冬日漫步

The wind has gently murmured through the blinds, or puffed¹（疏松的） with feathery softness against the windows, and occasionally sighed like a summer zephyr²（和风，西风） lifting the leaves along, the livelong night. The meadow mouse has slept in his snug³ gallery in the sod, the owl⁴ 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 hearth⁵, 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 wood-house door has faintly creaked upon its hinge, cheering forlorn（被遗弃的，绝望的） 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 bleak⁶ for men to stand. But while the earth has slumbered⁷, all the air has been alive with feathery flakes⁸ descending⁹, as if some northern Ceres reigned¹⁰, 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 panes¹¹ 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（钟乳石） of snow, and in the yard stand stalagmites（石笋） covering some concealed¹² core. The trees and shrubs¹³ rear white arms to the sky on every side; and where were walls and fences, we see fantastic forms stretching in frolic（嬉戏的） gambols¹⁴ 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 lurid¹⁵（可怕的） brazen¹⁶ light in the east proclaims the approach of day, while the western landscape is dim and spectral¹⁷ still, and clothed in a sombre 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 2Styx, —not for any melancholy¹⁸（忧郁，悲哀） they suggest, but their twilight¹⁹ bustle²⁰ is too solemn and mysterious for earth. The recent tracks of the fox or otter²¹, 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 lone²² country road, crunching²³ the dry and crisped snow under our feet, or aroused by the sharp, clear creak of the wood-shed, 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 virtue²⁴ were at its matins there. And one by one the smokes begin to ascend²⁵ 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 clarion²⁶ of the cock, —though the thin and frosty air conveys only the finer particles of sound to our ears, with short and sweet vibrations²⁷, as the waves subside²⁸ 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 horizon, as if there were fewer impediments than in summer to make them faint and ragged²⁹. The ground is sonorous³⁰, like seasoned wood, and even the ordinary rural sounds are melodious³¹, and the jingling³² of the ice on the trees is sweet and liquid. There is the least possible moisture in the atmosphere, all being dried up or congealed³³, and it is of such extreme tenuity and elasticity³⁴ that it becomes a source of delight. The withdrawn³⁵ and tense sky seems groined like the aisles³⁶ 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 blisters³⁷ on the face and hands, and is very pernicious to the health." But this pure, stinging cold is an elixir³⁸（长寿药） to the lungs, and not so much a frozen mist as a crystallized midsummer haze³⁹, refined and purified by cold. 

 

The sun at length rises through the distant woods, as if with the faint clashing, swinging sound of cymbals⁴⁰, melting the air with his beams, and with such rapid steps the morning travels, that already his rays are gilding⁴¹ the distant western mountains. Meanwhile we step hastily along through the powdery snow, warmed by an inward heat, enjoying an Indian summer still, in the increased glow of thought and feeling. Probably if our lives were more conformed to nature, we should not need to defend ourselves against her heats and colds, but find her our constant nurse and friend, as do plants and quadrupeds（四足动物）.

 

The wonderful purity of nature at this season is a most pleasing fact. Every decayed stump⁴² and moss-grown stone and rail, and the dead leaves of autumn, are concealed by a clean napkin of snow. In the bare fields and tinkling⁴³ woods, see what virtue survives. In the coldest and bleakest⁴⁴ places, the warmest charities still maintain a foothold. A cold and searching wind drives away all contagion⁴⁵（传染病，蔓延）, and nothing can withstand it but what has a virtue in it, and accordingly, whatever we meet with in cold and bleak places, as the tops of mountains, we respect for a sort of sturdy innocence⁴⁶, a Puritan toughness. All things beside seem to be called in for shelter, and what stays out must be part of the original frame of the universe, and of such valor⁴⁷ as God himself. It is invigorating（爽快的） to breathe the cleansed⁴⁸ air. Its greater fineness and purity are visible to the eye, and we would fain（乐意地） stay out long and late, that the gales⁴⁹ may sigh through us, too, as through the leafless trees, and fit us for the winter, —as if we hoped so to borrow some pure and steadfast⁵⁰（坚定的） virtue, which will stead us in all seasons.

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