Winter Night

It was a cold winter night. 这是一个寒冷的冬夜。

The street was deserted. I stood alone under a tree with an entanglement of bare branches overhead, waiting for the last bus to arrive.

街道空荡荡的，我独自站在一棵树下，光秃秃的树枝疏横交错，等待着最后一辆公交车的到来。

A few paces off in the darkness there was a shadowy figure squatting against the wall, but he turned out to be a tramp.

在距离我几步之遥的黑暗里，又一个黑影靠在墙上，原来是一个乞讨的。

The street was lined with fine houses, their illuminated windows beaming quietly towards the dark blue sky.

街道两旁都是美丽的房子，灯火通明的窗户向黑沉沉的天空发出光芒。

It was icy cold with a gust of strong wired howling around. A couple of withered leaves, still clinging to the branches, rustled mournfully from time to tithe.

一阵强风咆哮而过，带来阵阵刺骨的寒意。几朵飘零的树叶，仍然挂在树枝上，时不时发出沙沙的叹息声。

The shadowy figure, taking a copper coin from me with thanks, straightened up to attempt a conversation with me.

这个黑影，充满感激地接过一枚铜币，直接站起来尝试着与我交谈。

"It's really cold here," he complained. "It couldn't be colder anywhere else ....

这里太冷了。他抱怨道。再也没有比这更冷的地方了。

What do you think, sir?" Seeing that he was not too nasty an old man, I readily responded: "It must e colder in the country, I'm afraid.” "No, no," he disagreed and began to cough, his words stuck up in his throat.

你觉得呢？看到他也不是个很老的人，我高兴地回答道。我乡下肯定很冷。不不，他不同意，开始咳嗽，他的言语像卡在他的喉咙里。

"Why?" I asked. "In the country when it frosts, you always find the roofs and the fields turning white in the morning, but you don't see that here on the streets.”

为什么，我问道。在乡下结霜的时候，你会发现房顶和田野在早上变白，但是你不会在街上看见。

冬天一个冰寒的晚上。在寂寞的马路旁边，疏枝交横的树下，候着最后一辆搭客汽车的，只我一人。虽然不远的墙边，也蹲有一团黑影，但他却是伸手讨钱的。马路两旁，远远近近都立着灯窗明灿的别墅，向暗蓝的天空静静地微笑着。在马路边是冷冰冰的，还刮着一阵阵猛厉的风。留在枝头的一两片枯叶，也不时发出破碎的哭声。

  那蹲着的黑影，接了我的一枚铜板，就高兴地站起来向我搭话，一面抱怨着天气：“真冷呀，再没有比这里更冷了！……先生，你说是不是?”

  看见他并不是个讨厌的老头子，便也高兴地说道：“乡下怕更要冷些吧?”

  “不，不。”他接着咳嗽起来，要吐出的话，塞在喉管里了。

  我说：“为什么?你看见一下霜，乡下的房屋和田野，便在早上白了起来，街上却一点也看不见。”

He patted his chest to ease off his coughing and went on excitedly: "True, true... it's cold in the country, but when you get into somebody's straw stack, you are warm again at once.... But this street, humm, what a terrible place! In the mountains, it's even colder, but when they have a fire in the house with the whole family sitting around it, wow, it's heaven!"

Then he began to relate to me the adventures of his younger days-travelling alone in winter nights through the mountains in the south. As I was interested in stories about wanderers and since the bus had not arrived yet, I encouraged him to go on.

"When you end up in the mountains at night," he said, "and if you are a decent person, you can always turn to the place where there is a light flickering and a dog harking.

You push open the bramble gate 荆棘门 under the shade and walk in without hesitation. Part the people, men or women, around the fire with your hands and you bring yourself -- a cold and wet man with dew露水-among them.

Immediately your nose is filled with the aroma 芳香of hot tea and roast sweet potatoes. When you look round you see friendly faces smiling at you; there is no hint of anything like blame for what elsewhere might be considered as brusqueness. 无礼

Scarcely have you begun to tell them where you come from when a cup of hot and strong tea is handed over to you. Grandma will tell her granddaughter to feed the fire with more wood, saying that the guest needs more beat to warm up.

When you are recovered from cold and fatigue, you tend to tease the baby, stroking his chin, giving a gentle pinch to his cheek or making a face to provoke him to gurgle.

He delighted young mother will encourage her baby to share his sweet potato with you. The baby will then break it in two and thrust one half into your hand. If you intend to stay overnight, you will be entertained with all possible hospitality. If you've just dropped in to warm up and then go on your way, they will see you off at the gate, saying 'Please do drop in on us again on your way back, '

" In the middle of his babbling another gust of wind brushed by and the old man began to cough again. I was so intrigued by his story that I did not feel the cold any more. Suddenly he grabbed my hand, forgetting that we were strangers, and asked: "Sir, could you tell me why the people here even do not allow a countryman in to warm his hands? They must've got bigger fires in their houses-

Look at their bright windows. . . " The bus came rumbling up.轰轰地

Withdrawing my hand from his, I answered at the top of my voice "Because they are more civilized than the mountain people. . . "

With that I jumped onto the brightly-lit bus which started moving on, leaving the old man behind. But the little houses with flickering oil lamps 灯火人家里 in the remote mountains and the intoxicating warmth and friendliness of their inhabitants left a deep impression on my memory. 丰美的醉人的温暖