我們能聽見農夫劈砍柴火的聲音，大地冰封，不時有雞鳴狗叫的聲音傳出。寒冷的空氣，隻能把那些尖銳的聲音傳入我們的耳朵，那些聲音聽起來短促悅耳。凡是清醇輕盈的**，稍有波動也會很快停止，因為裏麵的晶體硬塊，很快沉到底下去了。聲音從地平線的遠處傳來，像鍾聲一樣清晰響亮，冬天的空氣清新，不像夏天那樣混合著許多雜質，因而聲音聽來也不像夏天那樣刺耳模糊。走在冰封的土地上，聲音猶如敲擊堅硬的木塊那樣洪亮，甚至是鄉村裏最平凡的聲響，都聽起來美妙動聽，樹上的冰條，互相撞擊，聽起來像鈴聲一樣悅耳，樂在其中。
空氣裏幾乎沒有水分，水蒸氣不是幹化，就是凝固成霜了。空氣十分稀薄而且似乎帶彈性，人呼吸進去，頓感心曠神怡。天空似乎被繃緊了，往後移動，從下向上望，感覺像置身於大教堂中，頭上是一塊塊連在一起的弧形的屋頂，空氣被過濾得純粹明淨，好像有冰晶沉浮在中間，正如格陵蘭的居民告訴我們的，當那裏結冰的時候，“海就冒煙，像大火爆發的威力，而且伴有霧氣升騰，稱為煙霧，這煙霧能讓人的手和臉起皰腫脹，並對人體有害。”但是我們這裏的空氣，雖然冰寒刺骨，但是質地清醇，可以滋養心肺，提神醒腦。我們不會把它當做凍霜，而會把它看做仲夏霧氣的結晶，經過嚴寒的凝結，變得更加清醇了。
大自然在冬天是一架舊櫥櫃，各種幹枯了的標本按照它們生長的次序，擺得井然有序。草原和樹林成了一座“植物標本館”。樹葉和野草保持著完美的形態，在空氣的壓力下，不需要用螺絲釘或膠水來固定。巢不用掛在假樹上，雖然樹已經枯萎了，可那畢竟是真樹，鳥兒在哪裏建的，還保留在哪裏。
……
就在我們四處遊**的這會兒，天空又有陰雲密布，雪花紛然而落。雪越下越大，遠處的景物漸漸地脫離了我們的視線。雪花光顧了每一棵樹和田野，無孔不入，痕跡遍布河邊、湖畔、小山和低穀。四足動物都躲藏起來了，小鳥在這平和的時刻裏也休息了，在這平和的氣候裏周圍幾乎聽不到任何聲音，可是，漸漸地，山坡、灰牆和籬笆、光亮的冰還有枯葉，所有原來沒有被白雪覆蓋的，現在都被埋住了，人和野獸的足跡也消失了。大自然輕而易舉地就實施了它的法規，把人類行為的痕跡抹擦得幹幹淨淨。聽聽荷馬的詩：“冬天裏，雪花降落，又多又快。風停了，雪下個不停，覆蓋了山頂和丘陵，覆蓋了長著酸棗樹的平原和耕地。在波瀾壯闊的海灣海岸邊，雪也紛紛地下著，隻是雪花落到海裏，就被海水悄無聲息地融化了。”白雪充塞了所有的事物，使萬物平等，把它們深深地裹在自然的懷抱裏，就像漫漫夏季裏的植被，爬上廟宇的柱頂，爬上堡壘的角樓，覆蓋人類的藝術品。
心靈小語
憧憬需要春天，**需要夏天，收獲需要秋天，而冷靜地思考，冬天再適合不過了。寒冷和白雪都是冬天的恩賜，在茫茫的宇宙中，思想穿透一切，一路前行。
記憶填空
1. The recent tracks of the fox or otter， in the yard， remind__ that each hour__ the night is crowded with events， and the primeval nature is still working and making tracks in the__ .
2. In__ ， nature is a cabinet of curiosities， full of dried specimens， in their natural order and__ .
3. With so little effort does__ reassert her rule and blot out the trace of__ .
佳句翻譯
1. 樹木和灌木向四麵八方伸展著它們白色的枝幹。
譯__________________
2. 仿佛一夜的工夫，大自然就重新設計了一幅田野美景，供人類的藝術家來臨摹。
譯__________________
3. 東方露出一點耀眼的古銅色光彩，預示著天就要亮了。
譯__________________
短語應用
1. Faster and faster they fall， shutting out the distant objects from sight.
shut out：關在外麵；排除；遮住
造__________________
2. ...the turrets of the castle， and helps her to prevail over art.
prevail over：勝過；占優勢
造__________________
醇美九月
Sweet September
哈爾·勃蘭德 / Hal Borland
哈爾·勃蘭德，美國著名作家，他最讓人熟知的就是“No winter lasts forever； no spring skips its turn.”
September is more than a month， really； it is a season， an achievement in itself. It begins with August’s leftovers and it ends with October’s preparations， but along the way it achieves special satisfactions. After summer’s heat and haste， the year consolidates itself. Deliberate September—in its own time and tempo—begins to sum up another summer.
With September comes a sense of autumn. It creeps in one misty dawn and vanishes in the hot afternoon. It tiptoes through the treetops. rouging a few leaves， then rides a tuft of thistle down across the valley and away. It sits on a hill top and hoots like an October owl in the dusk. It plays tag with the wind. September is a changeling， busy as a squirrel in a hickory tree， idle as a languid brook. It is summer’s ripen and richness fulfilled.
Some of the rarest days of the year come in the September season—days when it is comfortably cool but pulsing with life， when the sky is clear and clean， the air crisp， the wind free of dust. Meadows still smell of hay and the sweetness of cut grass. September flowers are less varied than those of May but so abundant that they make September another flowery month. Goldenrod comes by mid-August， but rises to a peak of golden abundance in early September. Late thistles make spectacular purple accents. And asters blossom everywhere， along the roadsides， in meadows， on the hilltops， even in city lots， ranging in color from pure white through all degrees of lavender to the royal New England purple.
We think of spring as the miracle time， when opening bud and new leaf proclaim the persistence of life. But September is when the abiding wonder makes itself known in a subtler way. Now growth comes to annual fruition， and preparations are completed for another year， another generation. The acorn ripens and the hickory nut matures. The plant commits its future to the seed and the root. The insect stows tomorrow in the egg and the pupa. The surge is almost over and life begins to relax.
The green prime is passing. The trees begin to proclaim the change. Soon the leaves will be discarded， the grass will sere. But the miracle of life persists， the mysterious germ of growth and renewal that is the seed itself.
This is gossamer season. Dawn shimmers with spider filaments， proof that late hatches of spiderlings have the instinct to travel. On such gossamer strands tiny spiders have traveled into the Arctic and almost to the summits of the Himalayas. Soon milkweed pods will open with their silver floss.
This is the season of the harvest moon. With reasonably clear skies it will be a moonlit week， for the harvest moon is not hasty； it comes early and stays late. There was a time when the busy farmer could return to the fields after supper and continue his harvest by moonlight. There’s still harvesting to be done， but much of it now centers on the kitchen rather than the barns. The last bountiful yield comes from the garden， the late sweet corn， the tomatoes， the root vegetables. The canning， the preserving， the freezing， the kitchen harvest in all its variety， reaches its peak.
First frost comes in the night， a clear， scant-starred night when the moon is near its fullness. It comes without a whisper， quiet as thistle down， brushing the corner of a hillside garden. Dawn comes and you see its path—the glistening leaf， the gleaming stem， the limp， blackening garden vine.
Another night or two the frost walks the valleys in the moonlight. Then it goes back beyond the northern hills to wait a little longer， and the golden mildness of early autumn comforts the land. A faint anise smell is on the air， goldenrod scent. The mist swirls and September shines through， the deep-blue sky of September.