论文部分内容阅读
那家孤儿院坐落在卡罗来纳山地高处。冬日里，有时积雪堆得颇厚，封锁了孤儿院通往村庄乃至外界的道路。缭绕的云雾遮蔽了重重峰峦，山谷里雪花飞落。在凛冽的寒风中，孤儿院的男孩们每天跑两趟婴儿房送牛奶，当他们伸手推门时，手指都已经冻得不听使唤。
2我是秋天去那儿住的，当时想找个安静偏僻的环境处理一些棘手的写作任务;我想呼吸山间的新鲜空气，摆脱久居亚热带沾染的一身瘴气。我也想念故乡十月枫林尽染，想念那成堆的玉米垛、南瓜、黑核桃树和隆起的山丘，而这些景象在我孤儿院的居所都能望见。我住在屬于孤儿院的一间小棚屋，距孤儿院的农场半英里。刚搬进小屋那会儿，我提出找个小男孩或小伙子来静忙劈柴，好备些柴火供暖。初来的几日天气还很暖和，我在小屋附近找到了我需要的木柴，可未见人来，我也就把这事给忘了。
3一天傍晚时分，我正码字写作，抬头间略略吃了一惊：一个小男孩站在门旁，与我做伴的猎犬竟一声不响地待在他的身边，也没吠叫提醒我。这个小男孩看上去十二岁左右，个头偏小，身着工装裤和一件破烂不堪的衬衫，打着赤脚。
4“我今天能劈些柴火。”他说。
“但我找了个孤儿院的男孩来帮忙。”我回答道。
“我就是。”
5“你吗？可你个头儿很小啊。”
“劈柴可不需要个头儿大。”他说，“有些大个子男孩还劈不好呢。我在孤儿院劈柴已经很长一段时间了。”
6我已经联想到木柴最后都是些被劈得不成形也不合用的树枝。但我一门心思都在工作上，懒得和他多费口舌，所以说的话也有些生硬。
“好吧，斧头就在那儿，去看看能做些啥吧。”
7我关门回屋继续工作。男孩先是把树枝拖到一旁，拖拽声让我有些烦。紧接着他开始劈柴——斧劈之声有节奏感，也很平稳，很快我便忘记了他的存在。他的动静几乎没给我造成什么干扰，顶多像屋外淅淅沥沥的一场雨。写作间隙，我停下来伸了伸懒腰，太阳正落向最远处山峦的背后，山谷被染成比紫菀花颜色还深的紫色，这时门廊传来男孩的脚步声，我估摸着他忙活了有一个半小时。
8小男孩说：“我得去吃晚饭了，明晚再来。”
我心想可能还是得依原意找个年龄大一些的男孩，便对他说：“我把你今天的工钱结了吧，是一小时十美分吗？”
“您说了算。”圈我们一起来到棚屋后。令人惊讶的是，他已经劈好了一大堆坚实的木柴：有一些樱桃树网木、杜鹃花树粗壮的树根，甚至连建造棚屋剩下的松木和橡木也都给劈成了大块的木柴。
“你都能跟大人劈得一样多了，”我说，“劈得可真不少呀。”
10我看向他，说实话，这是我第一回直视他。他的头发和玉米垛的颜色无异;他的眼睛里透着一股率真，颜色仿若山雨欲来时山地的天空——灰中带着一抹奇异深邃的蓝。我正和他说话，一束光照在他身上，好似夕阳将那铺洒群山的余晖也赠予了他一份。我递给了他一枚二十五美分的硬币。
11“你明天也来吧，很感谢你的帮忙。”我说。
他看了看我，又看了眼硬币，欲言又止，最后转身离开了。
“明天我会来劈引火用的干木条。引火柴、小劈柴、圆木干柴和炉底大柴，这些你都用得上。”他回过头说，衬衫的肩部磨得又薄又破。
12天亮时，我被屋外的劈柴声吵得似醒非醒，可那声音依旧是那么富有韵律，使我再次进入梦乡。当我在寒冷的清晨从被窝里爬起来，那小男孩已经赶完一趟工走了，劈好了一摞引火柴整整齐齐地堆放在墙边。下午放学后他又跑来干活，一直忙到该回孤儿院才停。这孩子名叫杰里，12岁大，自4岁起就生活在孤儿院。我都能想象出他4岁时的模样：想必是和现在一样，一双灰蓝色眼睛透出一股庄重，一样自立自强吧？不，准确来说，我想到的是“正直”。
13“正直”一词对我来说意义十分特殊，我用这个词形容的那种品质没几个人拥有。我父亲拥有那种品质——还有一个人我几乎可以确信也拥有该品质。但我身边几乎没有谁在具备这种品质的同时还透着山泉般清澈、纯净、朴素的气质，而杰里做到了。他这种品格构筑于勇气之上，却不止于勇气;这是一种诚实的品格，却不止于诚实。有一天斧柄断了，杰里说孤儿院的木工房可以修好。我把修斧头的钱拿给他，他却没有要。
14“我自己付钱，”他说，“是我弄坏的。落斧时没留神。”
“可没人能不失一次准头。”我对他说，“是斧柄的木料有问题。我去找卖斧头的人问问。”
15只有当我把话说到这份上他才愿意把钱收下，他愿意承认是自己不小心。他很有主见，一心认真做事，倘若出了差错，他会承担责任，绝不使乖弄巧。
The Orphanage is high in the Carolina mountains. Sometimes in winter the snowdrifts2 are so deep that the institution is cut off from the village below， from all the world. Fog hides the mountain peaks， the snow swirls down the valleys， and a wind blows so bitterly that the orphanage boys who take the milk twice daily to the baby cottage reach the door with fingers stiff in an agony of numbness.
I was there in the autumn. I wanted quiet， isolation， to do some troublesome writing. I wanted mountain air to blow out the malaria3 from too long a time in the subtropics. I was homesick， too， for the flaming of maples in October， and for corn shocks4 and pumpkins and black-walnut trees and the lift of hills. I found them all， living in a cabin that belonged to the orphanage， half a mile beyond the orphanage farm. When I took the cabin， I asked for a boy or man to come and chop wood for the fireplace. The first few days were warm， I found what wood I needed about the cabin， no one came， and I forgot the order. I looked up from my typewriter one late afternoon， a little startled. A boy stood at the door， and my pointer5 dog， my companion， was at his side and had not barked to warn me. The boy was probably twelve years old， but undersized. He wore overalls and a torn shirt， and was barefooted.
He said， “I can chop some wood today.”
I said， “But I have a boy coming from the orphanage.”
“I’m the boy.”
“You？ But you’re small.”
“Size don’t matter， chopping wood，” he said. “Some of the big boys don’t chop good. I’ve been chopping wood at the orphanage a long time.”
I visualized mangled6 and inadequate7 branches for my fires. I was well into my work and not inclined to conversation. I was a little blunt8.
“Very well. There’s the ax. Go ahead and see what you can do.”
I went back to work， closing the door. At first the sound of the boy dragging brush annoyed me. Then he began to chop. The blows were rhythmic and steady， and shortly I had forgotten him， the sound no more of an interruption than a consistent rain. I suppose an hour and a half passed， for when I stopped and stretched， and heard the boy’s steps on the cabin stoop9， the sun was dropping behind the farthest mountain， and the valleys were purple with something deeper than the asters.
The boy said， “I have to go to supper now. I can come again tomorrow evening.”
I said， “I’ll pay you now for what you’ve done，” thinking I should probably have to insist on an older boy. “Ten cents an hour？”
“Anything is all right.”
We went together back of the cabin. An astonishing amount of solid wood had been cut. There were cherry logs and heavy roots of rhododendron， and blocks10 from the waste pine and oak left from the building of the cabin.
“But you’ve done as much as a man，” I said. “This is a splendid pile.”
I looked at him， actually， for the first time. His hair was the color of the corn shocks， and his eyes， very direct， were like the mountain sky when rain is pending11—gray， with a shadowing of that miraculous blue. As I spoke a light came over him， as though the setting sun had touched him with the same suffused12 glory with which it touched the mountains. I gave him a quarter.
“You may come tomorrow，” I said， “and thank you very much.”
He looked at me， and at the coin， and seemed to want to speak， but could not， and turned away.
“I’ll split kindling13 tomorrow，” he said over his thin ragged14 shoulder. “You’ll need kindling and medium wood and logs and backlogs15.” At daylight I was half wakened by the sound of chopping. Again it was so even in texture16 that I went back to sleep. When I left my bed in the cool morning， the boy had come and gone， and a stack of kindling was neat against the cabin wall. He came again after school in the afternoon and worked until time to return to the orphanage. His name was Jerry; he was twelve years old， and he had been at the orphanage since he was four. I could picture17 him at four， with the same grave gray-blue eyes and the same-independence？ No， the word that comes to me is “integrity.”
The word means something very special to me， and the quality for which I use it is a rare one. My father had it—there is another of whom I am almost sure—but almost no man of my acquaintance possesses it with the clarity， the purity， the simplicity of a mountain stream. But the boy Jerry had it. It is bedded on courage， but it is more than brave. It is honest， but it is more than honesty. The ax handle broke one day. Jerry said the woodshop at the orphanage would repair it. I brought money to pay for the job and he refused it.
“I’ll pay for it，” he said. “I broke it. I brought the ax down careless.”
“But no one hits accurately every time，” I told him. “The fault was in the wood of the handle. I’ll see the man from whom I bought it.”
It was only then that he would take the money. He was standing back of his own carelessness. He was a free-will agent and he chose to do careful work， and if he failed， he took the responsibility without subterfuge18.
2我是秋天去那儿住的，当时想找个安静偏僻的环境处理一些棘手的写作任务;我想呼吸山间的新鲜空气，摆脱久居亚热带沾染的一身瘴气。我也想念故乡十月枫林尽染，想念那成堆的玉米垛、南瓜、黑核桃树和隆起的山丘，而这些景象在我孤儿院的居所都能望见。我住在屬于孤儿院的一间小棚屋，距孤儿院的农场半英里。刚搬进小屋那会儿，我提出找个小男孩或小伙子来静忙劈柴，好备些柴火供暖。初来的几日天气还很暖和，我在小屋附近找到了我需要的木柴，可未见人来，我也就把这事给忘了。
3一天傍晚时分，我正码字写作，抬头间略略吃了一惊：一个小男孩站在门旁，与我做伴的猎犬竟一声不响地待在他的身边，也没吠叫提醒我。这个小男孩看上去十二岁左右，个头偏小，身着工装裤和一件破烂不堪的衬衫，打着赤脚。
4“我今天能劈些柴火。”他说。
“但我找了个孤儿院的男孩来帮忙。”我回答道。
“我就是。”
5“你吗？可你个头儿很小啊。”
“劈柴可不需要个头儿大。”他说，“有些大个子男孩还劈不好呢。我在孤儿院劈柴已经很长一段时间了。”
6我已经联想到木柴最后都是些被劈得不成形也不合用的树枝。但我一门心思都在工作上，懒得和他多费口舌，所以说的话也有些生硬。
“好吧，斧头就在那儿，去看看能做些啥吧。”
7我关门回屋继续工作。男孩先是把树枝拖到一旁，拖拽声让我有些烦。紧接着他开始劈柴——斧劈之声有节奏感，也很平稳，很快我便忘记了他的存在。他的动静几乎没给我造成什么干扰，顶多像屋外淅淅沥沥的一场雨。写作间隙，我停下来伸了伸懒腰，太阳正落向最远处山峦的背后，山谷被染成比紫菀花颜色还深的紫色，这时门廊传来男孩的脚步声，我估摸着他忙活了有一个半小时。
8小男孩说：“我得去吃晚饭了，明晚再来。”
我心想可能还是得依原意找个年龄大一些的男孩，便对他说：“我把你今天的工钱结了吧，是一小时十美分吗？”
“您说了算。”圈我们一起来到棚屋后。令人惊讶的是，他已经劈好了一大堆坚实的木柴：有一些樱桃树网木、杜鹃花树粗壮的树根，甚至连建造棚屋剩下的松木和橡木也都给劈成了大块的木柴。
“你都能跟大人劈得一样多了，”我说，“劈得可真不少呀。”
10我看向他，说实话，这是我第一回直视他。他的头发和玉米垛的颜色无异;他的眼睛里透着一股率真，颜色仿若山雨欲来时山地的天空——灰中带着一抹奇异深邃的蓝。我正和他说话，一束光照在他身上，好似夕阳将那铺洒群山的余晖也赠予了他一份。我递给了他一枚二十五美分的硬币。
11“你明天也来吧，很感谢你的帮忙。”我说。
他看了看我，又看了眼硬币，欲言又止，最后转身离开了。
“明天我会来劈引火用的干木条。引火柴、小劈柴、圆木干柴和炉底大柴，这些你都用得上。”他回过头说，衬衫的肩部磨得又薄又破。
12天亮时，我被屋外的劈柴声吵得似醒非醒，可那声音依旧是那么富有韵律，使我再次进入梦乡。当我在寒冷的清晨从被窝里爬起来，那小男孩已经赶完一趟工走了，劈好了一摞引火柴整整齐齐地堆放在墙边。下午放学后他又跑来干活，一直忙到该回孤儿院才停。这孩子名叫杰里，12岁大，自4岁起就生活在孤儿院。我都能想象出他4岁时的模样：想必是和现在一样，一双灰蓝色眼睛透出一股庄重，一样自立自强吧？不，准确来说，我想到的是“正直”。
13“正直”一词对我来说意义十分特殊，我用这个词形容的那种品质没几个人拥有。我父亲拥有那种品质——还有一个人我几乎可以确信也拥有该品质。但我身边几乎没有谁在具备这种品质的同时还透着山泉般清澈、纯净、朴素的气质，而杰里做到了。他这种品格构筑于勇气之上，却不止于勇气;这是一种诚实的品格，却不止于诚实。有一天斧柄断了，杰里说孤儿院的木工房可以修好。我把修斧头的钱拿给他，他却没有要。
14“我自己付钱，”他说，“是我弄坏的。落斧时没留神。”
“可没人能不失一次准头。”我对他说，“是斧柄的木料有问题。我去找卖斧头的人问问。”
15只有当我把话说到这份上他才愿意把钱收下，他愿意承认是自己不小心。他很有主见，一心认真做事，倘若出了差错，他会承担责任，绝不使乖弄巧。
The Orphanage is high in the Carolina mountains. Sometimes in winter the snowdrifts2 are so deep that the institution is cut off from the village below， from all the world. Fog hides the mountain peaks， the snow swirls down the valleys， and a wind blows so bitterly that the orphanage boys who take the milk twice daily to the baby cottage reach the door with fingers stiff in an agony of numbness.
I was there in the autumn. I wanted quiet， isolation， to do some troublesome writing. I wanted mountain air to blow out the malaria3 from too long a time in the subtropics. I was homesick， too， for the flaming of maples in October， and for corn shocks4 and pumpkins and black-walnut trees and the lift of hills. I found them all， living in a cabin that belonged to the orphanage， half a mile beyond the orphanage farm. When I took the cabin， I asked for a boy or man to come and chop wood for the fireplace. The first few days were warm， I found what wood I needed about the cabin， no one came， and I forgot the order. I looked up from my typewriter one late afternoon， a little startled. A boy stood at the door， and my pointer5 dog， my companion， was at his side and had not barked to warn me. The boy was probably twelve years old， but undersized. He wore overalls and a torn shirt， and was barefooted.
He said， “I can chop some wood today.”
I said， “But I have a boy coming from the orphanage.”
“I’m the boy.”
“You？ But you’re small.”
“Size don’t matter， chopping wood，” he said. “Some of the big boys don’t chop good. I’ve been chopping wood at the orphanage a long time.”
I visualized mangled6 and inadequate7 branches for my fires. I was well into my work and not inclined to conversation. I was a little blunt8.
“Very well. There’s the ax. Go ahead and see what you can do.”
I went back to work， closing the door. At first the sound of the boy dragging brush annoyed me. Then he began to chop. The blows were rhythmic and steady， and shortly I had forgotten him， the sound no more of an interruption than a consistent rain. I suppose an hour and a half passed， for when I stopped and stretched， and heard the boy’s steps on the cabin stoop9， the sun was dropping behind the farthest mountain， and the valleys were purple with something deeper than the asters.
The boy said， “I have to go to supper now. I can come again tomorrow evening.”
I said， “I’ll pay you now for what you’ve done，” thinking I should probably have to insist on an older boy. “Ten cents an hour？”
“Anything is all right.”
We went together back of the cabin. An astonishing amount of solid wood had been cut. There were cherry logs and heavy roots of rhododendron， and blocks10 from the waste pine and oak left from the building of the cabin.
“But you’ve done as much as a man，” I said. “This is a splendid pile.”
I looked at him， actually， for the first time. His hair was the color of the corn shocks， and his eyes， very direct， were like the mountain sky when rain is pending11—gray， with a shadowing of that miraculous blue. As I spoke a light came over him， as though the setting sun had touched him with the same suffused12 glory with which it touched the mountains. I gave him a quarter.
“You may come tomorrow，” I said， “and thank you very much.”
He looked at me， and at the coin， and seemed to want to speak， but could not， and turned away.
“I’ll split kindling13 tomorrow，” he said over his thin ragged14 shoulder. “You’ll need kindling and medium wood and logs and backlogs15.” At daylight I was half wakened by the sound of chopping. Again it was so even in texture16 that I went back to sleep. When I left my bed in the cool morning， the boy had come and gone， and a stack of kindling was neat against the cabin wall. He came again after school in the afternoon and worked until time to return to the orphanage. His name was Jerry; he was twelve years old， and he had been at the orphanage since he was four. I could picture17 him at four， with the same grave gray-blue eyes and the same-independence？ No， the word that comes to me is “integrity.”
The word means something very special to me， and the quality for which I use it is a rare one. My father had it—there is another of whom I am almost sure—but almost no man of my acquaintance possesses it with the clarity， the purity， the simplicity of a mountain stream. But the boy Jerry had it. It is bedded on courage， but it is more than brave. It is honest， but it is more than honesty. The ax handle broke one day. Jerry said the woodshop at the orphanage would repair it. I brought money to pay for the job and he refused it.
“I’ll pay for it，” he said. “I broke it. I brought the ax down careless.”
“But no one hits accurately every time，” I told him. “The fault was in the wood of the handle. I’ll see the man from whom I bought it.”
It was only then that he would take the money. He was standing back of his own carelessness. He was a free-will agent and he chose to do careful work， and if he failed， he took the responsibility without subterfuge18.