雪机起伏颠簸履带轰鸣木

Benjamin Franklin Taylor，1822—1887，was born at Lowville，New York，and graduated at Madison University，of which his father was president.Here he remained as resident graduate for about five years.His “Attractions of Language”was published in 1845.For many years Mr.Taylor was literary editor of the “Chicago Journal.”He wrote considerably for the magazines，and was the author of many well-known fugitive pieces，both in prose and verse.He also published several books，of which “January and June，”“Pictures in Camp and Field，”“The World on Wheels，”“Old-time Pictures and Sheaves of Rhyme，”“Between the Gates，”and “Songs of Yesterday，”are the best known.In his later years，Mr.Taylor achieved some reputation as a lecturer.His writings are marked by an exuberant fancy.

Did you ever ride on a snowplow？Not the pet and pony of a thing that is attached to the front of an engine，sometimes，like a pilot；but a great two-storied monster of strong timbers，that runs upon wheels of its own，and that boys run after and stare at as they would after and at an elephant.You are snow-bound at Buffalo.The Lake Shore Line is piled with drifts like a surf.Two passenger trains have been half-buried for twelve hours somewhere in snowy Chautauqua.The storm howls like a congregation of Arctic bears.But the superintendent at Buffalo is determined to release his castaways，and clear the road to Erie.He permits you to be a passenger on the great snowplow；and there it is，all ready to drive.Harnessed behind it，is a tandem team of three engines.It does not occur to you that you are going to ride on a steam drill，and so you get aboard.

It is a spacious and timbered room，with one large bull's eye window，——an overgrown lens.The thing is a sort of Cyclops.There are ropes，and chains，and a windlass.There is a bell by which the engineer of the first engine can signal the plowman，and a cord whereby the plowman can talk back.There are two sweeps，or arms，worked by machinery，on the sides.You ask their use，and the superintendent replies，“When，in a violent shock，there is danger of the monster's upsetting，an arm is put out，on one side or the other，to keep the thing from turning a complete somersault.”You get one idea，and an inkling of another.So you take out your Accident Policy for three thousand dollars，and examine it.It never mentions battles，nor duels，nor snowplows.It names “public conveyances.”Is a snowplow a public conveyance？You are inclined to think it is neither that nor any other kind that you should trust yourself to，but it is too late for consideration.

You roll out of Buffalo in the teeth of the wind，and the world is turned to snow.All goes merrily.The machine strikes little drifts，and they scurry away in a cloud.The three engines breathe easily；but by and by the earth seems broken into great billows of dazzling white.The sun comes out of a cloud，and touches it up till it out-silvers Potosi.Houses lie in the trough of the sea everywhere，and it requires little imagination to think they are pitching and tossing before your eyes.A great breaker rises right in the way.The monster，with you in it，works its way up and feels of it.It is packed like a ledge of marble.Three whistles！The machine backs away and keeps backing，as a gymnast runs astern to get sea room and momentum for a big jump；as a giant swings aloft a heavy sledge，that it may come down with a heavy blow.

One whistle！You have come to a halt.Three pairs of whistles one after the other！and then，putting on all steam，you make for the drift.The superintendent locks the door，you do not quite understand why，and in a second the battle begins.The machine rocks and creaks in all its joints.There comes a tremendous shock.The cabin is as dark as midnight.The clouds of flying snow put out the day.The labored breathing of the locomotives behind you，the clouds of smoke and steam that wrap you up as in a mantle，the noonday eclipse of the sun，the surging of the ship，the rattling of chains，the creak of timbers as if the craft were aground and the sea getting out of its bed to whelm you altogether，the doubt as to what will come，——all combine to make a scene of strange excitement for a landlubber.

You have made some impression on the breaker，and again the machine backs for a fair start，and then another plunge，and shock，and twilight.And so，from deep cut to deep cut，as if the season had packed all his winter clothes upon the track，until the stalled trains are reached and passed；and then，with alternate storm and calm，and halt and shock，till the way is cleared to Erie.

It is Sunday afternoon，and Erie——“Mad Anthony Wayne's”old headquarters——has donned its Sunday clothes，and turned out by hundreds to see the great plow come in，——its first voyage over the line.The locomotives set up a crazy scream，and you draw slowly into the depot.The door opened at last，you clamber down，and gaze up at the uneasy house in which you have been living.It looks as if an avalanche had tumbled down upon it，——white as an Alpine shoulder.Your first thought is gratitude that you have made a landing alive.Your second，a resolution that，if again you ride a hammer，it will not be when three engines have hold of the handle！

译文　TRANSLATION

本杰明·富兰克林·泰勒（1822—1887）出生于纽约州洛威尔镇，毕业于其父主政的麦迪逊大学。在那里，他作了五年的住校生。他的《语言的魅力》出版于1845年。泰勒在《芝加哥日报》做过多年文学编辑，他为该刊撰写了大量稿件，并以散文或韵文形式写出了很多名噪一时的即兴之作。在他出版的著作中，《一月与六月》《营地与田野上的图片》《车轮上的世界》《旧照与诗》《门扉之间》及《昨日之歌》最为精粹。晚年，泰勒成为很有声望的演说家。他的作品以奇思妙想见长。

你以前坐过扫雪机吗？不是那种由小马或宠物加引擎构成的有时像试验品一样的东西，而是一个两层的木制庞然大物，其下装有轮子，男孩子们跟在它后面，目不转睛地盯着它，恍若跟在一头大象后面。如今，设若你在冰封雪飘的布法罗。湖滨线两侧雪积如浪。而在白雪皑皑的肖托夸，两辆客车已半埋在雪中十二个小时了。暴风雪呼啸着，像一群北极熊在怒号。而布法罗的运管员决意让这些为雪所困的旅客离开此地，于是开始清除去往伊利城路上的积雪。他允许一个旅客乘坐那一切就绪、只待出发的大扫雪机。掌控扫雪机的是串联在一起的三个引擎。但你不会想到你将乘坐一个蒸汽钻，于是，你坐上了扫雪机。

那是一个宽敞的木制房间，有一个大圆天窗，镶着大大的透镜，像独眼怪人，还有绳索、履带和绞盘。第一台引擎上有一个铃铛，机师用它示意扫雪机驾驶员，而驾驶员则借由细绳来答复。在两侧有两个由机械控制的清扫臂。你若问其用途，运管员会告诉你：“遇到风雪猛烈袭击，扫雪机有翻车的危险，这时，某一侧的清扫臂会伸出以免扫雪机翻倒。”说者无心而听者有意，你取出你那总额3000美元的意外保险单检查着。可是保险单上从未提到打仗、决斗和扫雪机。上面有“公共运输”一项，可扫雪机是公共运输工具吗？你会倾向于认为扫雪机不是自己愿意乘坐的这种或那种公共交通工具，但这样的考量为时已晚。

料峭寒风中，你离开了布法罗，将它留于漫天飞雪。一切进展顺利。扫雪机击打着雪堆，雪花飘逝如云。三部引擎自如地呼吸着；但渐渐地地面似乎裂作一排排耀眼的白色巨浪。云开日出，阳光照耀下的扫雪机比波托西的银矿更晶莹。四野的屋舍恍如坐落在海槽之中，而几乎不难想象这些屋宇在你眼前颠簸、摇曳的景象。而大扫雪机这个载着你的怪物向上爬着，仿佛载着一截凸出的大理石。鸣笛三声！扫雪机不断向后退去，就像一个体操家跑着退向后面以便获得足够的空间和势能来做一个大的腾跃；或如一个巨人挥舞着大锤，准备重重砸下来。

一声鸣笛！你停了下来。继而，三组鸣笛此起彼伏，你启动全部蒸汽动力驶向雪堆。运管员锁上门，你还没完全弄清楚个中缘由，战役就打响了。扫雪机的各个零部件摇动着、吱嘎作响。随之，一记猛击！驾驶室里暗如子夜，如云的飞雪弥漫了天空。你身后的机车费力地喘着气，烟和蒸汽像披风罩住你。正午太阳黯淡无光，扫雪机起伏颠簸，履带轰鸣，木板摇摇欲坠好像小艇搁浅而汹涌的海浪要将你吞没，加上前途未卜的疑惑，这一切对一个新手来说是一种莫名的兴奋。

你业已对扫雪机有了几分印象，而它再次退后以便启动、前冲、摇撼、然后又是势头渐弱。就这样一次次清除路基上的雪，而冬天仿若把它所有的行头都堆在了铁轨上，直到迟缓的火车最终到达、开过。然后又是一场暴风雪，雪住后又是一次暂停和清扫，直到去往伊利路上的积雪清理干净。

星期日下午，伊利湖——疯汉安东尼·怀恩的旧巢——已披上了往日的盛装，几百人聚在街头观看扫雪机，这次是它在沿线的处女航。机车呼啸，徐徐进站。门开了，你吃力地爬下机车，注视着你在里面待了一路的驾驶室，似乎它经历了一场雪崩——看去像阿尔卑斯山一样白。你的第一个念头是为自己能够生还感恩。而第二个决心则是绝不在风雪中再乘这由三个引擎操控手柄的铁锤。