山间的小溪孤独地歌唱着，它在路上徘徊着，仿佛在等待一个孩子加入它的游戏;山坡上的野花低下了头，倾听着它们的小脚上的音乐，它们不知怎么变得如此可爱;喜鹊像长着翅膀的树影，在岩石间飞来飞去，在坑坑洼洼的峡谷里飞来飞去;松树和铁杉摇曳着树枝(仿佛它们是手臂)，在他经常演奏的斜坡上奏出轻柔的、阴郁的音乐;在玛西的小儿子死去的那个夏天，除了山坡上那些寂寞、阴郁的声音，什么声音也没有。我们管他叫玛西的小儿子，因为玛西就是玛西的名字，玛西就是玛西的名字，玛西就是玛西的丈夫，玛西就是他的妻子，玛西就是汤姆的妻子——早在1969年，玛西就在山上的学校里教书，当时她嫁给了汤姆，那个汤姆是铁杉矿的老板!玛西的孩子是他们的第一个孩子，这就是他们的意思。第一个在红霍斯山上的孩子，真是一件大事!矿工们一听到迪瓦恩把刚才发生的事告诉了凯西的消息，就中断了工作;我们装好东西，欢呼雀跃，直到嗓子都哑了。当然，我们都在庆祝这个重达十磅的东西的到来!三年了，真是个漂亮的孩子!——他母亲的同类! Three years, an' sech a holt ez he had got on every heart! A peert an' likely little tyke with hair ez red ez gold, A-laughin', toddlin' everywhere,--'nd only three years old! Up yonder, sometimes, to the store, an' sometimes down the hill He kited (boys is boys, you know,--you couldn't keep him still!) An' there he'd play beside the brook where purpul wild-flowers grew, An' the mountain pines an' hemlocks a kindly shadder threw, An' sung soft, sollum toons to him, while in the gulch below The magpies, like strange sperrits, went flutterin' to an' fro. Three years, an' then the fever come,--it wuzn't right, you know, With all us old ones in the camp, for that little child to go; It's right the old should die, but that a harmless little child Should miss the joy uv life an' love,--that can't be reconciled! That's what we thought that summer day, an' that is what we said Ez we looked upon the piteous face uv Marthy's younkit dead. But for his mother's sobbin', the house wuz very still, An' Sorry Tom wuz lookin', through the winder, down the hill, To the patch beneath the hemlocks where his darlin' used to play, An' the mountain brook sung lonesomelike an' loitered on its way. A preacher come from Roarin' Crick to comfort 'em an' pray, 'Nd all the camp wuz present at the obsequies next day; A female teacher staged it twenty miles to sing a hymn, An' we jined her in the chorus,--big, husky men an' grim Sung "Jesus, Lover uv my Soul," an' then the preacher prayed, An' preacht a sermon on the death uv that fair blossom laid Among them other flowers he loved,--wich sermon set sech weight On sinners bein' always heeled against the future state, That, though it had been fashionable to swear a perfec' streak, There warn't no swearin' in the camp for pretty nigh a week! Last thing uv all, four strappin' men took up the little load An' bore it tenderly along the windin', rocky road, To where the coroner had dug a grave beside the brook, In sight uv Marthy's winder, where the same could set an' look An' wonder if his cradle in that green patch, long an' wide, Wuz ez soothin' ez the cradle that wuz empty at her side; An' wonder if the mournful songs the pines wuz singin' then Wuz ez tender ez the lullabies she'd never sing again, 'Nd if the bosom of the earth in wich he lay at rest Wuz half ez lovin' 'nd ez warm ez wuz his mother's breast. The camp is gone; but Red Hoss Mountain rears its kindly head, An' looks down, sort uv tenderly, upon its cherished dead; 'Nd I reckon that, through all the years, that little boy wich died Sleeps sweetly an' contentedly upon the mountain-side; That the wild-flowers uv the summer-time bend down their heads to hear The footfall uv a little friend they know not slumbers near; That the magpies on the sollum rocks strange flutterin' shadders make, An' the pines an' hemlocks wonder that the sleeper doesn't wake; That the mountain brook sings lonesomelike an' loiters on its way Ez if it waited for a child to jine it in its play.