酷兔英语
    当前位置:
  1. 首页
  2. 文章
  3. 娱乐英语
  4. 原版小说
  5. 正文

The Land of Little Rain-Part3_Mary Hunter Austin(1868-1934)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

0 收藏 0 分享 0 赞

章节正文
文章总共2页
bright venomous snake, daunting them with shrill abuse and feint of



battle. Then suddenly he would go tilting and balancing down the

gully in fine disdain, only to return in a day or two to make sure



the foolish bodies were still at it.

Out on the Ceriso about five miles, and wholly out of sight of



it, near where the immemorial foot trail goes up from Saline Flat

toward Black Mountain, is a water sign worth turning out of the



trail to see. It is a laid circle of stones large enough not

to be disturbed by any ordinary hap, with an opening flanked by



two parallel rows of similar stones, between which were an arrow

placed, touching the opposite rim of the circle, thus it would



point as the crow flies to the spring. It is the old, indubitable

water mark of the Shoshones. One still finds it in the desert



ranges in Salt Wells and Mesquite valleys, and along the slopes of

Waban. On the other side of Ceriso, where the black rock begins,



about a mile from the spring, is the work of an older, forgotten

people. The rock hereabout is all volcanic, fracturing with a



crystalline whitish surface, but weathered outside to furnace

blackness. Around the spring, where must have been a gathering



place of the tribes, it is scored over with strange pictures and

symbols that have no meaning to the Indians of the present day; but



out where the rock begins, there is carved into the white heart of

it a pointing arrow over the symbol for distance and a circle full



of wavy lines reading thus: "In this direction three [units of

measurement unknown] is a spring of sweet water; look for it."



THE SCAVENGERS

Fifty-seven buzzards, one on each of fifty-seven fence posts at the



rancho El Tejon, on a mirage-breeding September morning, sat

solemnly while the white tilted travelers' vans lumbered down the



Canada de los Uvas. After three hours they had only clapped their

wings, or exchanged posts. The season's end in the vast dim valley



of the San Joaquin is palpitatingly hot, and the air breathes like

cotton wool. Through it all the buzzards sit on the fences and low



hummocks, with wings spread fanwise for air. There is no end to

them, and they smell to heaven. Their heads droop, and all their



communication is a rare, horrid croak.

The increase of wild creatures is in proportion to the things



they feed upon: the more carrion the more buzzards. The end of the

third successive dry year bred them beyond belief. The first year



quail mated sparingly; the second year the wild oats matured no

seed; the third, cattle died in their tracks with their heads



towards the stopped watercourses. And that year the

scavengers were as black as the plague all across the mesa and up



the treeless, tumbled hills. On clear days they betook themselves

to the upper air, where they hung motionless for hours. That year



there were vultures among them, distinguished by the white patches

under the wings. All their offensiveness notwithstanding, they



have a statelyflight. They must also have what pass for good

qualities among themselves, for they are social, not to say



clannish.

It is a very squalid tragedy,--that of the dying brutes and



the scavenger birds. Death by starvation is slow. The

heavy-headed, rack-boned cattle totter in the fruitless trails;



they stand for long, patient intervals; they lie down and do not

rise. There is fear in their eyes when they are first stricken,



but afterward only intolerableweariness. I suppose the dumb

creatures know nearly as much of death as do their betters, who



have only the more imagination. Their even-breathing submission

after the first agony is their tribute to its inevitableness. It



needs a nice discrimination to say which of the basket-ribbed

cattle is likest to afford the next meal, but the scavengers make



few mistakes. One stoops to the quarry and the flock follows.

Cattle once down may be days in dying. They stretch out their



necks along the ground, and roll up their slow eyes at longer

intervals. The buzzards have all the time, and no beak is dropped



or talon struck until the breath is wholly passed. It is

doubtless the economy of nature to have the scavengers by to clean



up the carrion, but a wolf at the throat would be a shorter agony

than the long stalking and sometime perchings of these loathsome






文章总共2页
文章标签:名著  

章节正文
Copyright © 2023 Qeto All rights reserved.
商务合作 | 联系我们 | 关于我们 | 版权声明 | 隐私条款 | 如果智培

京ICP备05059198号-1 京公网安备 11011202003401号