科罗拉多州一座新城

Helen Hunt Jackson，1830—1885，was the daughter of the late Professor Nathan W.Fiske，of Amherst College.She was born in Amherst，and educated at Ipswich，Massachusetts，and at New York.Mrs.Jackson was twice married.In the latter years of her life，she became deeply interested in the Indians，and wrote two books，“Ramona，”a novel，and “A Century of Dishonor，”setting forth vividly the wrongs to which the red race has been subjected.She had previously published several books of prose and poetry，less important but charming in their way.The following selection is adapted from “Bits of Travel at Home.”

Garland City is six miles from Fort Garland.The road to it from the fort lies for the last three miles on the top of a sage-grown plateau.It is straight as an arrow，looks in the distance like a brown furrow on the pale gray plain，and seems to pierce the mountains beyond.Up to within an eighth of a mile of Garland City，there is no trace of human habitation.Knowing that the city must be near，you look in all directions for a glimpse of it；the hills ahead of you rise sharply across your way.Where is the city？At your very feet，but you do not suspect it.

The sunset light was fading when we reached the edge of the ravine in which the city lies.It was like looking unawares over the edge of a precipice；the gulch opened beneath us as suddenly as if the earth had that moment parted and made it.With brakes set firm，we drove cautiously down the steep road；the ravine twinkled with lights，and almost seemed to flutter with white tents and wagon tops.At the farther end it widened，opening out on an inlet of the San Luis Park；and，in its center，near this widening mouth，lay the twelve-days-old city.A strange din arose from it.

“What is going on？”we exclaimed.“The building of the city，”was the reply.“Twelve days ago there was not a house here.To-day there are one hundred and five，and in a week more there will be two hundred；each man is building his own home，and working day and night to get it done ahead of his neighbor.There are four sawmills going constantly，but they can't turn out lumber half fast enough.Everybody has to be content with a board at a time.If it were not for that，there would have been twice as many houses done as there are.”

We drove on down the ravine.A little creek on our right was half hid in willow thickets.Hundreds of white tents gleamed among them: tents with poles；tents made by spreading sailcloth over the tops of bushes；round tents；square tents；big tents；little tents；and for every tent a camp fire；hundreds of whitetopped wagons，also，at rest for the night，their great poles propped up by sticks，and their mules and drivers lying and standing in picturesque groups around them.

It was a scene not to be forgotten.Louder and louder sounded the chorus of the hammers as we drew near the center of the “city；”more and more the bustle thickened；great ox teams swaying unwieldily about，drawing logs and planks，backing up steep places；all sorts of vehicles driving at reckless speed up and down；men carrying doors；men walking along inside of window sashes，—the easiest way to carry them；men shoveling；men wheeling wheelbarrows；not a man standing still；not a man with empty hands；every man picking up something，and running to put it down somewhere else，as in a play；and，all the while，“Clink！clink！clink！”ringing above the other sounds，—the strokes of hundreds of hammers，like the “Anvil Chorus.”

“Where is Perry's Hotel？”we asked.One of the least busy of the throng spared time to point to it with his thumb，as he passed us.In some bewilderment we drew up in front of a large unfinished house，through the many uncased apertures of which we could see only scaffoldings，rough boards，carpenters' benches，and heaps of shavings.Streams of men were passing in and out through these openings，which might be either doors or windows；no steps led to any of them.

“Oh，yes！oh，yes！can accommodate you all！”was the landlord's reply to our hesitating inquiries.He stood in the doorway of his dining-room；the streams of men we had seen going in and out were the fed and the unfed guests of the house.It was supper time；we also were hungry.We peered into the dining room: three tables full of men；a huge pile of beds on the floor，covered with hats and coats；a singular wall，made entirely of doors propped upright；a triangular space walled off by sailcloth，—this is what we saw.We stood outside，waiting among the scaffolding and benches.A black man was lighting the candles in a candelabrum made of two narrow bars of wood nailed across each other at right angles，and perforated with holes.The candles sputtered，and the hot fat fell on the shavings below.

“Dangerous way of lighting a room full of shavings，”some one said.The landlord looked up at the swinging candelabra and laughed.“Tried it pretty often，”he said.“Never burned a house down yet.”

I observed one peculiarity in the speech at Garland City.Personal pronouns，as a rule，were omitted；there was no time for a superfluous word.

“Took down this house at Wagon Creek，”he continued，“just one week ago；took it down one morning while the people were eating breakfast；took it down over their heads；putting it up again over their heads now.”

This was literally true.The last part of it we ourselves were seeing while he spoke，and a friend at our elbow had seen the Wagon Creek crisis.

“Waiting for that round table for you，”said the landlord；“ '11 bring the chairs out here's fast's they quit 'em.That's the only way to get the table.”

So，watching his chances，as fast as a seat was vacated，he sprang into the room，seized the chair and brought it out to us；and we sat there in our “reserved seats，”biding the time when there should be room enough vacant at the table for us to take our places.

What an indescribable scene it was！The strange-looking wall of propped doors which we had seen，was the impromptu，wall separating the bedrooms from the dining-room.Bedrooms？Yes，five of them；that is，five bedsteads in a row，with just space enough between them to hang up a sheet，and with just room enough between them and the propped doors for a moderate-sized person to stand upright if he faced either the doors or the bed.Chairs？Oh，no！What do you want of a chair in a bedroom which has a bed in it？Washstands？One tin basin out in the unfinished room.Towels？Uncertain.

The little triangular space walled off by the sailcloth was a sixth bedroom，quite private and exclusive；and the big pile of beds on the dining-room floor was to be made up into seven bedrooms more between the tables，after everybody had finished supper.

Luckily for us we found a friend here，—a man who has been from the beginning one of Colorado's chief pioneers；and who is never，even in the wildest wilderness，without resources of comfort.

“You can't sleep here，”he said.“I can do better for you than this.”

“Better！”

He offered us luxury.How movable a thing is one's standard of comfort！A two-roomed pine shanty，board walls，board floors，board ceilings，board partitions not reaching to the roof，looked to us that night like a palace.To have been entertained at Windsor Castle would not have made us half so grateful.

It was late before the “city”grew quiet；and，long after most of the lights were out，and most of the sounds had ceased，I heard one solitary hammer in the distance，clink，clink，clink.I fell asleep listening to it.

译文　TRANSLATION

海伦·亨特·杰克逊（1830—1885），诗人，散文家，小说家。本文选自她的散文集《故园屐痕》。

加兰城距加兰要塞六英里。要塞通往加兰城的最后三英里建在一座曾出过圣人的高地上。公路像箭一样直，打远处看，恍若浅灰色平原上一道褐色的辙印，直穿过前面的高山。在距加兰城八分之一英里处，仍杳无人烟。不过，因为心知加兰城就在附近，行人不禁举目四望，想一觅它的芳容，却只见丘峦拔地而起。加兰城复又何在？其实，你也许意料不到，它竟然就在你脚下。

来到加兰城所在的谷底，崖畔的夕阳收敛着它的余晖；而峡谷在我们脚下延展仿如大地在那一刻蓦地裂开。我们小心翼翼地把车开下陡坡。谷中光芒闪烁，洒落在白色的帐篷和车篷上。纵目远眺，峡谷愈发宽阔，直通向圣路易斯公园。而在张开的山口中央，则坐落着一个只有十二天历史的城市。这时，从那里，忽然传来一片奇怪的喧哗。

“怎么啦？”我们失声叫道。“正在建城，”这是我们得到的答复。“十二天前，这一所房子也没有。今天，有了一百零五所，再过一周将有二百所。每个人都在给自己盖房，都在夜以继日地工作，以便赶在别人之前建成。这儿有四家锯木厂，尽管一直开工，但木材还是供不应求。每人一次只能得到一块木板。要不，这儿的房子会是现在的两倍，那就不是一百零五所而是二百一十所了。”

我们的车继续前行。右边，一条小溪在柳树丛中半隐半现，几百顶白色的帐篷掩映在树影间：大的、小的、圆的、方的，有的用木桩支起，有的将帆布搭在灌木顶上；而在每个帐篷前都有熊熊的营火；还有几百个白篷的四轮车在宿夜，车辕用木棍支着，在车周围，三五成群的骡子和赶车人或立或卧组成一幅如画的景象。

这一景象是令人难以忘怀的。在我们走向市中心的路上，锤击声不绝于耳，越来越响亮；而愈见忙碌的场面也应接不暇。体型硕大的公牛拖曳着圆木和板材蹒跚而行，阻塞了陡坡。各种车辆来回穿梭；人们有的扛着门，有的把窗框套在身上前行——这是搬运它们的最简单的方式，有的用锹铲着、挖着，有的推着独轮车，没有一个人站着不动，没有一个人空着手，每个人都拿着某件东西，跑去放在某处。一切宛如一场话剧。而回环荡漾的“铁砧之歌”则盖过了所有音响。

“佩里旅馆在哪儿？”我们问道。人群中一个活计最少的人，打我们身边经过时，为我们用拇指指了指。我们有些茫然地走到对面一所尚未完工的大房子，透过还没安装上门、窗的门洞、窗口，我们看到房内的脚手架、未经加工的木板、木匠们的长凳和成堆的刨花。人们从墙上的孔洞间进进出出，还未确定那是门还是窗，也还没有台阶通向它们。

“好！好！你们所有人都住得下！”房东这样回答着我们犹疑的提问。他站在饭厅的门口，我们先前看到的那些进进出出的客人就是在这里就餐的。已是晚餐时间，我们也都饿了。只见饭厅里的三张桌子已坐满了人，地面堆放的床上满是帽子和上衣；门排在一起权作隔断，另加一个用帆布圈出的三角形空间——这是我们看到的全部。站在外间，在脚手架和长凳的合围下，我们等着空位。一个黑人正在点燃烛台上的蜡烛，那个烛台是两个穿了孔的窄木条相交成直角钉在一起构成的。燃烧的蜡烛发出噼啪声，滚热的蜡脂落在地面的刨花上。

“这可有把房子点着的危险，”有人说。房东抬头看着摇曳的烛台笑道：“试了这么久，”他说，“从来没把房子点着过。”

我注意到加兰人说话有个特点，即省略人称代词，也无暇加赘辞。

“一周前，在驻马溪，人们正在吃早饭，这个房子就拆了，”他说，“可现在，那在他们头顶拆去的房子又要建成了。”

的确如此。店主说话时，我们看见房子的最后部分就要竣工，而同组一位仁兄则见证了驻马溪那场风波。

“等下个圆桌腾给你们。”店主说，“他们席一散，我就把椅子拿过来。要得到席位这是唯一的法子。”

于是，他瞄准机会，待屋内一有空余座位，他就冲进去，把椅子搬出来给我们。坐在为我们“预留的座位”上，我们祈祷着他早点儿凑够椅子。

这场面简直无从描摹！直立的门连在一起充作临时的墙，隔开了卧室和饭厅。卧室？是的。共有五间，亦即五张排成一行的床。床与床之间的间距只够挂个帘子，而床与“墙”的间距则只够一个中等身材的人面朝着“墙”或床直立其中。椅子放在哪儿呢？不，没有地方放椅子了。既已有了床，卧室里又何必要椅子？那么，脸盘架呢？在屋外有个锡盆。至于毛巾，可说不准有没有。

由帆布围成的是第六个卧室，一个私密和专有的空间；等每个人都吃完饭之后，地面那堆床在餐桌间又会变出另外七个卧室。

万幸的是，我们在这儿找到了一个朋友，他是科罗拉多拓荒者中的元老。哪怕在最蛮荒的原野，他也有本事把生活弄得舒适。

“你们不能睡这儿，”他说，“我给你们弄个更好的地方休息。”

“更好的！”

他给我们提供的住所堪称“豪华”。一个人舒适的标准是多么容易因时而变啊！那是一所由两个房间构成的松木屋，木板墙，室内铺着木质的地板，木板做成的隔断没有上抵天篷，可那夜在我们眼中，这木屋不啻宫殿。即使下榻温莎城堡，我们恐怕也不会那么感激。

夜深了，加兰城渐渐安静下来。多数灯光都已熄灭许久，很多声响也早就停了。只有远处传来孤零零的锤击声，当，当，当，听着这单调的音响，我进入了梦乡。