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The trigger and the ring around the trigger were 1)rubbed down into the deeper skin of brass, where the oil of the hands was still built in waves. The sight down the groove of the barrels was still perfect and still straight. I put it into her hands and they bent under the weight of it.
“Are they always this heavy?” she asked.
“This one is bigger,” I said. “It’s old and they made it when they liked bigger guns.”
She put it against her shoulder and the wooden 2)stock 3)dangled loose and low, like a long branch on a small tree. Her hair fell 4)in sheets in front of her eyes and she knocked it away and the gun slipped and she did it all over again.
“I’ll be lucky if I can even hit a tree,” she said.
I rubbed my finger along the ridges of brass, now turning golden. She had the bag of shells
5)slung over shoulder and it rattled with her steps. We came out of the shadow of the woods and onto the green carpet of meadow. The sunlight brushed over everything like warm butter. I stopped and she stopped and the only sound was the slight stir of 6)critters in the leaves.
“Where are they?” she said.
“At the marsh down there,” I said, and I pointed to the edge of the meadow where the slight green feathers stirred in the grass like puppets. I showed her how to break the barrel and put shells in.
“Just keep it high and don’t shoot me,” I said.
“I’ll try,” she said.
“I won’t be as tasty as duck.”
She laughed. I never thought hunting could be funny.
I started to pass her the gun but she said one moment and bent down to wipe the mud off her boots and then to wipe her hands on her pants and then to rub her pants with her hands.
Then I ran into the meadow, arms spread out. The dirt was wet and it pulled my feet in but I kicked harder, running away from the gun and her. I saw the ducks spread out by the brown water. They exploded into a green firework, rising above me. I was running into their wake and waiting, waiting for the crack of the shell to explode behind me, running with my neck down even though I told myself I was not afraid. Then I was past the pond, still waiting for the crack to ring behind me. There was no meadow left to run through, and I was still waiting. The ducks were cheering in the sky above me and I turned around slowly. The gun was at her waist and she was 7)fumbling with something on the side of the barrel, 8)jostling it against her hip. The ducks were far into the blue distance now and their cheering was soft. I was no longer waiting for the crack but instead hearing the explosion ring in the meadow and moving to the left and falling into the mud as the grass beside me was trimmed with 9)buckshot.
When I came back, the gun was lying on the earth, its worn brass glowing in the sunlight, and she was sitting there crying.
“I guess I should have told you how to turn the 10)safety off.”
She started laughing but was still crying, and the mud was 11)seeping around the heels of her boots. I held her and she laughed and cried on my shoulder.
“Don’t ever make me do it again,” she said.
扳机和扳机护圈都被深深地磨损了，露出了里面的黄铜，而手上的油脂所留下的波浪形印记依然可见。从枪管上的凹槽看过去，依然可以清晰直瞄准星。我把枪交到她的手里，她的手被枪的重量压弯了。
“它们都是这么重的吗？”她问道。
“这一支要大些，”我说，“这是老式的，那时候人们喜欢大点的枪。”
她将枪靠在肩膀上，但木枪托松松垮垮地低垂着，就像是小树上伸出了一根长长的树枝。她的头发层层垂落在眼前，她把头发拂开，可枪却滑了下来，她只好重新再来一次。
“如果我能够打中一棵树的话，就算走运了，”她说。
我用手指沿黄铜的棱线摩挲，如今这些棱线都快变成金黄色了。她将子弹袋挂在肩上，每走一步袋子就咯吱作响。我们穿过了树林的阴影，来到如茵的绿地上。阳光像温暖的黄油一样轻刷于万物之上。我停下了脚步，她也停了下来，只能听见草叶间的小动物轻轻骚动的声音。
“它们在哪呢？”她说。
“在那下边的沼泽地里，”我边说边指向草地的边缘。在那里，淡绿色的羽毛像玩偶一样在草丛间翻动。我向她演示如何打开枪管和装弹上膛。
“记着把枪举高点，别打到我，”我说。
“我会尽力的，”她说。
“我可没有鸭子那么美味。”
她笑了起来。我从没想过原来打猎也可以这么好笑。
我开始把枪交给她，但她说等一会，接着弯下腰刮掉靴子上的泥巴，然后在裤子上擦了擦手，再用手擦了擦裤子。
接着我张开双手跑进了草地里。泥土很潮湿，我的脚陷了下去，但我用力踢开泥土，从枪和她的旁边跑开了。我看到鸭子从褐色的水里四散开来，像绿色的焰火般迅速散开，飞过我的头顶。我跑过去把它们从睡梦中惊醒，然后等待着，等待着子弹的爆裂声从我身后爆出。我低头跑着，尽管我对自己说我不害怕。接着我跑过了池塘，还在等待身后的枪声响起。我跑到了草地的尽头，依旧等待着。鸭子在我头顶上的天空里欢叫着，于是我慢慢转过身来。枪垂在她的腰间，而她边将枪管靠着臀部，边在枪管的边上摸索着什么。现在鸭子已经远远地飞上了蓝天，它们的欢呼声也轻柔了许多。我不再等待枪声响起了，却听到了草地上传来噼啪声，于是赶紧躲向左边，摔进了泥堆里，而我身后的草地被大号铅弹扫平了一片。
当我回来时，那把枪正躺在地上，它那已被磨损的黄铜在阳光下闪闪发光，而她正坐在那里大哭。
“我想我应该告诉你如何关上保险栓。”
她笑了起来，却还在哭着，泥土渗到了她靴跟的周围。我搂着她，她在我的肩上又哭又笑。
“再也不要让我这么做了，”她说。
“Are they always this heavy?” she asked.
“This one is bigger,” I said. “It’s old and they made it when they liked bigger guns.”
She put it against her shoulder and the wooden 2)stock 3)dangled loose and low, like a long branch on a small tree. Her hair fell 4)in sheets in front of her eyes and she knocked it away and the gun slipped and she did it all over again.
“I’ll be lucky if I can even hit a tree,” she said.
I rubbed my finger along the ridges of brass, now turning golden. She had the bag of shells
5)slung over shoulder and it rattled with her steps. We came out of the shadow of the woods and onto the green carpet of meadow. The sunlight brushed over everything like warm butter. I stopped and she stopped and the only sound was the slight stir of 6)critters in the leaves.
“Where are they?” she said.
“At the marsh down there,” I said, and I pointed to the edge of the meadow where the slight green feathers stirred in the grass like puppets. I showed her how to break the barrel and put shells in.
“Just keep it high and don’t shoot me,” I said.
“I’ll try,” she said.
“I won’t be as tasty as duck.”
She laughed. I never thought hunting could be funny.
I started to pass her the gun but she said one moment and bent down to wipe the mud off her boots and then to wipe her hands on her pants and then to rub her pants with her hands.
Then I ran into the meadow, arms spread out. The dirt was wet and it pulled my feet in but I kicked harder, running away from the gun and her. I saw the ducks spread out by the brown water. They exploded into a green firework, rising above me. I was running into their wake and waiting, waiting for the crack of the shell to explode behind me, running with my neck down even though I told myself I was not afraid. Then I was past the pond, still waiting for the crack to ring behind me. There was no meadow left to run through, and I was still waiting. The ducks were cheering in the sky above me and I turned around slowly. The gun was at her waist and she was 7)fumbling with something on the side of the barrel, 8)jostling it against her hip. The ducks were far into the blue distance now and their cheering was soft. I was no longer waiting for the crack but instead hearing the explosion ring in the meadow and moving to the left and falling into the mud as the grass beside me was trimmed with 9)buckshot.
When I came back, the gun was lying on the earth, its worn brass glowing in the sunlight, and she was sitting there crying.
“I guess I should have told you how to turn the 10)safety off.”
She started laughing but was still crying, and the mud was 11)seeping around the heels of her boots. I held her and she laughed and cried on my shoulder.
“Don’t ever make me do it again,” she said.
扳机和扳机护圈都被深深地磨损了，露出了里面的黄铜，而手上的油脂所留下的波浪形印记依然可见。从枪管上的凹槽看过去，依然可以清晰直瞄准星。我把枪交到她的手里，她的手被枪的重量压弯了。
“它们都是这么重的吗？”她问道。
“这一支要大些，”我说，“这是老式的，那时候人们喜欢大点的枪。”
她将枪靠在肩膀上，但木枪托松松垮垮地低垂着，就像是小树上伸出了一根长长的树枝。她的头发层层垂落在眼前，她把头发拂开，可枪却滑了下来，她只好重新再来一次。
“如果我能够打中一棵树的话，就算走运了，”她说。
我用手指沿黄铜的棱线摩挲，如今这些棱线都快变成金黄色了。她将子弹袋挂在肩上，每走一步袋子就咯吱作响。我们穿过了树林的阴影，来到如茵的绿地上。阳光像温暖的黄油一样轻刷于万物之上。我停下了脚步，她也停了下来，只能听见草叶间的小动物轻轻骚动的声音。
“它们在哪呢？”她说。
“在那下边的沼泽地里，”我边说边指向草地的边缘。在那里，淡绿色的羽毛像玩偶一样在草丛间翻动。我向她演示如何打开枪管和装弹上膛。
“记着把枪举高点，别打到我，”我说。
“我会尽力的，”她说。
“我可没有鸭子那么美味。”
她笑了起来。我从没想过原来打猎也可以这么好笑。
我开始把枪交给她，但她说等一会，接着弯下腰刮掉靴子上的泥巴，然后在裤子上擦了擦手，再用手擦了擦裤子。
接着我张开双手跑进了草地里。泥土很潮湿，我的脚陷了下去，但我用力踢开泥土，从枪和她的旁边跑开了。我看到鸭子从褐色的水里四散开来，像绿色的焰火般迅速散开，飞过我的头顶。我跑过去把它们从睡梦中惊醒，然后等待着，等待着子弹的爆裂声从我身后爆出。我低头跑着，尽管我对自己说我不害怕。接着我跑过了池塘，还在等待身后的枪声响起。我跑到了草地的尽头，依旧等待着。鸭子在我头顶上的天空里欢叫着，于是我慢慢转过身来。枪垂在她的腰间，而她边将枪管靠着臀部，边在枪管的边上摸索着什么。现在鸭子已经远远地飞上了蓝天，它们的欢呼声也轻柔了许多。我不再等待枪声响起了，却听到了草地上传来噼啪声，于是赶紧躲向左边，摔进了泥堆里，而我身后的草地被大号铅弹扫平了一片。
当我回来时，那把枪正躺在地上，它那已被磨损的黄铜在阳光下闪闪发光，而她正坐在那里大哭。
“我想我应该告诉你如何关上保险栓。”
她笑了起来，却还在哭着，泥土渗到了她靴跟的周围。我搂着她，她在我的肩上又哭又笑。
“再也不要让我这么做了，”她说。