章节正文
ard two o'clock in the morning he waked me and
told me my train was coming, asking if I felt able
to take it. I decided to make the effort. He dared
not leave his post to help me, but he signaled to the
train, and I began my progress back to the station.
I never clearly remembered how I got there; but
I arrived and was helped into a car by a brakeman.
About four o'clock in the morning I had to change
again, but this time I was left at the station of a town,
and was there met by a man whose wife had offered
me hospitality. He drove me to their home, and
I was cared for. What I had, it developed, was a
severe case of ptomaine poisoning, and I soon re-
covered; but even after all these years I do not
like to recall that night.
To be ``snowed in'' was a frequent experience.
Once, in Minnesota, I was one of a dozen travelers
who were driven in an omnibus from a country hotel
to the nearest railroad station, about two miles away.
It was snowing hard, and the driver left us on the
station platform and departed. Time passed, but
the train we were waiting for did not come. A true
Western blizzard, growing wilder every moment, had
set in, and we finally realized that the train was not
coming, and that, moreover, it was now impossible
to get back to the hotel. The only thing we could
do was to spend the night in the railroad station.
I was the only woman in the group, and my fellow-
passengers were cattlemen who whiled away the
hours by smoking, telling stories, and exchanging
pocket flasks. The station had a telegraph operator
who occupied a tiny box by himself, and he finally
invited me to share the privacy of his microscopic
quarters. I entered them very gratefully, and he
laid a board on the floor, covered it with an over-
coat made of buffalo-skins, and cheerfully invited
me to go to bed. I went, and slept peacefully until
morning. Then we all returned to the hotel, the
men going ahead and shoveling a path.
Again, one Sunday, I was snowbound in a train
near Faribault, and this time also I was the only
woman among a number of cattlemen. They were
an odoriferous lot, who smoked diligently and played
cards without ceasing, but in deference to my pres-
ence they swore only mildly and under their breath.
At last they wearied of their game, and one of them
rose and came to me.
``I heard you lecture the other night,'' he said,
awkwardly, ``and I've bin tellin' the fellers about it.
We'd like to have a lecture now.''
Their card-playing had seemed to me a sinful
thing (I was stricter in my views then than I am
to-day), and I was glad to create a diversion. I
agreed to give them a lecture, and they went through
the train, which consisted of two day coaches, and
brought in the remaining passengers. A few of
them could sing, and we began with a Moody and
Sankey hymn or two and the appealing ditty,
``Where is my wandering boy to-night?'' in which
they all joined with special zest. Then I delivered
the lecture, and they listened attentively. When I
had finished they seemed to think that some slight
return was in order, so they proceeded to make a
bed for me. They took the bottoms out of two seats,
arranged them crosswise, and one man folded his
overcoat into a pillow. Inspired by this, two others
immediately donated their fur overcoats for upper
and lower coverings. When the bed was ready they
waved me toward it with a most hospitable air, and
I crept in between the overcoats and slumbered
sweetly until I was aroused the next morning by the
welcome music of a snow-plow which had been
sent from St. Paul to our rescue.
To drive fifty or sixty miles in a day to meet a
lecture engagement was a frequent experience. I
have been driven across the prairies in June when
they were like a mammoth flower-bed, and in Jan-
uary when they seemed one huge snow-covered
grave--my grave, I thought, at times. Once during a
thirty-mile drive, when the thermometer was twenty
degrees below zero, I suddenly realized that my face
was freezing. I opened my satchel, took out the
tissue-paper that protected my best gown, and put
the paper over my face as a veil, tucking it inside
of my bonnet. When I reached my destination the
tissue was a perfect mask, frozen stiff, and I
had to be lifted from the sleigh. I was due on the
lecture platform in half an hour, so I drank a huge
bowl of boiling ginger tea and appeared on time.
That night I went to bed expecting an attack of
pneumonia as a result of the exposure, but I awoke
next morning in superb condition. I possess what
is called ``an iron constitution,'' and in those days
I needed it.
That same winter, in Kansas, I was chased by
wolves, and though I had been more or less inti-
mately associated with wolves in my pioneer life
in the Michigan woods, I found the occasion extreme-
ly unpleasant. During the long winters of my girl-
hood wolves had frequently slunk around our log
cabin, and at times in the lumber-camps we had
even heard them prowling on the roofs. But those
were very different creatures from the two huge,
starving, tireless animals that hour after hour loped
behind the cutter in which I sat with another woman,
who, throughout the whole experience, never lost
her head nor her control of our frantic horses. They
were mad with terror, for, try as they would, they
could not outrun the grim things that trailed us,
seemingly not trying to gain on us, but keeping al-
ways at the same distance, with a patience that was
horrible. From time to time I turned to look at
them, and the picture they made as they came on
and on is one I shall never forget. They were so near
that I could see their eyes and slavering jaws, and
they were as noiseless as things in a dream. At
last, little by little, they began to gain on us, and
they were almost within striking distance of the
whip, which was our only weapon, when we reached
the welcomeoutskirts of a town and they fell back.
Some of the memories of those days have to do
with personal encounters, brief but poignant. Once
when I was giving a series of Chautauqua lectures,
I spoke at the Chautauqua in Pontiac, Illinois.
The State Reformatory for Boys was situated in
that town, and, after the lecture the superintendent
of the Reformatory invited me to visit it and say
a few words to the inmates. I went and spoke for
half an hour, carrying away a memory of the place
and of the boys which haunted me for months. A
year later, while I was waiting for a train in the
station at Shelbyville, a lad about sixteen years old
passed me and hesitated, looking as if he knew me.
I saw that he wanted to speak and dared not, so
I nodded to him.
``You think you know me, don't you?'' I asked,
when he came to my side.
``Yes'm, I do know you,'' he told me, eagerly.
``You are Miss Shaw, and you talked to us boys at
Pontiac last year. I'm out on parole now, but I
'ain't forgot. Us boys enjoyed you the best of any
show we ever had!''
I was touched by this artless compliment, and
anxious to know how I had won it, so I asked,
``What did I say that the boys liked?''
The lad hesitated. Then he said, slowly, ``Well,
you didn't talk as if you thought we were all
bad.''
``My boy,'' I told him, ``I don't think you are all
bad. I know better!''
As if I had touched a spring in him, the lad
dropped into the seat by my side; then, leaning
toward me, he said, impulsively, but almost in a
whisper:
``Say, Miss Shaw, SOME OF US BOYS SAYS OUR PRAYERS!''
Rarely have I had a tribute that moved me more
than that shy confidence; and often since then, in
hours of discouragement or failure, I have reminded
myself that at least there must have been something
in me once to make a lad of that age so open up
his heart. We had a long and intimate talk, from
which grew the abiding interest I feel in boys to-
day.
Naturally I was sometimes inconvenienced by
slight misunderstandings between local committees
and myself as to the subjects of my lectures, and the
most extremeinstance of this occurred in a town
where I arrived to find myself widely advertised
as ``Mrs. Anna Shaw, who whistled before Queen
Victoria''! Transfixed, I gaped before the bill-
boards, and by reading their additional lettering
discovered the gratifying fact that at least I was
not expected to whistle now. Instead, it appeared,
I was to lecture on ``The Missing Link.''
As usual, I had arrived in town only an hour or
two before the time fixed for my lecture; there was
the briefest interval in which to clear up these pain-
ful misunderstandings. I repeatedly tried to reach
the chairman who was to preside at the entertain-
ment, but failed. At last I went to the hall at the
hour appointed, and found the local committee
there, graciouslywaiting to receive me. Without
wasting precious minutes in preliminaries, I asked
why they had advertised me as the woman who had
``whistled before Queen Victoria.''
``Why, didn't you whistle before her?'' they ex-
claimed in grieved surprise.
``I certainly did not,'' I explained. ``Moreover, I
was never called `The American Nightingale,' and
I have never lectured on `The Missing Link.'
Where DID you get that subject? It was not on the
list I sent you.''
The members of the committee seemed dazed.
They withdrew to a corner and consulted in whis-
pers. Then, with clearing brow, the spokesman re-
turned.
``Why,'' he said, cheerfully, ``it's simple enough!
We mixed you up with a Shaw lady that whistles;
and we've been discussing the missing link in our
debating society, so our citizens want to hear your
views.''
told me my train was coming, asking if I felt able
to take it. I decided to make the effort. He dared
not leave his post to help me, but he signaled to the
train, and I began my progress back to the station.
I never clearly remembered how I got there; but
I arrived and was helped into a car by a brakeman.
About four o'clock in the morning I had to change
again, but this time I was left at the station of a town,
and was there met by a man whose wife had offered
me hospitality. He drove me to their home, and
I was cared for. What I had, it developed, was a
severe case of ptomaine poisoning, and I soon re-
covered; but even after all these years I do not
like to recall that night.
To be ``snowed in'' was a frequent experience.
Once, in Minnesota, I was one of a dozen travelers
who were driven in an omnibus from a country hotel
to the nearest railroad station, about two miles away.
It was snowing hard, and the driver left us on the
station platform and departed. Time passed, but
the train we were waiting for did not come. A true
Western blizzard, growing wilder every moment, had
set in, and we finally realized that the train was not
coming, and that, moreover, it was now impossible
to get back to the hotel. The only thing we could
do was to spend the night in the railroad station.
I was the only woman in the group, and my fellow-
passengers were cattlemen who whiled away the
hours by smoking, telling stories, and exchanging
pocket flasks. The station had a telegraph operator
who occupied a tiny box by himself, and he finally
invited me to share the privacy of his microscopic
quarters. I entered them very gratefully, and he
laid a board on the floor, covered it with an over-
coat made of buffalo-skins, and cheerfully invited
me to go to bed. I went, and slept peacefully until
morning. Then we all returned to the hotel, the
men going ahead and shoveling a path.
Again, one Sunday, I was snowbound in a train
near Faribault, and this time also I was the only
woman among a number of cattlemen. They were
an odoriferous lot, who smoked diligently and played
cards without ceasing, but in deference to my pres-
ence they swore only mildly and under their breath.
At last they wearied of their game, and one of them
rose and came to me.
``I heard you lecture the other night,'' he said,
awkwardly, ``and I've bin tellin' the fellers about it.
We'd like to have a lecture now.''
Their card-playing had seemed to me a sinful
thing (I was stricter in my views then than I am
to-day), and I was glad to create a diversion. I
agreed to give them a lecture, and they went through
the train, which consisted of two day coaches, and
brought in the remaining passengers. A few of
them could sing, and we began with a Moody and
Sankey hymn or two and the appealing ditty,
``Where is my wandering boy to-night?'' in which
they all joined with special zest. Then I delivered
the lecture, and they listened attentively. When I
had finished they seemed to think that some slight
return was in order, so they proceeded to make a
bed for me. They took the bottoms out of two seats,
arranged them crosswise, and one man folded his
overcoat into a pillow. Inspired by this, two others
immediately donated their fur overcoats for upper
and lower coverings. When the bed was ready they
waved me toward it with a most hospitable air, and
I crept in between the overcoats and slumbered
sweetly until I was aroused the next morning by the
welcome music of a snow-plow which had been
sent from St. Paul to our rescue.
To drive fifty or sixty miles in a day to meet a
lecture engagement was a frequent experience. I
have been driven across the prairies in June when
they were like a mammoth flower-bed, and in Jan-
uary when they seemed one huge snow-covered
grave--my grave, I thought, at times. Once during a
thirty-mile drive, when the thermometer was twenty
degrees below zero, I suddenly realized that my face
was freezing. I opened my satchel, took out the
tissue-paper that protected my best gown, and put
the paper over my face as a veil, tucking it inside
of my bonnet. When I reached my destination the
tissue was a perfect mask, frozen stiff, and I
had to be lifted from the sleigh. I was due on the
lecture platform in half an hour, so I drank a huge
bowl of boiling ginger tea and appeared on time.
That night I went to bed expecting an attack of
pneumonia as a result of the exposure, but I awoke
next morning in superb condition. I possess what
is called ``an iron constitution,'' and in those days
I needed it.
That same winter, in Kansas, I was chased by
wolves, and though I had been more or less inti-
mately associated with wolves in my pioneer life
in the Michigan woods, I found the occasion extreme-
ly unpleasant. During the long winters of my girl-
hood wolves had frequently slunk around our log
cabin, and at times in the lumber-camps we had
even heard them prowling on the roofs. But those
were very different creatures from the two huge,
starving, tireless animals that hour after hour loped
behind the cutter in which I sat with another woman,
who, throughout the whole experience, never lost
her head nor her control of our frantic horses. They
were mad with terror, for, try as they would, they
could not outrun the grim things that trailed us,
seemingly not trying to gain on us, but keeping al-
ways at the same distance, with a patience that was
horrible. From time to time I turned to look at
them, and the picture they made as they came on
and on is one I shall never forget. They were so near
that I could see their eyes and slavering jaws, and
they were as noiseless as things in a dream. At
last, little by little, they began to gain on us, and
they were almost within striking distance of the
whip, which was our only weapon, when we reached
the welcomeoutskirts of a town and they fell back.
Some of the memories of those days have to do
with personal encounters, brief but poignant. Once
when I was giving a series of Chautauqua lectures,
I spoke at the Chautauqua in Pontiac, Illinois.
The State Reformatory for Boys was situated in
that town, and, after the lecture the superintendent
of the Reformatory invited me to visit it and say
a few words to the inmates. I went and spoke for
half an hour, carrying away a memory of the place
and of the boys which haunted me for months. A
year later, while I was waiting for a train in the
station at Shelbyville, a lad about sixteen years old
passed me and hesitated, looking as if he knew me.
I saw that he wanted to speak and dared not, so
I nodded to him.
``You think you know me, don't you?'' I asked,
when he came to my side.
``Yes'm, I do know you,'' he told me, eagerly.
``You are Miss Shaw, and you talked to us boys at
Pontiac last year. I'm out on parole now, but I
'ain't forgot. Us boys enjoyed you the best of any
show we ever had!''
I was touched by this artless compliment, and
anxious to know how I had won it, so I asked,
``What did I say that the boys liked?''
The lad hesitated. Then he said, slowly, ``Well,
you didn't talk as if you thought we were all
bad.''
``My boy,'' I told him, ``I don't think you are all
bad. I know better!''
As if I had touched a spring in him, the lad
dropped into the seat by my side; then, leaning
toward me, he said, impulsively, but almost in a
whisper:
``Say, Miss Shaw, SOME OF US BOYS SAYS OUR PRAYERS!''
Rarely have I had a tribute that moved me more
than that shy confidence; and often since then, in
hours of discouragement or failure, I have reminded
myself that at least there must have been something
in me once to make a lad of that age so open up
his heart. We had a long and intimate talk, from
which grew the abiding interest I feel in boys to-
day.
Naturally I was sometimes inconvenienced by
slight misunderstandings between local committees
and myself as to the subjects of my lectures, and the
most extremeinstance of this occurred in a town
where I arrived to find myself widely advertised
as ``Mrs. Anna Shaw, who whistled before Queen
Victoria''! Transfixed, I gaped before the bill-
boards, and by reading their additional lettering
discovered the gratifying fact that at least I was
not expected to whistle now. Instead, it appeared,
I was to lecture on ``The Missing Link.''
As usual, I had arrived in town only an hour or
two before the time fixed for my lecture; there was
the briefest interval in which to clear up these pain-
ful misunderstandings. I repeatedly tried to reach
the chairman who was to preside at the entertain-
ment, but failed. At last I went to the hall at the
hour appointed, and found the local committee
there, graciouslywaiting to receive me. Without
wasting precious minutes in preliminaries, I asked
why they had advertised me as the woman who had
``whistled before Queen Victoria.''
``Why, didn't you whistle before her?'' they ex-
claimed in grieved surprise.
``I certainly did not,'' I explained. ``Moreover, I
was never called `The American Nightingale,' and
I have never lectured on `The Missing Link.'
Where DID you get that subject? It was not on the
list I sent you.''
The members of the committee seemed dazed.
They withdrew to a corner and consulted in whis-
pers. Then, with clearing brow, the spokesman re-
turned.
``Why,'' he said, cheerfully, ``it's simple enough!
We mixed you up with a Shaw lady that whistles;
and we've been discussing the missing link in our
debating society, so our citizens want to hear your
views.''
- frequent [´fri:kwənt]
a.常见的，频繁的 (初中英语单词) - driven [´driv(ə)n] drive 的过去分词 (初中英语单词)
- platform [´plætfɔ:m] n.(平)台；讲台；站台 (初中英语单词)
- waiting [´weitiŋ] n.等候；伺候 (初中英语单词)
- moreover [mɔ:´rəuvə] ad.再者，此外，而且 (初中英语单词)
- telegraph [´teligrɑ:f] n.&v.(打)电报；电告 (初中英语单词)
- gratefully [´greitfuli] ad.感激地 (初中英语单词)
- diligently [´dilidʒəntli] ad.勤奋地 (初中英语单词)
- engagement [in´geidʒmənt] n.婚约；雇用；受聘 (初中英语单词)
- frozen [´frəuzn] freeze 的过去分词 (初中英语单词)
- pioneer [,paiə´niə] n.拓荒者 v.开辟；倡导 (初中英语单词)
- terror [´terə] n.恐怖；惊骇 (初中英语单词)
- patience [´peiʃəns] n.忍耐(力)；耐心；坚韧 (初中英语单词)
- striking [´straikiŋ] a.显著的，明显的 (初中英语单词)
- weapon [´wepən] n.武器；斗争手段 (初中英语单词)
- welcome [´welkəm] a.受欢迎的；可喜的 (初中英语单词)
- series [´siəri:z] n.连续；系列；丛书 (初中英语单词)
- situated [´sitʃueitid] a.位于；处于....境地 (初中英语单词)
- haunted [´hɔ:tid] a.常出现鬼的，闹鬼的 (初中英语单词)
- tribute [´tribju:t] n.贡物；献礼；颂词 (初中英语单词)
- failure [´feiljə] n.失败；衰竭；破产 (初中英语单词)
- intimate [´intimit] a.亲密的 n.知己 (初中英语单词)
- extreme [ik´stri:m] a.尽头的 n.极端 (初中英语单词)
- instance [´instəns] n.例子，实例，例证 (初中英语单词)
- reading [´ri:diŋ] n.(阅)读；朗读；读物 (初中英语单词)
- additional [ə´diʃənəl] a.附加的，额外的 (初中英语单词)
- whistle [´wisəl] v.吹哨 n.口哨；汽笛 (初中英语单词)
- missing [´misiŋ] a.缺掉的；失踪的 (初中英语单词)
- interval [´intəvəl] n.间隙；(工间)休息 (初中英语单词)
- decided [di´saidid] a.明显的；决定的 (高中英语单词)
- hospitality [,hɔspi´tæliti] n.好客，殷勤 (高中英语单词)
- minnesota [,mini´səutə] n.明尼苏达 (高中英语单词)
- cheerfully [´tʃiəfuli] ad.高兴地，愉快地 (高中英语单词)
- thermometer [θə´mɔmitə] n.温度计；寒暑表 (高中英语单词)
- bonnet [´bɔnit] n.无边女帽；童帽 (高中英语单词)
- destination [,desti´neiʃən] n.目标地 (高中英语单词)
- ginger [´dʒindʒə] n.姜；精神，元气 (高中英语单词)
- exposure [ik´spəuʒə] n.暴露；曝光(时间) (高中英语单词)
- kansas [´kænzəs] n.堪萨斯(州) (高中英语单词)
- unpleasant [ʌn´plezənt] a.不愉快的；不合意的 (高中英语单词)
- frantic [´fræntik] a.发狂的；急忙的 (高中英语单词)
- compliment [´kɔmplimənt] n.敬意 vt.赞美；祝贺 (高中英语单词)
- preside [pri´zaid] vi.主持(会议)；主管 (高中英语单词)
- withdrew [wið´dru:] withdraw的过去式 (高中英语单词)
- privacy [´praivəsi, -pri] n.隐退；独处；秘密 (英语四级单词)
- mildly [´maildli] ad.温和地；适度地 (英语四级单词)
- diversion [dai´və:ʃən] n.转移；消遣 (英语四级单词)
- hospitable [´hɔspitəbəl] a.好客的；招待周到的 (英语四级单词)
- sleigh [slei] n.雪橇 vi.坐雪橇 (英语四级单词)
- superb [su:´pə:b, sju:-] a.宏伟的；极好的 (英语四级单词)
- cutter [´kʌtə] n.裁剪师；刀具；快艇 (英语四级单词)
- trying [´traiiŋ] a.难堪的；费劲的 (英语四级单词)
- repeatedly [ri´pi:tidli] ad.反复地；再三地 (英语四级单词)
- graciously [´greiʃəsli] ad.仁慈地，和蔼庄重地 (英语四级单词)
- clearing [´kliəriŋ] n.(森林中的)空旷地 (英语四级单词)
- departed [di´pɑ:tid] a.已往的；已故的 (英语六级单词)
- blizzard [´blizəd] n.暴风雪 (英语六级单词)
- peacefully [´pisfuli] ad.平静地；安宁地 (英语六级单词)
- mammoth [´mæməθ] a.庞大的 (英语六级单词)
- tireless [´taiələs] a.不疲倦的；无轮胎的 (英语六级单词)
- outrun [aut´rʌn] vt.追过；逃脱 (英语六级单词)
- outskirts [´autskə:ts] n.外边；郊区 (英语六级单词)
- discouragement [dis´kʌrridʒmənt] n.挫折，气馁 (英语六级单词)
- spokesman [´spəuksmən] n.发言人 (英语六级单词)
文章标签:名著
章节正文
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