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·大卫·梭罗

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棵空心树里蹲着，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，大自然还在忙碌着，只有街上一些招牌或小木屋的门轴不时嘎吱嘎吱地响，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，在金星和火星之间，天地万物中还有一些是清醒的。我们想起了看似遥远却也许近在心中的“温暖感觉”，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。

我们也进入了梦乡，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。屋顶被皑皑白雪筱盖着，雪冻成的冰条挂在屋檐下和栅栏上;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。

我们静静地拔去了门闩，让飞雪飘进屋里;走出屋外，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，木柴断裂的声音，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，狐狸和水獭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，自然界里的生物也在时时刻刻活动着，并且在雪地里留下足迹。打开大门，我们迈着轻快的脚步，踏上僻静的乡村小路，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，如今与木屑稻梗做伴，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，我们看见农夫早早地把蜡烛点亮了，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袅袅升起。

我们能听见农夫劈砍柴火的声音，大地冰封，不时有鸡鸣狗叫声传出。寒冷的空气，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，因而声音听来也不像夏天那样刺耳模糊。走在冰封的土地上，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带弹性，人呼吸进去，顿感心旷神恰。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的屋顶，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疙肿胀，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。

大自然在冬天就是一间美术品陈列室，各种干枯了的标本按照它们生长的次序，摆得井然有序。草原和树林成了一座“植物标本馆”。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。

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，远处的景物渐渐地脱离了我们的视线。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，只是雪花落到海里，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，爬上庙宇的柱顶，爬上堡垒的角楼，覆盖人类的艺术品。