来吧，普律当丝，你今天已经做得够多了，最坏的日子已经过去了，我们俩可以玩上几个钟头，这比休息还要多。我们的心需要欢笑，如同用过的灯油;长久禁食之后，才需要补偿。温暖的风吹出了野蔷薇和蕨类植物的清香，夜色多么甜美!雨留下了一件多么绿的袍子啊!鸟儿在笑!我们说好了很久的，到山上走走，谈谈婴儿的是非，你觉得怎么样?我们的病人睡着了，亲爱的天使，她把男孩抱在欣喜若狂的怀里，就像母亲一样，从过去的惊慌中解脱出来，孩子渐渐平静下来。如果我们敢在一两个小时内离开他们，那也是我们的希望。我的舌头急着要试着语速，对一个新来的听者，我像一匹长缰的骏马，在草地上松驰，森林就在眼前，这是它最动听的恭维。你看，普律当丝，这是你的帽子，你发现我独自一人在屋子里，带着我最害怕的东西和这两件无助的东西。 Please God, that worst has folded its black wings, And we may let our thoughts on pleasure run Some moments in the light of this good sun. They sleep in Heaven's guard. Our watch to--night Will be the braver for a transient sight-- The only one perhaps more fair than they-- Of Nature dressed for her June holiday. This is the watershed between the Thames And the South coast. On either hand the streams Run to the great Thames valley and the sea, The Downs, which should oppose them, servilely Giving them passage. Who would think these Downs, Which look like mountains when the sea--mist crowns Their tops in autumn, were so poor a chain? Yet they divide no pathways for the rain, Nor store up waters, in this pluvious age, More than the pasteboard barriers of a stage. The crest lies here. From us the Medway flows To drain the Weald of Kent, and hence the Ouse Starts for the Channel at Newhaven. Both These streams run eastward, bearing North and South. But, to the West, the Adur and the Arun Rising together, like twin rills of Sharon, Go forth diversely, this through Shoreham gap, And that by Arundel to Ocean's lap. All are our rivers, by our Forest bred, And one besides which with more reverend heed We need to speak, for her desert is great Beyond the actual wealth of her estate. For Spenser sang of her, the River Mole, And Milton knew her name, though he, poor soul, Had never seen her, as I think being blind, And so miscalled her sullen. Others find Her special merit to consist in this: A maiden coyness, and her shy device Of mole--like burrowing. And in truth her way Is hollowed out and hidden from the day, Under deep banks and the dark overgrowth Of knotted alder roots and stumps uncouth, From source to mouth; and once at Mickleham, She fairly digs her grave, in deed and name, And disappears. There is an early trace Of this propensity to devious ways Shown by the little tributary brook Which bounds our fields, for lately it forsook Its natural course, to burrow out a road Under an ash tree in its neighbourhood. But whether this a special virtue is, Or like some virtues but a special vice, We need not argue. This at least is true, That in the Mole are trout, and many too, As I have often proved with rod and line From boyhood up, blest days of pins and twine! How many an afternoon have our hushed feet Crept through the alders where the waters meet, Mary's and mine, and our eyes viewed the pools Where the trout lay, poor unsuspecting fools, And our hands framed their doom,--while overhead His orchestra of birds the backbird led. In those lost days, no angler of them all Could boast our cunning with the bait let fall, Close to their snouts, from some deceiving coigne, Or mark more notches when we stopped to join Our fishes head to tail and lay them out Upon the grass, and count our yards of trout. 'Twas best in June, with the brook growing clear After a shower, as now. In dark weather It was less certain angling, for the stream Was truly ``sullen'' then, so deep and dim. 'Tis thus in mountain lakes, as some relate, Where the fish need the sun to see the bait. The fly takes nothing in these tangled brooks, But grief to fishermen and loss of hooks; And all our angling was of godless sort, With living worm,--and yet we loved the sport. But wait. This path will lead us to the gill, Where you shall see the Mole in her first rill, Ere yet she leaves the Forest, and her bed Is still of iron--stone, which stains her red, Yet keeps her pure and lends a pleasant taste To her young waters as they bubble past. You hear her lapping round the barren flanks Of these old heaps we call the ``Cinder--banks,'' Where