streets and Broadways. The eaves are dripping on the south side of this simple roof, while the titmouse lisps in the pine and the genial warmth of the sun around the door is somewhat kind and human.

  After two seasons, this rude dwelling does not deform the scene. Already the birds resort to it, to build their nests, and you may track to its door the feet of many quadrupeds. Thus, for a long time, nature overlooks the encroachment and profanity of man. The wood still cheerfully and unsuspiciously echoes the strokes of the axe that fells it, and while they are few and seldom, they enhance its wildness, and all the elements strive to naturalize the sound.

…

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 built them. We go about dry-shod to inspect the summer's work in the rank swamp, and see what a growth has got the alders, the willows, and the maples; testifying to how many warm suns, and fertilizing dews and showers. See what strides their boughs took in the luxuriant summer―and anon these dormant buds will carry them onward and upward another span into the heavens.

   Occasionally we wade through fields of snow, under whose depths the river is lost for many rods, to appear again to the right or left, where we least expected; still holding on its way underneath, with a faint, stertorous, rumbling sound, as if, like the bear and marmot, it too had hibernated, and we had followed its faint summer trail to where it earthed itself in snow and ice. At first we should have thought that rivers would be empty and dry in midwinter, or else frozen solid fill the spring thawed them; but their volume is not diminished even, for only a superficial cold bridges their surfaces. The thousand springs, which feed the lakes and streams are flowing still. The issues of a few surface springs only are closed, and they go to swell the deep reservoir. Nature's wells are below the frost. The summer brooks are not filled with snow-water, nor does the mower quench his thirst with that alone. The streams are swollen when the snow melts in the spring, because nature' s work has been delayed, the water being turned into ice and snow, whose particles are less smooth and round, and do not find their level so soon.

 Far over the ice, between the hemlock woods and snow-clad hills, stands the pickerel-fisher, his lines set in some retired cove, like a Finlander, with his arms thrust into the pouches of his dreadnaught; with dull, snowy, fishy thoughts, himself a finless fish, separated a few inches from his race; dumb, erect, and made to be enveloped in clouds and snows, like the pines on shore. In these wild scenes, men stand about in the scenery, or move deliberately and heavily, having sacrificed the sprightliness and vivacity of towns to the dumb sobriety of nature. He does not make the scenery less wild, more than the jays and muskrats, but stands there as a part of it, as the natives are represented in the voyages of early navigators, at Nootka Sound, and on the Northwest coast, with their furs about them, before they were tempted to loquacity by a scrap of iron. He belongs to the natural family of man, and is planted deeper in nature and has more root than the inhabitants of towns. Go to him, ask what luck, and you will learn that he too is a worshiper of the unseen. Hear with what sincere deference and waving gesture in his tone he speaks of the lake pickerel, which he has never seen, his primitive and ideal race of pickerel. He is connected with the shore still, as by a fishline, and yet remembers the season when he took fish through the ice on the pond, while the peas were up in his garden at home.

  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.

 The surly night wind rustles through the wood, and warns us to retrace our steps, while the sun goes down behind the thickening storm, and birds seek their roosts, and cattle their stalls.

 

     "Drooping the lab' rer ox

      Stands covered o' er with snow, and now demands

 The fruit of all his toil."

 Though winter is represented in the almanac as an old man, facing the wind and sleet, and drawing his cloak about him, we rather think of him as a merry woodchopper, and warm-blooded youth, as blithe as summer. The unexplored grandeur of the storm keeps up the spirits of the traveler. It does not trifle with us, but has a sweet earnestness. In winter we lead a more inward life. Our hearts are warm and cheery, like cottages under drifts, whose windows and doors are half concealed, but from whose chimneys the smoke cheerfully ascends. The imprisoning drifts increase the sense of comfort which the house affords, and in the coldest days we are content to sit over the hearth and see the sky through the chimney-top, enjoying the quiet and serene life that may be had in a warm corner by the chimney-side, or feeling our pulse by listening to the low of cattle in the street, or the sound of the flail in distant barns all the long afternoon. No doubt a skillful physician could determine our health by observing how these simple and natural sounds affected us. We enjoy now, not an Oriental, but a Boreal leisure, around warm stoves and fireplaces, and watch the shadow of motes in the sunbeams.

  Sometimes our fate grows too homely and familiarly serious ever to be cruel. Consider how for three months the human destiny is wrapped in furs. The good Hebrew Revelation takes no cognizance of all this cheerful now. Is there no religion for the temperate and frigid zones? We know of no scripture which records the pure benignity of the gods on a  New England winter night. Their praises have never been sung, only their wrath deprecated. The best scripture, after all, records but a meager faith. Its saints live reserved and austere. Let a brave, devout man spend the year in the woods of Maine or Labrador, and see if the Hebrew Scriptures speak adequately to his condition and experience, from the setting in of winter to the breaking up of the ice. 

 Now commences the long winter evening around the farmer's hearth, when the thoughts of the indwellers travel far abroad, and men are by nature and necessity charitable and liberal to all creatures. Now is the happy resistance to cold, when the farmer reaps his reward, and thinks of his preparedness for winter, and, through the glittering panes, sees with equanimity "the mansion of the northern bear," for now the storm is over,

 

     "The full ethereal round,

      Infinite worlds disclosing to the view,

      Shines out intensely keen; and all one cope

      Of starry glitter glows from pole to pole."

                                                                                     (By Henry David Thoreau  )

 

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冬日漫步

 

微风缓缓地吹着百叶窗,吹在窗上,非常温柔,像羽毛似的;偶尔也会犹如几声叹息,听起来像夏日漫漫长夜里的风轻抚着树叶的声音.在铺着草皮的地下,田鼠正在地洞里呼呼大睡,猫头鹰则在沼泽地深处的一个空心树里蹲着,兔子、松鼠、狐狸都呆在家里。看门的狗静静地躺在暖炉旁，牛羊在栏圈里悄无声息。连大地都在沉睡——但这不是寿终正寝，而是忙碌一年后第一次美美地睡上一觉。夜已经深了，大自然敬爱在忙碌着，只有街上一些招牌或小木屋的门轴不时嘎吱嘎吱地响着，给沉寂的大自然来一点慰藉。也只有这些声音，预示着在茫茫宇宙中，在金星与火星之间，天地万物中还有一些清醒的。我们想起了看似遥远却也许近在心中的”温暖的感觉”,还有那些只有天神们在相聚时才能感受到的----一种神圣的鼓舞和难得的交情,而这些对于凡人是不胜苍凉的.大地此刻在酣睡,可是空气还很活跃,鹅毛大雪漫天飞舞,好像是一个北方的五谷女神,正在把她的银种子撒在我们的田野上.

    我们也进入梦乡,等到醒来时,恰是冬季的早晨.世界静悄悄的,雪下了厚厚的一层.窗棂上像铺了柔软的棉花或羽绒;窗格子显得宽了些,玻璃上爬满了冰纹,看起来黯淡而神秘,使家里变得更加温馨舒适.早晨的寂静真令人难忘.我们踏着吱吱作响的地板来到窗口前,站在一块没有结冰的地方,眺望田野风景.屋顶被皑皑白雪覆盖着,雪冻成的冰条挂屋檐下和栅栏上;院子里的雪柱像竹笋一样立着,雪柱里有没有藏着什么东西,就无从知晓了.树木和灌木向四面八方伸展着它们白色的枝干;原来是墙壁和篱笆的地方,形态更加奇妙,在昏暗的大地上,它们向左右延伸,似乎在跳跃,仿佛一夜的工夫,大自然就重新设计了一幅田野美境,供人类的艺术家来临摹.

     我们静静地拔去可门闩,让飞雪飘进屋里;走出门外,寒风如刀割般迎面扑来.星星有点黯淡无光,地平线上笼罩了一层深色沉重的薄雾.东方露出一点耀眼的古铜色的光彩,预示着天就要亮了;可是西边的景物,还是很模糊,一片昏暗,无声无响,似乎是笼罩着地狱之光,鬼影扑现着,好像是非人间.耳边的声音也有点阴气森森----鸡鸣犬吠,木柴断列的声音,牛群低沉的叫声----这一切好像来自阴阳河彼岸冥王星的农场;倒不是这些声音本身特别凄凉,只是天还没有亮,所以听起来很肃穆很神秘,不像是来自于人间.院子里,雪地上,狐狸所留下的印迹清晰可见,这些提醒我们:即使是在冬夜最寂静的时候,自然界的生物也在时时刻刻活动着,并在雪地里留下足迹.打开大门,我们迈着轻快的脚步,踏上偏僻的乡村小路,雪很干很脆,踩上去发出吱吱的响声;早起的农夫,驾着雪橇,到远处的市场上去赶集.这辆雪橇整个夏天都闲置在农夫的门口,如今稻梗做伴,可算是有了用武之地.它尖锐,清晰,刺耳的声音,可真能让早起赶路的人头脑清醒.透过堆满积雪的农舍,我们看见农夫早早的把蜡烛点亮了,就像一颗孤寂的星星,散发着稀落的光,宛如某种朴素的美德在作晨祷.接着,烟囱里冒出的炊烟从树丛和雪堆里缭缭升起.

     我们能听见农夫劈砍柴火的声音,大地冰封,不时有鸡鸣狗叫的声音传出;稀薄而干寒的空气,只能把那些尖锐的声音传入我们的耳朵,那些声音听起来短促悦耳;凡是清醇轻盈的液体,稍有波动也很快停止,因为里面的晶体硬块很快沉到底下去了.声音从地平线的远处传来,像钟声一样清晰响亮,冬天的空气清新,不像夏天那样混合着许多杂质,因而声音听起来不像夏天那样刺耳模糊.在冰封的土地上,声音犹如敲击坚硬的木块那样洪亮,甚至是乡村里最平凡的声响,都听起来美妙动听,树上的冰条,互相撞击,听起来像铃声一样悦耳,乐在其中.空气里几乎没有水分,水蒸气不是干化,就是凝固成霜了.空气十分稀薄而且似乎还带弹性,人呼吸进去顿感心旷神怡.天空似乎被绷紧了,往后移动,从下向上望,感觉像置身于大教堂中,头上是一块块连在一起的弧形屋顶,空气被过滤得纯粹明净,好像有冰晶沉浮在中间,正如格陵兰的居民告诉我们的,当那里结冰的时候,”海就冒烟,像大火爆发的威力;而且伴有雾气升腾,称为烟雾;这烟雾能让人的手和脸起疱肿胀,并对人体有害.”但是我们这里的空气,虽然冰寒刺骨,但是质地清纯,可以滋养心肺,提神醒脑.我们不会把它当作冻霜,而会把它看作仲夏雾气的结晶,经过严寒的凝结,变得更加清纯了.

……

      那边有一间樵夫的小屋.主人不在家,我们不妨进去看看,看看他怎么度过冬季漫长的黑夜和短暂而风雪连天的白日.这里的人住在山南的一个山腰里,在这空旷的原野中,那个地方经常人来客往，算得上是荒凉世界里一个有着文明和公众活动的场所。到叙利亚华和波斯去的游客，站在巴尔米拉或海克通帕立斯的废墟面前抚今思古时，感受大概和我们现在差不多。花草总是在人迹密集的地方生长，这里有人来往，我想小鸟也会欢唱，花朵已经绽放。铁杉在樵夫的头上耳语，山核桃是他的燃料，还有松脂的松根供他点火，樵夫虽然去了远方，可平时他取水的小溪，还在山洼里忙碌地冒着气，那气依旧很稀薄，和空气差不多。房屋里有一块平台，上面铺着松枝稻草，这就是樵夫睡觉的床；一些破损的餐具，是他饮食时用的。但这个季节他不在这里，只有去年夏天筑在那里的京燕巢还在木架上。似乎主人离开没多久，屋子里还有一点柴火的干灰，那是他煮豆的地方；在他晚上抽烟的地方，一只缺了咬嘴的烟斗被放在灰里；和他唯一的伙伴（如果他有伙伴）聊聊明天的雪会堆多深（外面正飘着大雪），也可能是讨论刚才的怪响是猫头鹰在叫，还是树枝在颤动，或者只是他自己的错觉。冬天的夜已经很深了，他先到粗大的烟囱底下才看了一下，看看外面的风雪停了没有，却发现仙后座星星的光芒清晰的照在自己的身上，于是他很满意的回到干草堆上，舒展四肢，进入梦乡。

     看，樵夫在家留下这么多的东西，让我们利用这些残留物猜测一下他生活的情况！这是一堆木垛，我们可以想象他的斧头有多锋利，我们研究他劈柴的角度，可以估计他伐木时站在哪一边；还有，当他把树木砍下时，身体有没有围着树转，斧头是否换过手。从木头碎片曲折的纹理看，我们大致了解它倒向哪一边。这么一块小木片，记录了那个樵夫的一生，也记载了世界的历史。这有一小片纸，是樵夫包糖或盐用的，要么是他坐在森林里的一段木桩上，用来填堵他的枪膛。从这张纸片上，我们饶有兴趣地读着许多城市里喋喋不休的无聊的话语，读着大街上和百老汇宽敞明亮的房子，它们正等着人租借——就像这座小屋。这座小屋朝南的一面，屋檐上的积雪正在融化滴落，树枝上山雀唧唧喳喳叫个不停，靠在门旁边，和煦的阳光照得人真舒服，极富人情味似的。

    樵夫离家已经两个季节了，这座小屋却没有令周围的环境黯然失色。小鸟习惯的来这里安家。如果你追索许多动物的足迹，你会发现它们大都光顾过这里。人类损害了自然，可是自然并不计较。伐木声偶尔也还会听得到，森林仍然乐意而且毫无戒备地帮助斧头制造这种声音。只是这种声音不常听见了，由于它的衬托，这里的风景显得更加萧瑟，世界上所有的力量，似乎都在努力把这种声音变成自然界的一部分……

大自然在冬天是一架旧橱柜，各种干枯了的标本按照它们生长的次序，摆得竟然有序。草原和树林成了一座植物标准馆。树叶和野草保持着完美的形态，在空气的压力下，不需要用螺丝钉或胶水来固定。巢不用挂在假树上虽然树已经枯萎了，可那毕竟是真树，鸟儿在哪里建的，还保留在哪里。我们到草木干枯的沼泽地里去看看夏天残留的足迹，看看赤杨、柳树和枫树吸收了多少温暖的阳光，沐浴了多少雨露，现在有多高。看看它们的枝桠在经历酷夏后，是否长得又粗又长。过了不多久，这些沉睡的枝桠就要茁壮成长，总有一天，他们会“欲与天公试比高”。

   有时我们穿越雪地，雪太深了，我们便无法找到河的踪迹。走了几十码远，才又看见河。可是它似乎改了道，忽左忽右，让人难以猜测。河水在冰雪的覆盖下仍然生生不息的流动着，发出模糊不清的声音，像在打酣。大概河流也会像熊和土拨鼠一样冬眠。夏天气势磅礴的山川，如今难寻其迹，我们试着探寻过去，却见不到河，只有一片冻硬了的冰雪。我们原来以为，到了深冬的时候，河水就会断流，连底部都会被冻住，直到春天来临。实际上，水流并没有减弱，只是上面结了一层冰罢了。流入湖泊的上千条溪流，在冬季里仍然生机勃勃。只有少数的水流，由于太贴近地面，源头才会被冻住。但是它侵入了地下，充溢了大地深处的水库，自然界的源泉埋伏在冰霜下面。夏天溪水上涨，并非只靠融雪填充，割草的人渴了，也并不是只能喝融化了的雪水。春天泉水解冻，小溪涨水了，这是因为自然界的工作被拖延了，水变成不太光滑圆润的冰和雪，来不及找到它们的水平状态。

    冰的那一边，在松林和雪掩盖下的小山里，站着一个钓梭鱼的渔夫，他把鱼线垂在一个静止不动的河湾里，像一个芬兰人那样，把胳膊插在厚大衣的口袋中。他的思想静谧，充溢着雪和鱼腥味，他自己就是一只无鳍鱼，之所以他是一只“异类的渔”，是因为他在冰上，而他的朋友在冰下，他们之间的距离可以用英寸来计算。这个人伫立在那里，一声不吭，云和雪包围了他，使它看起来和岸上的树没什么区别。人呆在这荒凉的地方，即使有所举动，也是迟缓和简单的，寂静和沉稳是自然界的本性，人身在其中，自然就剔除了城市中浮躁多动的秉性。不要认为这里有了人，就不再荒凉，实际上人就和蓝樱鸟和麝鼠一样，已经成为大自然的一部分。正如早期的航海家提出的那样，生活在努特卡海湾和美洲西北海岸一带的土著居民，全身裹着厚厚的毛皮衣服，从不和陌生人多说话，除非你用铁撬他的嘴，他才会变得健谈。这里的人，沉默得就和土著人差不多，他们和自然界水乳相融，已经扎根于自然，根基比城市里的人牢固的多。走到他面前，问他今天运气怎么样，你会发现他也崇拜着某些无形的东西。你听，他无比虔诚地用手势比划着，论说湖里的梭鱼。他与湖岸相连，钓鱼的线把他们连为一体，而且他还记得，在他在湖面的冰洞钓鱼的这个季节，他家菜园子里的豌豆正在茁壮生长。

    就在我们四处游荡的这会儿，天空又有阴云密布，雪花纷然而落。雪越下越大，远处的景物渐渐的脱离了我们的视线。雪花光顾了每一棵树和田野，无孔不入，痕迹遍布河边、湖畔、小山和低谷。四足动物都躲藏起来了，小鸟在这平和的时刻里也休息了，周围几乎听不到任何声音，比好天气的日子更加宁静。可是，渐渐地，山坡、灰墙和篱笆、光亮的冰还有枯叶，所有原来没有被白雪覆盖的，现在都被埋住了，人和动物的足迹也都消失了。大自然轻而易举地就实施了它的法规，把人类行为的痕迹抹擦得干干净净。听听荷马的诗：“冬天里，雪花降落，又多又快。风停了，雪下个不停，覆盖了山顶和丘陵，覆盖了长着酸枣树的平原和耕地；在波澜壮阔的海湾海岸边，雪也纷纷地下着，只是雪花落在海里，就被海水悄无声息地融化了。”白雪充塞了所有的事物，使万物平等，把它们深深地裹在自然的怀抱里；就像漫漫夏季里的植被，爬上宇宙的柱顶，爬上堡垒的角楼，覆盖人类的艺术品。

狂风吹过树林，吹得树枝呼啦啦地响，它向我们发出警号——该回去了。太阳在狂风暴雪后面悄然落下，鸟儿寻觅着家园，牛羊也回到圈栏中了。

“替农夫干活的牛垂着头站在那里，

身上全都是雪，

索求报酬的时候到了。”

在普通的日历里，冬天总是一个老人的形象，身上裹着紧紧的大衣，直面风雪的样子。但我们猜想，它应该是一个幸福的樵夫，或者是一个热血青年，像夏天一样愉快。经历风雪使他具有一种从未被探索国的精神，这种精神支撑着游子的信念。冬天不拘小节，它有一种温和而真诚的态度。在冬天，我们更多的是探索自己的内心世界。我们的心温暖而喜悦，就像披着大雪的农舍：半掩的门窗，从烟囱里冒出的烟快乐地向上升腾。房屋本来就给人以舒服的感觉，在飘着大雪的日子里，呆在屋内，会感到更加的温馨。最冷的时候，我们为在壁炉边取暖，透过烟囱顶看着外面的天空，心中十分愉悦。我们享受着炉边的温暖和宁静，倾听街上牛羊的沉吟，和远处谷仓里整个下午都没有停歇的打谷的声音，甚至能感觉到自己脉搏的跳跃。一个医术高明的医生能通过这种声音对我们精神的影响来判定我们是否健康。我们享受着此时此刻，这种休闲不是东方式的，而是北方式的。大家就这样位坐在火炉边，凝视着空中的沉埃在阳光中飞舞。

有时候我们的生活太循规蹈矩，太安逸，因此我们的命运不会遭遇不幸。想想看，三个月以来，人的命运就这样被裹在毛皮大衣里。雪是多么令人欢欣鼓舞，只是希伯莱人的《圣经》里并没有意识到这一点。莫非宗教不被生活在温带和寒带的人们所崇拜吗？在新英格兰的寒夜里，上天慷慨地把这一份恩惠施与人类，可奇怪的是居然没有一本书来记录。我们从不用歌声来赞美上天，我们只是抵制上天的愤怒。最完美的经文，记载的不过是顺从的信仰。那些生人的生活同样闭塞简洁，真正的勇士应该到寒冷的美国缅因州或加拿大拉布拉多半岛的森林里住上一年，让他体会从初冬到解冻这段日子的生活，回头在翻翻《圣经》，看看里面所阐述的是否足够深奥。

    现在，漫长的冬夜降临在农夫的火炉边上。人的思想开始了无边无际的遐想。人性本善，此时，对天下性灵苍生更加怀着一颗怜悯之心。农民一想到庄稼都已收割，寒冬有备无患，就禁不住高兴起来。现在，他平静地透过闪着光亮的玻璃观看“北极熊的家园”，风暴已经停息了。

     “饱满的天空，

      无限的世界在我们眼前，

      天色明亮刺眼，

      从这个边际到那个边际，

      都在闪亮发光。”