夏季呀夏季，永恒不变的生活方式，湖水永远不褪色，树木永远不可摧毁，草地上总是长满了香蕨和杜松。夏日的时光永无尽头，这些都是背景，而湖滨沿岸的生活就是其中美妙的图案。村子里的农民们过着恬静的生活；他们小小的码头上立着旗杆，美国国旗在镶嵌着白云的蓝天里飘扬，每棵树下都有一条小径通向一座座木屋，木屋处又有小径通往厕所和洒水用的石灰罐；商店里纪念品的柜台上，摆放着用桦树皮制作的独木船的模型，而明信片上的景物也比眼前的真实景物美丽多了。在这里，美国人逃避了城市的酷热喧闹，到这个地方游玩。他们不知道那些新来的住在海湾尽头的居民是“普通老百姓”还是“贵族”，也不知道那些星期天驱车前来农舍吃饭的人，是不是被分量不足的鸡肉打发走了。
我不停地回忆这一切，感觉那些日子和那些夏日时光的回忆对我而言都是珍贵无比、值得永远珍藏的。那里有快乐，有宁静，还有所有美好的事情。能够在八月之初就到达那里，这本身就是最重要的：农场的货车停在火车站外，这时又第一回闻到松木散发出的清香，第一回见到农民笑容满面的脸庞，宽大的旅行箱气派极了，而父亲在指挥这些事情时显出绝对的权威性；你坐在货车上，享受它à着你走上10英里的感觉，当到达最后一座小山顶时，一眼就能看见那阔别了11个月之久的、无比宝贵的一片湖水；其他游客为你的到来大声欢呼。然后打开大旅行箱，卸下里面准备齐全的物品。（如今再到这里来，已?找不到昔日激动人心的场面了。你所需要做的只是静静地把车开过来，停在木屋旁的树底下，取出行李袋，把一切东西在五分钟内收拾完毕，不会有大声的喧闹，也不会忙着喊着搬行李了。）
这里宁静、美好、快乐，唯一不足的地方是有噪音，也就是舷外马达发出的让人感觉陌生又紧张的声音。这是一个很不和谐的音符，它会?常打断人们的想象，让时光流逝。在以往的夏天，全部的马达都装在舷内，当它们行驶在稍微远一点儿的地方时，发出的声音能像镇静剂那样，在夏季里催人入睡。这些发动机都是单汽缸或者双汽缸的，无论是通断开关启动，还是跳搭接触点火，它们在从水面上发出的声音都能让人昏昏欲睡。单汽缸发出的振动声噗噗作响，而双汽缸则呜呜地低鸣，这些声音都很小。但是，现在所有的游客使用的都是舷外马达，在白天酷热的上午发出一种烦躁的让人讨厌的声音；而到了晚上，夕阳的余晖铺洒在水面上，它们又像蚊子似的哼个不停。我儿子很喜欢我们租来的带舷外马达的游艇，而他最大的愿望就是自个儿操纵它，这让他觉得很有权威性。
很快，他就学会稍微控制住它一点儿（不是很多），而且掌握了如何调整针形阀。看着他，我不由得想到过去的时候，人们怎样用笨重的调速轮操纵单汽缸发动机，如果你真正用心去做，很快就能控制住它。以前的机动船没有离合器，必须在准确的时间里关掉发动机才能登陆，然后用已?熄火的舵把船停靠在岸边。不过，如果你掌握了窍门，可以先关掉开关，在调速轮就要停转的那一刻重新把开关打开，船就会对压缩产生反冲力，接着又向回行驶。如果在靠近码头时正好吹过来一阵强风，用普通的方法很难把船速降到必需的程度。一个男孩如果觉得自己已?掌握了控制马达的技巧，他将会按捺不住地要把船开过码头，然后把它退到离码头几英尺远的地方。这样做需要头脑冷静沉着，因为哪怕你只提前了二十分之一秒就把开关打开了，它就会以足够快的速度穿越中线，船就会猛然向前一跃，像公牛一样冲向码头。
宁静以致远！深邃的湖水总是有股魔力，让繁华中忙碌的我们静下心来。享受这分宁静，远离尘世的喧嚣，感觉比在天堂还要美好！
月亮升起来
Spell of the Rising Moon
[美国]皮特·斯坦哈特/Peter Steinhart
皮特·斯坦哈特(1785—1851)美国博物学家，作家。他曾是以奥特朋（1785—1851，美国鸟类学家，?家及博物学家）命名的杂志的编?及专栏作家，并且一干就是20年。他的作品曾被很多报刊采用，如：《纽约时报》《洛杉矶时报》《琼斯妈妈》等。
There is a hill near my home that I often climb at night. The noise of the city is a far-off murmur. In the hush of dark I share the cheerfulness of crickets and the confidence of owls. But it is the drama of the moonrise that I come to see. For that restores in me a quiet and clarity that the city spends too freely.
From this hill I have watched many moons rise. Each one had its own mood. There have been broad, confident harvest moons in autumn; shy, misty moons in spring; lonely, winter moons rising into the utter silence of an ink-black sky and smoke-smudged orange moons over the dry fields of summer. Each, like fine music, excited my heart and then calmed my soul.
Moon gazing is an ancient art. To prehistoric hunters the moon overhead was as unerring as heartbeat. They knew that every 29 days it become full-bellied and brilliant, then sickened and died, and then was reborn. They knew the waxing moon appeared larger and higher overhead after each succeeding sunset. They knew the waning moon rose later each night until it vanished in the sunrise. To have understood the moon' s patterns from experience must been a profound thing.
But we, who live indoors, have lost contact with the moon. The glare of street lights and the dust of pollution veil the night sky. Though men have walked on the moon, it grows less familiar. Few of us can say when the moon will rise tonight.
Still, it tugs at our minds. If we unexpectedly encounter the full moon, huge and yellow over the horizon, we are helpless but to stare back at its commanding presence. And the moon has gifts to bestow upon those who watch.
I learned about its gifts one July evening in the mountains. My car had mysteriously stalled, and I was stranded and alone. The sun had set, and I was watching what seemed to be the bright-orange glow of a forest fire beyond a ridge to the east. Suddenly, the ridge itself seemed to burst into flame. Then, the rising moon, huge and red and grotesquely mishappen by the dust and sweat of the summer atmosphere, loomed up out of the woods.
Distorted thus by the hot breath of earth, the moon seemed ill-tempered and imperfect. Dogs at nearby farmhouses barked nervously, as if this strange light had wakened evil spirits in the weeds.
But as the moon lifted off the ridge it gathered firmness and authority. Its complexion changed from red, to orange, to gold, to impassive yellow. It seemed to draw light out of the darkening earth, for as it rose, the hills and valleys below grew dimmer. By the time the moon stood clear of the horizon, full chested and round and the color of ivory, the valleys were deep shadows in the landscape. The dogs, reassured that this was the familiar moon, stopped barking. And all at once I felt a confidence and joy close to laughter.
The drama took an hour. Moonrise is slow and serried with subtleties. To watch it, we must slip into an older, more patient sense of time. To watch the moon move inexorably higher is to find an unusual stillness within ourselves. Our imaginations become aware of the vast distances of space, the immensity of the earth and huge improbability of our own existence. We feel small but privileged.
Moonlight shows us none of life' s harder edges. Hillsides seem silken and silvery, the oceans still and blue in its light. In moonlight we become less calculating, more drawn to our feelings.
And odd things happen in such moments. On that July night, I watched the moon for an hour or two, and then got back into the car, turned the key in the ignition and heard the engine start, just as mysteriously as it had stalled a few hours earlier. I drove down from the mountains with the moon on my shoulder and peace in my heart.
