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解释:空气的湿度决定了盐粒能否在营火中发出声音。也就是说,暴风雨来临之前,空气湿度很大,盐粒受潮,投进火中后就不会发出任何声响。
年轻人认为长者的观念已经过时了,派不上用场了,因此他们经常对长者的哲学嗤之以鼻。然而,事实上,一些人生信念尽管已经显得古老,然而就像海水中提炼的盐粒,它们仍然是对大海深远记忆的结晶。
追寻真理,是对真理的珍爱;认识真理、信仰真理,则是对真理的享受。长者的智慧总是藏在长年累月的积淀中,它历经了时光的风雨,渗透在我们的生活之中。就像从海水中提炼的盐粒一样,它们依然是对大海深远记忆的结晶。
Salted Wisdom
Anonymous
A story tells about a senior villager who led other villagers carrying salt day and night to a town in order to trade barley as food for the winter。 One night they camped in a wilderness with a starry sky above。 The senior villager; obeying the tradition passed down from ancestry; took out three blocks of salt and threw them into the campfire; presumably to foretell the changes of weather in the mountains。
All eagerly awaited the old man’s “weather report”: if the salt in the fire produced crackling sound; they would have good weather in store; if no sound was produced; it then meant the good weather would soon end and a storm would e at any moment。
The senior villager looked serious。 The salt in the campfire made no sound at all。 Convinced by this bad omen; he urged the whole team to set out immediately after daybreak。 A young man in the group; however; insisted that they should not depart in such a hurry; deeming it absurdly superstitious to “forecast the weather by using salt”。 It was not until the next afternoon that the young man caught up on the wisdom of the old man when the weather suddenly changed; with cold winds blowing and a snowstorm raging。 In fact; the method employed by the clan head could be well explained by modem science: whether or not salt produces sound in campfire depends on air humidity。 That is to say; when a storm approaches; due to high humidity; the dampened salt blocks will not produce any sound in fire。
Young people often look down upon the philosophy of the old; regarding their ideas as obsolete and useless。 In reality; however; some beliefs in life are just like salt blocks that redistilled from the sea; old as they are; they remain crystals; and carry with them profound memories of the sea。
最后一座山(1)
弗朗西斯·拉塞尔
缅因州北部的秋天景色迷人,当黄昏降临的时候,晴朗的天空飘着的云朵为大地投下片片浓荫,仿佛夏天还没有过去。缅因州位于沃尔多博拉以西十二英里,在十二岁到十四岁的三年时间里,我每年都去那里度假,因为那里有几个以印第安语命名的男童夏令营。然而,我现在已经不愿常常回忆那久远的往事了。
我站在曾经是棒球场的土丘上,它的右方是一片百年橡树林,我们曾常常在这片树林的附近举办篝火晚会。在酷热的八月,我曾多少次站在这座土丘上,遥望葱郁树林后面的康登山脉!那大片的原野一直伸向地平线轮廓清晰的巴蒂山,中途穿越过小山和树林,好似18世纪时形象鲜明的铜版画。日暮时分,轮廓变得模糊的巴蒂山笼罩在一片蓝色的暮霭之中时,我们就围在老橡树四周举办篝火晚会。
许多年后,棒球场四周较远的地方又长出了许多高矮不等的白杨树、白桦树,还有长着斑点的桤木,这片树林挡住了视野,曾经种在那里的树木早已被砍伐了。在这片透明的天空下,我们现在已经看不见什么,除了那些参差不齐的树冠。巴蒂山已经消失在远方,天空也披上了一层寒冷的色彩。
在酷热的午后,当淡淡的暮色降临时,就会吹起凉爽的微风。在那时,我经常会站在那棵老橡树的旁边,眺望着灌木丛和沼泽另一头的一座小山,那座小山距离此处有几英里的路程。那是一座极其普通的小山,没有什么值得称道的地方。一座废弃的农场座落在光秃秃的山顶下,野生杜松和露出地面的花岗岩星罗棋布。然而,那座小山具有的一种气息吸引了我,我感到它在几英里外向我挥手。我无法把眼睛从那座小山移开,我下定决心在夏天逝去之前一定要去那里看一看(穿过牧场,一直向前,绕过灌木丛和花岗岩,直到站在山顶出上)。我无法做出解释,甚至也没有听听自己的心声,然而这是我一定要做的事情。
离开营地是一件相当困难的事情。我们从早晨到下午的活动,全部记录在领队老师的笔记本上。按照计划,我们的活动内容是游泳、划船、打网球、打棒球、练习田径、野外远足或者去木工房做一些手工制品。如果毫无缘由地去爬山,什么活动都不参加,那就是有悖于“夏令营精神”的行为。
每逢星期六下午,我们就可以放松一下了,因为这天总会有许多家长和游客来营地,所以我们就减少了活动内容。这是一个晴朗的星期六下午,我趁着这个机会溜出了营地,赶往那座小山。在老橡树下,我看到那座神秘的小山山顶就在眼前,它是如此地引人动心。我尽量不引起别人的注意,一路走到了棒球场的边缘,随后就溜进了灌木丛。
这条路很难走,也很容易迷失方向,杂草和藤蔓纠缠丛生。我时而被枯木绊倒,时而陷进蚁穴。一踏上沼泽地的小丘,我的脚就往下陷,有时还被枯枝缠住,浸湿的运动鞋里也跑进了许多带刺的草籽。蚊子嗡嗡地叫嚣着,苍蝇盘旋乱撞。我迷失了方向,忘记了时间,只知道拖着沉重的脚步缓慢地前行。
我挣扎着走了至少一个小时,忽然,一片长着桉树和枫树的开阔地出现在眼前,阳光从枝叶间射了进来。我看到前方有一排装潢华丽的小房子。这些房子漆着五颜六色的涡漩形和叶尖形图案,房顶又细又高,盖了一层扇贝形的木瓦。各所房子之间的距离超不过一臂的长度,所有的房间都是空的,没有人居住的痕迹。
这个被阳光照射的小树林,对我这个刚刚走出灌木丛的人来说,就像《格林童话》中的仙境一般。这座奇怪的小村庄似乎在咒语的控制下沉睡了100多年。眼前这座小房子的前廊上有着蓝色的格子,好似在等待汉塞尔和格雷蒂勒的到来。小树林中没有一丝风,白杨树的叶子也软塌塌地垂着,整个林子显得非常安静。停在半空中的蓝蜻蜓和绿蜻蜒一动不动,这更增加了这里的神秘气息。远处,一只小黄鸟的呜叫声和一只蝉催人打瞌睡的嗡嗡声传入耳中,不然真是寂静无声了。txt电子书分享平台
最后一座山(2)
我走上了一座用石竹花装饰的房子的前廊,透过一个独立的窗户向里面望去。整个房间就放着两把椅子、一张长桌子、一把躺椅以及一盏煤油灯,除此之外,就是一架通间阁楼卧室的梯子,这些都是很普通的家什。这真是迷一样的树林。那里为什么会有那些小房子?为什么空无一人的房间还有人来打理?房子的主人是谁呢?这片空地被这些袖珍小屋挤得满满当当的,恐惧笼罩了我,真希望突然跑出一个看门人,喝问我在这里做什么。
我始终没能破解这个迷,也许那是夏令营的活动之所,每年的夏天会使用几周。太阳射出的光线已经向西倾斜,把地上的影子拉得越来越长,那座小山还在我的前方。我再次钻进灌木从,好不容易走上了一条崎岖的小路,刚拐过第一个路口,山脚就在我的面前了。我渴慕的小山向我张开了怀抱,霞光披在它的身上。当年牧场四周砌的石墙已经垮塌了,贫瘠的牧场草地变成了一片棕褐色,卵石的缝隙中钻出了毛蕊花叶,它看起来是那样的柔软。我开始攀登了,翻越了一块花岗岩,在穿过草地时还踩倒了许多绒毛绣线菊和珍珠花,迈着急切的步伐冲向了山顶。
最终,我上气不接下气地站在了小山坚实的土地上,头顶就是蓝天,是的,小山就在我的脚下。曾经多少次,我站在远方遥望小山,现在,我终于来到了这里。然而,在我刚刚实现了目标后,它又从我身旁无声无息地溜走了。在绵延几英里的森林地带的正前方,我发现了一座更高更长的山,山顶上绿意盎然,山坡是被开垦过的,几头牛正在那里静静地吃草。然而,我肯定无法再到达那座山了,那真是一座神秘的山,令人憧憬。那才是我曾经渴望并真正想去的地方。然而,在我向那里注目观望时,我的意识告诉我,那后面肯定还有另一座山。巴蒂山以外,缅因州以外,甚至几英里以外的地方,都还会有山。即使不停歇地走遍全世界,我总会找到另一座山。就在那时,我恍然大悟,人是永远也不可能找到最后一座山的。
正所谓“山外青山楼外楼”,这正说明了人生的旅途是无止境的。不管学习也好,工作也罢,每过一段时间,或者每走一段路,回过头来看一看,或者干脆停下来,问问自己:我要去哪里?我在干什么?这样一来,你就能把握好现在,不至于迷失自我,生活也可以更精彩。
The Last Hill
Francis Russell
On this waning autumn afternoon the northern Maine landscape is tart; pelling; shadowed here and there by puffs of fair…weather cumulus; remnants of summer。 Here; a dozen miles west of Waldoboro; I once spent my summers from the age of 12 to 14 at one of those Indian…named boys’ camps—more years ago than I like to think about。
I stand on the rise near what was once the baseball diamond。 To my right is the black oak; several hundred years old; beside which we used to hold our Saturday night campfires。 How many times on heat…heavy August days have I stood on this rise looking out over the wooded landscape toward the Camden hills? For me it was always a magical prospect; the austere countryside stretching away with the sharp definition of an 18th…century aquatint across hill and woodland to Mt。 Battie outlined against the horizon。 At our campfire evenings; when we gathered around the great oak just after sunset; Mount Battie without losing its definition would take on a blue luminosity。
最后一座山(3)
Over the years a ragged second…growth of aspen and birch and speckled alder; at the far edge of the baseball diamond; has blotted out that view。 Now there is nothing to see beneath the crystalline sky but the uneven tops of second…growth trees。 Already the sky has begun to taken on the steelier tints of winter。 Even Mt。 Battie has disappeared。
On sultry afternoons; when the air quivered in the cool and fading light of early evening; I used to stand here by the old oak and look out across an interluden of scrub and swamp from which several miles away; a hill emerged。 As a hill it was insignificant enough。 Below its bare summit an abandoned pasture lay dotted with ground juniper and outcroppings of granite。 Yet something about that hill drew me; beckoned to me; across the miles。 I could not bear to take my eyes from it; I knew only that before summer ended I must go to it; (make my way over the pasture; up and up past shrub and granite until I stood on the very summit。) It was something I had to do。 I could not explain why。 I did not even ask myself。
Not that it was easy to get away from camp。 Morning and afternoon; our activitics were recorded in a counselor’s notebook。 We had to be swimming or rowing or playing tennis or baseball or practicing a track event or going off on nature walks or making some gadget in the carpentry shop—just so long as we did something。 But to do nothing; to climb a hill for no reason; that was outside the rules; against the “camp spirit。”
Saturday afternoons; with their influx of parents and visitors; brought a certain relaxation; less accountability。 On one such blue and vivid afternoon I slipped away to get to my hill。 From the great oak; I could see its summit ahead of me; unknown; inviting。 Inconspicuously; I edged along the baseball field; then slipped into the underbrush。
It was hard going; hard to keep a sense of direction in such a tangle of vine and thicket。 I stumbled over rotten logs; stepped into anthills。 Marsh hillocks gave way under my feet; dead branches snagged me; prickly seeds worked into my wet sneakers。 The air was stagnant。 With mosquitoes droning and hover…flies circling and darting; I plodded on; losing myself and losing track of time。
I must have been struggling on for at least an hour。 Suddenly I came to a clearing; an open grove of ash and maple; and as the sunlight filtered through the leaves。 I saw in front of me a eluster of ornate diminutivc houses。 Brightly painted in a variety of colors; trimmed with scrollwork and cusps and scalloped shingles; with narrow; high…pitched roofs; each was no more than an arm’s length from the next; and all were empty。 There was no sign of any living being。
To me; emerging from the wood; the sunlit grove was like something out of Grimm; as if this odd little village had been put under a spell and had been asleep for 100 years。 A yellow house in front of me with a blue…latticed front porch could have been waiting for Hansel and Gretel。 So quiet the grove was; so still the air; that even the aspen leaves hung limp。 Blu
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