Journal of Literature · Night reading at the moment
Night before bedtime reading, a beautiful article, takes you into the world of memory of reading.
Tonight's night reading is a journey closer to nature. "Hay Rake, Sheep Dung Egg, Cow Without Buttercup" is a prose, diary-style natural literature, the first part of the writer John Lewis-Temple's "Nature Writing Trilogy", the text is simple and full of closeness, close to the earth, the language is elegant and funny, full of poetry.
He lived for a year on an English ranch, and from January to December, he observed and recorded all the life on the ranch, whether plants or animals, throughout the story and was the really cute protagonist of the book.
Furious clouds envelop the mountains, and the land sinks into the darkness before the storm.
The shiny, glittering blades of the plant (with unsightly little black dots on them) have been in the hedges for a month, but now... The genital-like brown fleshy spikes are swollen. The exposure maniac in the hedge. Warm days are coming, and the mosquitoes will be lured by the fleshy scent of the meat spike inflorescence, peeking through the seductive outer flaming buds, and then trapped in them. The mosquito pollinates the invisible flowers and causes them to bear enchanting orange berries in autumn. At night, the bud of the Buddha flame is loosened, and the mosquito can be shaken to get out. The tubers of this plant were once made into an aphrodisiac, and in John Lrie's 1601 play The Metamorphosis of Love, a character says, "They ate the awakened robins and could no longer sleep for love." ”
The plant's effects on aphrodisiac use in the Middle Ages are unknown, but its roots are processed and roasted to be sold as powder, known as Portland sago, the main ingredient in "Selep tea," which was a popular drink for working-class people before the advent of coffee and tea. Gilbert White records that on snowy days, the birds eat the roots of the plant, and many birds also eat its berries, especially the pheasants. But no animal will touch its leaves — damaged leaves secrete hydrocyanic acid.
Bits and pieces of rain stayed, shone and clinged to the blades of grass. They were much stronger than the bronze-colored beetle that staggered, fell, continued to crawl, and fell again on the grass stem, and the beetle could not stop no matter what. A peacock butterfly flutters in the fluttering spring air and flies to the meadow to collect honey on broken rice. When feeding, it spreads its wings to show off its dazzling eyes. These eyes overlook the meadow, but they are just a trick to bluff and scare the hunters--this is imitating the eyes of the big bird and imitating the big monster of the bird to fake the truth. Pansies of peacock butterflies are leisurely and calm, unaffected by the birds, and even provocatively stop on a stone slab for warmth.
In the hedges, birds come and go, all nesting. Flying birds. Big. Blue. robin. At this point, they still tend to settle in the hidden depths of the hedges – the leaves are not dense enough. I found that their favorite building material is the stem of hay from the grass. Birds nest and silently associate the field with the hedges. Hazel bark resembles a woman's smooth skin and reflects streamers.
I'm not the only laborer in this land. In the cluttered grass along the drain ditch of the forest farm, there are three small mounds of yellow haired ants. Although the age of the anthill can only be estimated, it is not blurred to the point of no reference value. Yellow-haired ants dig up soil and can bring out about 1 liter of abandoned soil each year to form small mounds. The anthill on the side of the drainage ditch is about 5 years old. There is an ant hill on the bank of the river, it has been 20 years, and in the summer, winged ants fly out of it to start their journey. In the steepest part of the riverbank, there are so many anthills that they are all seeping water, and the soil seems to be boiling.
Nowhere is the soil more delicate than that of the yellow haired ant mound, they will dig out every particle in the soil, and then the worker ants will carry it to the top of the anthill, leaving no stone and debris behind. A few blades of grass grew out of the bare earth dome, like the few hairs on the head of a respected priest.
The anthill is located on the ground and can bask in the sun, so the ants use it as a delivery room and nursery, and even transport eggs through the network of anthills to the warmest side. Unfortunately, the mud-fine, elevated domes are difficult to defend against predators. When the skinny female badger turns the soil in the spring, she sometimes breaks apart the large ant mounds on the riverbank and frantically beats them, looking for young ants, and if she can find the eggs, it is more desirable. However, it was not badgers that attacked the grassy hill this time – the damage was not great. The culprit was a green woodpecker that plunged its beak into the anthill and destroyed the dome in half. In the spirit of scientific verification (and annoying hooliganism, if any), I shoveled down the destroyed dirt, a few inches at a time, and slowly approached the cavern and the passage. At first I was too sloppy, but then I had to slow down, like an archaeologist. The ants themselves will insensitively pick out the destroyed eggs, as if it were common for the house to be smashed by pieces of metal.
I finally got the harvest. In a basement about ten pennies in size, I found a group of faint gray aphids. This is a captive of ants and is used to "squeeze" sugary matter – ants collect the "honeydew" they secrete. The aphids themselves feed on plant roots on the dungeon's ceilings and walls. These aphids are selectively bred, so intensively managed that the producers of agricultural products will certainly be jealous: the small herds of aphids in this room are likely to be carefully bred "high-yielding aphids", that is, insect versions of high-yielding black and white cows.
By April 12, the finely spiced buttercup blooms brightly. Walking through the meadow on a night like this is like walking through a land of stars.
The flowers grew denser and faster: in the small bushes the first European blue bells emerged; in the same week a different fly grass under the hedge also emerged, lonely and restless; there was also a wisp growing quietly there.
The shaking mosquitoes danced waltzes in the warming air. The ground temperature has stabilized above 6 degrees Celsius, which is the basic condition for grass growth. To grow tall green grass, another condition must be met - 10 to 15 hours of sunshine, and the length of time required varies from pasture varieties to different grass varieties.
Standing in the middle of the field at night: it was as if someone had stirred the clouds into milk pudding.
I sat on the banks of a philosophical river. Upstream in a silent waterhole surrounded by trees, a river crow stops at a large rock. This bird resembles a canary fished out of a coal pile. The Eskley River is so pure and abundant with crustaceans, bugs and fish, so many river crows live here, and the 200-meter section of the river on the edge of the meadow provides for the daily needs of a couple. Standing on the stone is a male bird. I knew he was seeing me because he was "nodding" — floating up and down in the water, showing off the stunning white on his chest. This is a signal from the birds to the hunters, warning that the hunters have been spotted and want to sneak in.
The bird dives into the water. Don't look at its appearance like a crow, but the movement is elegant and unexpected. It picks up a writhing Dufu fish. Du Father's death was very bloody, and he was grabbed by a tail and smashed his head on a large gray stone.
When the prey did not move like a stone, the gentle river crow turned it over and swallowed the fish's head first. He flapped his wings and flew downstream into the cool shallow water flowing through the pebbles, then strolled along the river, keeping an eye on the water. It slammed its beak down, and a stone moth larvae came out. The river crows its squirming prey, skirts the bend of the river, and flies to the moss-covered nest on the shore, where it squeezes the stone moth larvae out of its rough skin and feeds it to the babies who are waiting to be fed.
In the five years we moved here, the pair had been living in the nest in the cracks in the sandstone, surrounded by elm roots. As far as I know, this bird's nest, Hewu, has been used for decades, maybe even a hundred years or more. This bird values inheritance and uses the same nest for generations.
April: The green month, the month when everything turns green, all plants suddenly grow leaves and flourish. Crouching on the edge of the hedge on the riverbank, looking horizontally at the river, the land seems to grow 2 inches taller. In fact, my visual error is not large. I brought a ruler with me, and in the last two weeks, spring has been in full swing and the grass has grown 1 inch. Behind them, on the banks of the river, ewes and lambs are feasting on the rich green grass, and on the fallen elm trunks, the lambs are happily playing the game of domination, and the elm trunks are like dog bones that have been thrown away, and no one has bothered to remove them for 30 years.
Therefore, there are large groups of beetles inhabiting the lying elm, which is an environmental benefit obtained for free. Foxes have been here all along to dig for beetles, and on the feces in the grass by the door, the elytra reflect the light of the remnants of the sun. Moments later, the lamb, gathered for a dinner party and separated from its mother without knowing it, suddenly came to her senses and cried out miserably. The lambs of the whole valley sent out a cry for help, and the mountains echoed.
The Victorian naturalist W.H. Hudson would find a full day in the spring to admire the herbs: "After a long winter day, rejoice in it again, let it nourish the heart... Just be able to see it. ”
The white-waisted sandpiper is 24 inches long and its downward curved beak is unbelievably long, and it is a large, very special water bird. But as soon as it entered the ground, it disappeared like a movie special effects magic. I adjusted the telescope a few times to find the female, who was dragging a lump of hay. The male bird had dug a hollow from the grass 20 yards away from the hedge, and his DIY workmanship was rough, and he might think it was okay, but if he asked the lady to see it, he probably couldn't say it.
Two days later, the female pressed against the egg. To make it easier to locate the nest in the future, I tied a white cloth to the hedge directly behind it.
I like to look at the bottom of the hedge in the distance, it's a 4-foot isosceles triangle with fallen hazelnuts, vines of nettles, and chilled flocks. Every piece of land needs an unattended corner. Although I can look through the decaying hazel wood in the ground, it is easiest to find beauty, beautiful moments, when sitting in this remote corner.
Hazel screens draw attention to close objects. Ou Huo Blood Dan emitted a smell of cough potion; the hovering black flies were small and barely visible, and I did not know their names, and could not always remember. The clean twigs of the hazel tree shimmer, and the meandering ivy coils upwards into a perfect spiral. The purple viola (which has been given the unfriendly modifier "dog" due to its lack of fragrance) is exotic; the pale green minarets of the onion are growing—and it would be more appropriate to call it "Jack's Bean Stem." But just rub a leaf and you'll immediately understand why it's called "onion." Have you ever stopped and observed how perfect the curves of the salamander tail pliers are? Have you ever noticed how much amber resembles the body of a salamander? Have you noticed that the violet step beetle shines with a rainbow of colors behind it?
I locked myself here, but through the branches and the jumping points of light, I still detected the fox, because the action was bound to expose the hunters themselves, and naturally the game would be exposed. The fox understood that the white-waisted sandpiper was somewhere in the ground, and it stood there intently, sniffing and staring. The white-waisted sandpiper was motionless. The fox neither saw nor smelled the white-waisted sandpiper. Stride away, a look of displeasure.
Walking in the field with my dog in the morning, I slipped a piece of paper in my pocket to take notes: "There are more and more primroses in the south, and the black-capped warblers are singing, and the willow warblers are also singing." "The first warbler birds that migrated in the summer have arrived in the field. The willow warbler did not stop and continued to move forward. The black-capped warblers sing on the top of the hedges on the riverbank, and I can't help but love it. The intricate and varied singing of the Black-capped Oriole is full of the joy of life, all of which was perfectly captured by the French composer (and ornithologist) Olivier Messian, who used it as a beautiful and personal symbol in his opera St. Francis of Assisi. Messian wrote: "I had to match each tone with chords in order to translate this unique tone, jubilant, and rich in harmony." ”
The black-capped forest warbler is known as the "Northern Nightingale" and lives up to its name. Still, the bird's alarm sound was a rough "tucker" sound, like two pebbles touching each other. All summer, the black-capped orioles would yell at me, at the sheep, at everything with a "tucker" sound that sounded like a tap was leaking.
In the small trees, the European blue bells competed to open, laying a layer of blue mist on the ground, and the sorrel plant, the fine-leaf buttercup, and the five-leaf anemone (in the withering) woven into a complete carpet. The grass wren flew from the railing column and flew to an altitude of 20 meters until it approached the treetops of the quercus tree, and the little tune of "sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet" sang faster. Then it landed nervously on half-flanked wings, emitting an inconspicuous chirp. It was like apologizing for interjection, and the lark next door was singing happily. But I still understand it: my whistle is not in tune.
Then it fogged, and gray shrouded the path, enveloping the distance where the trail extended.
Now, many meadow fragments of rice are in bloom, just like looking out the window during night flights, overlooking small villages in the countryside, and thousands of homes are lit up. The swallow flew to forage, skimming no longer a sea of green, but a sea of shining grass flowers. The stunning yellow eyes of the wild forget-it-all grass are studded with blue edges and shine on the scene. The days of wildflowers are here.
Thunderstorms in April? Reluctantly acceptable, this wet month is coming to an end, as long as it is not a torrential rain, I can accept it. Fortunately, Thomas Hardy's dark birds sang cheerfully, and the woolly swallows sang on the elder branches. Maybe the birds know that good weather is coming. The ground was soaked: the water was 1 inch deep. At this time, farmers will joke bitterly, let's plant rice in the pit. Two autumn sand ducks landed on the river, reminding me that I am now the world of water.
The seasonal weather did not arrive as promised, and it stopped and went.
Content selected from
<h1 toutiao-origin="h1" > Hay Rake, Sheep Dung Egg, Cow Without Buttercup</h1>
Author: John Lewis-Stampple
Translator: Xu Yang
Publisher: Bass 丨Beijing United Publishing Company
Manuscript Editor, New Media Editor: Yuan Huan
Illustrations: photo network, illustrations in the book
1981· 40th Anniversary of the Literary Journal , 2021
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