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2021年9月26日 星期天 古大叔小木屋（97）直播实况录制 晚8:30——9：30
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Walden [ˈwɔldən] (Issue 97)
7. The Bean-Field (3)
[4] Before yet any woodchuck or squirrel['skwɪrəl] had run across the road, or the sun had got above the shrub oaks, while all the dew was on, though the farmers warned me against it - I would advise you to do all your work if possible while the dew is on - I began to level the ranks of haughty[ˈhɔːtɪ]傲慢的weeds in my bean-field and throw dust upon their heads. Early in the morning I worked barefooted, dabbling[dæb] like a plastic artist in the dewy and crumbling sand, but later in the day the sun blistered my feet. There the sun lighted me to hoe beans, pacing['peɪsɪŋ] slowly backward and forward over that yellow gravelly upland, between the long green rows[rəʊ], fifteen rods[rɒd], the one end terminating in a shrub oak copse[kɒps] where I could rest in the shade, the other in a blackberry field where the green berries deepened their tints by the time I had made another bout[baʊt]. Removing the weeds, putting fresh soil about the bean stems, and encouraging this weed which I had sown[səʊn], making the yellow soil express its summer thought in bean leaves and blossoms[ˈblɒsəm] rather than in wormwood and piper and millet[ˈmɪlɪt] grass, making the earth say beans instead of grass - this was my daily work. As I had little aid from horses or cattle, or hired men or boys, or improved implements of husbandry, I was much slower, and became much more intimate[ˈɪntɪmɪt] with my beans than usual. But labor of the hands, even when pursued[pə'sjuːd] to the verge of drudgery, is perhaps never the worst form of idleness. It has a constant and imperishable moral, and to the scholar it yields a classic result. A very agricola laboriosus[ləˈbɔːrɪəsus] was I to travellers bound westward through Lincoln and Wayland to nobody knows where; they sitting at their ease in gigs[ɡɪɡ], with elbows on knees, and reins loosely hanging in festoons; I the home-staying, laborious[ləˈbɔːrɪəs] native of the soil. But soon my homestead[ˈhəʊmˌsted] was out of their sight and thought. It was the only open and cultivated field for a great distance on either['aɪðə(r)] side of the road, so they made the most of it; and sometimes the man in the field heard more of travellers' gossip and comment than was meant for his ear: "Beans so late! peas so late!" - for I continued to plant when others had begun to hoe - the ministerial husbandman had not suspected it. "Corn, my boy, for fodder; corn for fodder." "Does he live there?" asks the black bonnet[ˈbɒnət] of the gray coat; and the hard-featured farmer reins up his grateful dobbin to inquire what you are doing where he sees no manure in the furrow, and recommends a little chip dirt, or any little waste stuff, or it may be ashes or plaster[ˈplɑːstə]. But here were two acres and a half of furrows, and only a hoe for cart and two hands to draw it - there being an aversion[əˈvɜːʃən] to other carts and horses - and chip dirt[dɜːt] far away. Fellow-travellers as they rattled by/ compared it aloud with the fields which they had passed, so that I came to know how I stood in the agricultural world. This was one field not in Mr. Coleman's report. And, by the way, who estimates[ˈestɪmɪt] the value of the crop which nature yields in the still wilder fields unimproved by man? The crop of English hay is carefully weighed, the moisture calculated, the silicates[ˈsɪlɪkɪt] and the potash[ˈpɒtˌæʃ]; but in all dells and pond-holes in the woods and pastures and swamps[swɒmp] grows a rich and various crop only unreaped by man. Mine was, as it were, the connecting link between wild and cultivated fields; as some states are civilized, and others half-civilized, and others savage or barbarous, so my field was, though not in a bad sense, a half-cultivated field. They were beans cheerfully returning to their wild and primitive state that I cultivated[ˈkʌltɪˌveɪt], and my hoe played the Rans des['di'i'ɛs] Vaches[ˈvætʃis] for them.
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