LESSON 87

THE BAREFOOT BOY

赤脚的孩子

John Greenleaf Whittier, 1807-1892, was born in Haverhill, Mass., and, with short intervals of absence, he always resided in that vicinity. His parents were Friends or “Quakers,” and he always held to the same faith. He spent his boyhood on a farm, occasionally writing verses for the papers even then. Two years of study in the academy seem to have given him all the special opportunity for education that he ever enjoyed. In 1829 he edited a newspaper in Boston, and the next year assumed a similar position in Hartford. For two years he was a member of the Massachusetts legislature. In 1836 he edited an anti-slavery paper in Philadelphia, and was secretary of the American Anti-Slavery Society.

Mr. Whittier wrote extensively both in prose and verse. During the later years of his life he published several volumes of poems, and contributed frequently to the pages of the “Atlantic Monthly.” An earnest opponent of slavery, some of his poems bearing on that subject are fiery and even bitter; but, in general, their sentiment is gentle, and often pathetic. As a poet, he took rank among those most highly esteemed by his countrymen. “Snow-Bound,” published in 1865, is one of the longest and best of his poems. Several of his shorter pieces are marked by much smoothness and sweetness.

Blessings on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim’s jaunty grace;
From my heart I give thee joy,—
I was once a barefoot boy!
Prince thou art,—the grown-up man
Only is republican.
Let the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot, trudging at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy
In the reach of ear and eye,—
Outward sunshine, inward joy:
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!
Oh for boyhood’s painless play,
Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor’s rules,
Knowledge never learned of schools,
Of the wild bee’s morning chase,
Of the wild flower’s time and place,
Flight of fowl and habitude
Of the tenants of the wood;
How the tortoise bears his shell,
How the woodchuck digs his cell,
And the ground mole sinks his well
How the robin feeds her young,
How the oriole’s nest is hung;
Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the groundnut trails its vine,
Where the wood grape’s clusters shine;
Of the black wasp’s cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,
And the architectural plans
Of gray hornet artisans!—
For, eschewing books and tasks,
Nature answers all he asks;
Hand in hand with her he walks,
Face to face with her he talks,
Part and parcel of her joy,—
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!
Oh for boyhood’s time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw
Me, their master, waited for.
I was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming birds and honeybees;
For my sport the squirrel played,
Plied the snouted mole his spade;
For my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled over hedge and stone;
Laughed the brook for my delight
Through the day and through the night,
Whispering at the garden wall,
Talked with me from fall to fall;
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
Mine, on bending orchard trees,
Apples of Hesperides!
Still, as my horizon grew,
Larger grew my riches too;
All the world I saw or knew
Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
Fashioned for a barefoot boy!
Oh for festal dainties spread,
Like my bowl of milk and bread,—
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,
On the doorstone, gray and rude!
O’er me, like a regal tent,
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,
Looped in many a wind-swung fold;
While for music came the play
Of the pied frog’s orchestra;
And to light the noisy choir,
Lit the fly his lamp of fire.
I was monarch: pomp and joy
Waited on the barefoot boy!
Cheerily, then, my little man,
Live and laugh, as boyhood can!
Though the flinty slopes be hard,
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,
Every morn shall lead thee through
Fresh baptisms of the dew;
Every evening from thy feet
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat:
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,
Lose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt’s for work be shod,
Made to tread the mills of toil,
Up and down in ceaseless moil:
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground;
Happy if they sink not in
Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou shouldst know thy joy
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

【中文阅读】

祝福你，你这小大人
光脚的孩子，双颊晒成了褐色！
还有你那翻起的裤子，
你那欢快的口哨声；
你那红红的嘴唇，依旧红润；
被小山上的草莓吻过；
倾洒在你脸上的阳光，
透过你开裂的帽檐那洋洋得意的优美，
我发自心底想给欢乐——
因为我曾经也是赤脚的孩子！
你是王子，——已经长大
唯一的共和主义者。
让百万美元的坐骑飞奔吧！
赤脚，跋涉，
你有的他买不起，
在听力和目力所及之内，
在愉快的外表下，内心的欢乐：
上帝保佑你，赤脚的孩子！
啊，为了少年时代无忧无虑的游戏，
在睡梦中笑着醒来，
嘲弄医生铁律的健康，
从不知学校那些知识，
野外蜜蜂在清晨追逐，
野花还需时令来采，
鸟儿展翅腾飞，林里的房客
有自己的习俗；
乌龟是怎样负着甲壳的，
土拨鼠又是如何挖洞穴，
鼹鼠沉进自己挖的井里
知更鸟正喂着小宝宝呢，
白头翁的巢怎么是挂着的；
最白的百合在哪儿，
最新鲜的浆果长在何处，
落花生在哪儿追踪它的根蔓
葡萄树丛在哪儿沐浴阳光；
黑胡蜂狡猾无比，
它的院墙是用泥巴垒的，
灰马蜂工匠正就建筑盘算！
之所以回避书本和作业，
因为自然有问必答；
他漫步时与她手牵着手，
他说话时，她面面相觑，
她的欢乐分成若干，
祝福你，赤脚男孩！
啊，就为了六月是少年快乐时光，
在一个短暂月夜岁月荏苒，
我听到或看到的所有一切，
我，它们的主人，悄然等待。
在花前树下，我怡然陶醉，
成群的鸟儿，还有那蜜蜂；
松鼠在逗我开心，
有鼻子的鼹鼠收起它的铲子，
因为我对使树篱和石头尽染紫色的
黑莓果情有独钟；
小溪潺潺尽欢颜，
无日无夜波不息。
偏偏向隅低私语，
秋起秋落不言中；
用沙土堆就的梭鱼池子，
开采那胡桃树坡，
在悬垂的果树上，
采摘金苹果园的苹果！
随着眼界开阔，
我的财富也在聚多；
我看到或了解的全部世事
似乎像中国玩具那样复杂，
塑造成赤脚男孩喜欢的模样！
为了节日，美好的东西遍布，
就像我碗里的牛奶面包——
白镴勺子和红木碗，
就在门前的阶石上，老旧粗朴！
之于我，俨然华丽堂皇的明帐，
模糊的棱纹，斜阳西沉
紫色幔帐，流苏金黄，
环绕在许多迎风摇摆的褶皱中；
为了配合音乐声起，
杂种的跳蛙管弦乐队和鸣；
为了让杂乱的唱诗班熠熠生辉，
就让飞蝇点亮它的火把。
我是君王：张扬又快乐
只待那赤脚男孩！
我的小大人，活得快乐，
整天笑哈哈，只有童年才会这样！
尽管燧石坡难行，
新刈过的草地上还有残茎，
每天早上带你穿过草地的
是刚刚洗礼的露珠；
每天晚上从你脚下流过的
是能带走暑热的凉风；
在监狱引以为傲的囚室里
那些人的脚藏得太快，
愚笨的人失去了自由，
踏进那辛苦劳作的磨坊，
在无休无止忙碌中上上下下。
要是他们足迹被发现
快乐就决不会在被禁止的土地上出现，
幸亏他们没有踩进
充满罪恶感的靠不住的流沙里。
哎！你应该晓得你的欢乐
就在它逝去之前，赤脚男孩！