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第26章

men, women and ghosts(男人、女人和鬼魂)-第26章

小说: men, women and ghosts(男人、女人和鬼魂) 字数: 每页4000字

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into the air and nods  forward and back。              The red rose in his hand is a 

crimson splash on his yellow coat。           Forward and back; and his blue…green 

eyes stare into the air; and he nods  nods。 

     Tommy's       soldiers   march    to  battle;        Trumpets      flare  and   snare… 



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drums     rattle。       Bayonets      flash;  and   sabres   glance           How     the 

horses snort and prance!              Cannon drawn up in a line                Glitter in 

the dizzy shine           Of the morning sunlight。         Flags         Ripple colours 

in   great   jags。      Red   blows   out;   then   blue;   then   green;       Then   all 

three       a  weaving      sheen             Of    prismed     patriotism。      March 

Tommy's       soldiers;   stiff  and  starch;        Boldly     stepping    to  the   rattle 

Of the drums; they go to battle。 

     Tommy lies on his stomach on the floor and directs his columns。 He 

puts his infantry in front; and before them ambles a mounted band。 Their 

instruments make a strand of gold before the scarlet…tunicked soldiers; and 

they take very long steps on their little green platforms; and from the ranks 

bursts the song of Tommy's soldiers marching to battle。 The song jolts a 

little as the green platforms stick on the thick carpet。 Tommy wheels his 

guns round the edge of a box of blocks; and places a squad of cavalry on 

the commanding eminence of a footstool。 

       The fire snaps pleasantly; and the old Chinaman nods  nods。                  The 

fire makes the red rose in his hand glow and twist。              Hist!    That is a bold 

song Tommy's soldiers sing as they march along to battle。 

     Crack!     Rattle!    The sparks fly up the chimney。 

     Tommy's   army's   off   to   war           Not   a   soldier   knows   what     for。 

But he knows about   his rifle;             How  to shoot it; and   a   trifle          Of 

the proper thing to do            When it's he who is shot through。                Like a 

cleverly trained flea;           He can follow instantly             Orders; and some 

quick commands              Really make severe demands                 On a mind that's 

none     too  rapid;        Leaden      brains   tend   to  the  vapid。         But    how 

beautifully   dressed          Is   this   army!   How   impressed            Tommy   is 

when     at  his  heel        All   his  baggage     wagons     wheel         About     the 

patterned carpet; and            Moving up his heavy guns                 He sees them 

glow   with   diamond   suns           Flashing   all   along   each   barrel。        And 

the gold and blue apparel              Of his gunners is a joy。             Tommy is a 

lucky boy。                Boom!       Boom!      Ta…ra! 

       The old mandarin nods under his purple umbrella。                 The rose in his 

hand shoots   its petals   up in   thin   quills   of  crimson。    Then   they  collapse 

and shrivel like red embers。         The fire sizzles。 



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       Tommy is galloping his cavalry; two by two; over the floor。                    They 

must pass the open terror of the door and gain the enemy encamped under 

the   wash…stand。   The   mounted   band   is   very   grand;   playing   allegro   and 

leading the infantry on at the double quick。             The tassel of the hearth…rug 

has    flung   down    the  bass…drum;      and   he  and   his  dapple…grey   horse      lie 

overtripped; slipped out of line; with the little lead drumsticks glistening to 

the fire's shine。 

     The fire burns and crackles; and tickles the tripped bass…drum with its 

sparkles。 

     The   marching   army   hitches   its   little   green   platforms   valiantly;   and 

steadily approaches the door。          The overturned bass…drummer; lying on the 

hearth…rug; melting in the heat; softens and sheds tears。              The song jeers at 

his   impotence;   and   flaunts   the   glory   of   the   martial   and   still   upstanding; 

vaunting the deeds it will do。         For are not Tommy's soldiers all bright and 

new? 

     Tommy's leaden soldiers we;                Glittering with efficiency。            Not 

a   button's   out   of   place;       Tons   and    tons   of   golden   lace       Wind 

about our officers。            Every manly bosom stirs                At the thought of 

killing      killing!        Tommy's       dearest    wish   fulfilling。        We     are 

gaudy;   savage;   strong;          And   our   loins   so   ripe   we   long      First   to 

kill;   then  procreate;         Doubling      so   the   laws  of  Fate。        On    their 

women       we    have    sworn           To     graft   our   sons。    And     overborne 

They'll rear us younger soldiers; so                Shall our race endure and grow; 

Waxing greater in the wombs                 Borrowed of them; while damp tombs 

Rot their   men。     O   Glorious War!            Goad   us   with   your   points;   Great 

Star! 

       The china mandarin on the bookcase nods slowly; forward and back … 

… forward and back  and the red rose writhes and wriggles; thrusting its 

flaming petals under and over one another like tortured snakes。 

     The fire strokes them with its dartles; and purrs at them; and the old 

man nods。 

       Tommy   does   not   hear   the   song。    He   only   sees   the   beautiful;   new; 

gaily…coloured lead soldiers。          They belong to him; and he is very proud 

and happy。       He shouts his orders aloud; and gallops his cavalry past the 



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door to the wash…stand。         He creeps over the floor on his hands and knees 

to   one   battalion   and   another;   but   he   sees   only   the   bright   colours   of   his 

soldiers and the beautiful precision of their gestures。 He is a lucky boy to 

have such fine lead soldiers to enjoy。 

       Tommy   catches   his   toe   in   the   leg   of   the   wash…stand;   and   jars   the 

pitcher。 He snatches at it with his hands; but it is too late。                The pitcher 

falls;   and   as   it   goes;   he   sees   the   white   water   flow   over   its   lip。 It   slips 

between his   fingers   and   crashes   to   the  floor。    But   it   is   not   water   which 

oozes   to   the   door。   The   stain   is   glutinous   and   dark;   a   spark   from   the 

firelight   heads   it   to   red。 In   and   out;   between   the   fine;   new   soldiers; 

licking over the carpet; squirms the stream of blood; lapping at the little 

green platforms; and flapping itself against the painted uniforms。 

       The nodding mandarin moves his head slowly; forward and back。 The 

rose is broken; and where it fell is black blood。              The old mandarin leers 

under his purple umbrella; and nods  forward and back; staring into the 

air with blue…green eyes。          Every time his head comes forward a rosebud 

pushes between his lips;  rushes into   full bloom;  and drips to the   ground 

with a splashing sound。          The pool of black blood grows and grows; with 

each dropped rose; and spreads out to join the stream from the wash…stand。 

The   beautiful   army   of   lead   soldiers   steps   boldly   forward;   but   the   little 

green platforms are covered in the rising stream of blood。 

       The nursery fire burns brightly and flings fan…bursts of stars up the 

chimney; as though a gala flamed a night of victorious wars。 



                                The Painter on Silk 



     There was a man Who made his living By painting roses Upon silk。 

 

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