Wisdom of Bear Wood

Michael Welzenbach

When I was 12 years old, my family moved to England, the fourth major move in my short life. My father's government job demanded that he go overseas every few years, so I was used to wrenching myself away from friends.

We rented an 18th-century farmhouse in Berkshire. Nearby were ancient castles and churches. Loving nature, however, I was most delighted by the endless patchwork of farms and woodland that surrounded our house. In the deep woods that verged against our back fence, a network of paths led almost everywhere, and pheasants rocketed off into the dense laurels ahead as you walked.

I spent most of my time roaming the woods and fields alone, playing Robin Hood, daydreaming, collecting bugs and bird-watching. It was heaven for a boy—but a lonely heaven. Keeping to myself was my way of not forming attachments that I would only have to abandon the next time we moved. But one day I became attached through no design of my own.

We had been in England for about six months when old farmer Crawford gave me permission to roam about his immense property. I started hiking there every weekend, up a long, sloping hill to an almost impenetrable stand of trees called Bear Wood. It was my secret fortress, almost a holy place, I thought. Slipping through a barbed-wire fence, I'd leave the bright sun and the twitter and rustle of insects and animals outside and creep into another world—a vaulted cathedral, with tree trunks for pillars and years' accumulation of long brown needles for a softly carpeted floor. My own breathing rang in my ears, and the slightest stirring of any woodland creature echoed through this private paradise.

One spring afternoon I wandered near where I thought I'd glimpsed a pond the week before. I proceeded quietly, careful not to alarm a bird that might loudly warn other creatures to hide.

Perhaps this is why the frail old lady I nearly ran into was as startled as I was. She caught her breath, instinctively touching her throat with her hand. Then, recovering quickly, she gave a welcoming smile that instantly put me at ease. A pair of powerful-looking binoculars dangled from her neck. "Hello, young man," she said. "Are you American or Canadian?"

American, I explained in a rush, and I lived over the hill, and I was just seeing if there was a pond, and farmer Crawford had said it was okay, and anyhow, I was on my way home, so good-bye.

As I started to turn, the woman smiled and asked, "Did you see the little owl from the wood over there today?" She pointed toward the edge of the wood.

She knew about the owls? I was amazed.

"No," I replied, "but I've seen them before. Never close though. They always see me first."

The woman laughed. "Yes, they're wary," she said. "But then, gamekeepers have been shooting them ever since they got here. They're introduced, you know, not native."

"They're not?" I asked, fascinated. Anybody who knew this sort of stuff was definitely cool—even if she was trespassing in my special place.

"Oh, no!" she answered, laughing again. "At home I have books on birds that explain all about them. In fact," she said suddenly, "I was about to go back for tea and jam tart. Would you care to join me?"

I had been warned against going off with strangers, but somehow I sensed the old woman was harmless. "Sure," I said.

"I'm Mrs. Robertson-Glasgow," she introduced herself, extending her fine hand.

"Michael," I said, taking it clumsily in my own.

We set off. And as we walked, she told me how she and her husband had moved to Berkshire after he'd retired as a college professor about ten years earlier. "He passed away last year," she said, looking suddenly wistful. "So now I'm alone, and I have all this time to walk the fields."

Soon I saw a small brick cottage that glowed pinkly in the westering sun. Mrs. Robertson-Glasgow opened the door and invited me in. I gazed about in silent admiration at the bookshelves, glass-fronted cases containing figures of ivory and carved stone, cabinets full of fossils, trays of pinned butterflies and, best of all, a dozen or so stuffed birds—including a glass-eyed eagle owl.

"Wow!" was all I could say.

"Does your mother expect you home at a particular time?" she asked as she ran the water for tea.

"No," I lied. Then, glancing at the clock, I added, "Well, maybe by five." That gave me almost an hour, not nearly enough time to ask about every single object in the room. But between mouthfuls of tea and jam tart I learned all sorts of things from Mrs. Robertson-Glasgow.

The hour went by much too swiftly. Mrs. Robertson-Glasgow had to practically push me out the door. But she sent me home with two large tomes, one full of beautiful illustrations of birds, and one of butterflies and other insects. I promised to return them the next weekend if she didn't mind my coming by. She smiled and said she'd look forward to that.

I had made the best friend in the world.

When I returned the books, she lent me more. Soon I began to see her almost every weekend, and my well of knowledge about natural history began to brim over. At school, I earned the nickname "Prof" and some respect from my fellow students. Even the school bully brought me a dead bird he had found, or probably shot, to identify.

During the summer I spent blissfully long days with my friend. I discovered she made the finest shortbread in the world. We would explore Bear Wood, munching happily and discussing the books she had lent me. In the afternoons we would return to the cottage, and she would talk about her husband—what a fine man he'd been. Once or twice she seemed about to cry and left the room quickly to make more tea. But she always came back smiling.

As time passed, I did not notice that she was growing frailer and less inclined to laugh. Familiarity sometimes makes people physically invisible, for you find yourself talking to the heart—to the essence, as it were, rather than to the face. I suspected, of course, that she was lonely; I did not know she was ill.

Back at school, I began to grow quickly. I played soccer and made a good friend. But I still stopped by the cottage on weekends, and there was always fresh shortbread.

One morning when I went downstairs to the kitchen, there was a familiar-looking biscuit tin on the table. I eyed it as I went to the refrigerator.

My mother was regarding me with a strange gentleness. "Son," she began, painfully. And from the tone of her voice I knew everything instantly.

She rested her hand on the biscuit tin. "Mr. Crawford brought these this morning." She paused, and I could tell she was having difficulty. "Mrs. Robertson-Glasgow left them for you."

I stared out the window, tears stinging my eyes.

"I'm sorry, Michael, but she died yesterday," she went on. "She was very old and very ill, and it was time."

My mother put her arm about my shoulder. "You made her very happy, because she was lonely," she said. "You were lucky to be such a good friend for her."

Wordlessly, I took the tin to my room and set it on my bed. Then, hurrying downstairs, I burst through the front door and ran to the woods.

I wandered for a long time, until my eyes had dried and I could see clearly again. It was spring—almost exactly a year since I'd met the old woman in Bear Wood. I looked around me and realized how much I now knew. About birds, insects, plants and trees, thanks to her help. And then I remembered that back in my bedroom I had a tin of the best shortbread in the world, and I should go and eat it like I always did on weekends at Mrs. Robertson-Glasgow's cottage.

In time, that old round tin filled up with dried leaves, fossils and bits of colorful stone, and countless other odds and ends. I still have it.

But I have much more, the legacy of that long-ago encounter in Bear Wood. It is a wisdom tutored by nature itself, about the seen and the unseen, about things that change and things that are changeless, and about the fact that no matter how seemingly different two souls may be, they possess the potential for that most precious, rare thing—an enduring and rewarding friendship.

熊树林的智慧

迈克尔·韦尔岑巴赫

我12岁那年，我们全家搬到英格兰，那是在我当时短短人生中的第四次大搬家。我父亲在政府部门供职，他的工作要求他每隔几年就要到国外去，因此我已经习惯了不得不与朋友离别的痛苦。

在伯克郡我们租了一所建于18世纪的农舍。附近有古堡和教堂。然而出于热爱自然的天性，最让我高兴的是我家周围那无边无际、相互交错的农场和林地。我家后院篱笆外是一大片树林，林中交错的小路四通八达；当你走在这些小路上时，受惊的雉鸡会疾速飞进茂密的月桂树丛中。

我大部分时间都是一个人在树林和田野间游玩，假扮罗宾汉，做白日梦，捉昆虫，观察鸟儿。这是男孩的天堂，但却是孤独的天堂。我独来独往，不和别人建立特别亲密的关系，这样就可以避免再次搬家时受与朋友离别之苦。然而有一天，我却意外地和一个人成了朋友。

我们在英格兰住了大概6个月之后，老农场主克劳福德才允许我在他那广阔的庄园里漫步。于是每个周末我都徒步走去那里，爬上一条长长的斜坡，到达小山上一片密不透风的树林，那便是熊树林。这里是我的秘密堡垒，我认为对我来说它几乎是个神圣的地方。从带刺的铁丝网栅栏溜过去，我就离开了外面那个充满阳光、昆虫和动物鸣叫声的世界，渐渐进入了另一个世界——一个拱形的大教堂，树干是它的立柱，地面上有长年堆积起来的长长的棕色松针铺就的柔软地毯。我可以听到自己的呼吸，林地里任何动物的一丝动静都会回荡在这个静谧的天堂。

一个春天的午后，我在树林里的某个地方闲逛，因为一周前我在那附近好像看到过一个池塘。我悄悄地走着，以免惊动鸟儿，那样它们就会惊声尖叫，吓得其他动物都躲起来。

或许就是因为这样，我差点和一位瘦弱的老夫人撞个满怀，她和我一样吓了一跳。她屏住呼吸，本能地用手碰了一下喉咙。然后她迅速回过神来，给了我一个表示欢迎的微笑，使我马上镇静下来。一个高倍双筒望远镜挂在她的脖子上。她说：“你好，小伙子。你是美国人还是加拿大人？”

美国人——我赶快解释——我住在山的那一边，我只是想看看这里是不是有个池塘，老农场主克劳福德同意我可以看，不管怎样，我该回家了，所以再见吧。

我正准备转身时，那位老夫人微笑着问我：“今天你看到林子那边的一只小猫头鹰了吗？” 她指向树林的边缘。

她知道那些猫头鹰？我很惊奇。

“没有，”我回答，“我以前见过，但从没近距离看过，它们总是先看到我。”

老夫人笑了。“是的，它们很警觉，”她说，“不过，自从它们来到这儿，猎场看守员就一直在射杀它们。你知道吗？它们是引进的，不是本地的物种。”

“它们不是本地的？”我问，对此很感兴趣。任何知道这种事情的人都是很“酷”的——尽管她闯入了我的特有领地。

“噢，不是！”她又笑着回答。“我家里有关于鸟类的书，介绍了所有关于它们的信息。事实上，”她突然说，“我正打算回家喝茶、吃果酱馅饼，你愿意和我一起来吗？”

父母告诫过我不要跟陌生人走，但不知怎么，我觉得这位老夫人没有恶意。“当然，”我说。

“我是罗伯逊-格拉斯哥夫人，”她自我介绍道，并伸出一只纤细的手。

“我叫迈克尔，”我说道，笨拙地握住她的手。

我们出发了。我们边走，她边告诉我，大约十年前，当她在大学当教授的丈夫退休后，他们是如何搬到伯克郡来的。“去年他去世了，”她说道，脸上露出思念之情，“所以我现在独身一人，有很多时间在田野里散步。”

不久，我便看见一幢小砖房，在夕阳的照射下泛着粉色的光。罗伯逊-格拉斯哥夫人打开门邀请我进去。我满怀羡慕地、默默地注视着屋中的那一大排书架，摆着象牙雕像和石雕的玻璃门柜子，摆满了化石的陈列柜，一盘盘用针别好的蝴蝶标本，最棒的是一打左右的鸟类标本——包括一只镶了玻璃眼珠的猫头鹰。

“哇！”我禁不住惊叹道。

“你妈妈规定了你回家的时间吗？”她一边倒水沏茶一边问。

“没有，”我撒了谎。我瞥了一眼钟，补充道：“嗯，也许5点吧。”这给了我大约一小时的时间，但这远远不够我问明白屋里的每一样东西。但是在喝茶和吃果酱馅饼的同时，我还是从罗伯逊-格拉斯哥夫人那儿学到了不少东西。

这一小时过得太快了。罗伯逊-格拉斯哥夫人几乎不得不把我推出门外。但是她送我回家，还让我带走了两大本书，一本满是鸟类的精美图片，一本是蝴蝶和其他昆虫的。我答应下周末会把书还给她，如果她不介意我再到她家来玩的话。她微笑着说会等着我再去。

就这样，我交到了世界上最好的一位朋友。

我把书还给她后，她借给了我更多的书。不久，我几乎每个周末都去找她，而我学到的博物学知识就好比一口“井”，因装满知识而几乎要溢出来了。在学校，我得到“教授”的绰号并赢得了同学们的尊敬，甚至学校里的一个爱欺负人的同学也把他发现的或者被他打到的死鸟拿到我面前，让我辨认是什么鸟。

夏天，我和我的朋友一起度过许多快乐的长昼。我发现她能做出世界上最好吃的黄油酥饼。我们一同探索熊树林，一同愉快地吃东西，一同讨论她借给我的书。下午，我们返回小屋，她会谈起她的丈夫——他曾经是多么好的一个人。有那么一两次她似乎要哭出来了，然后就迅速离开房间去再泡些茶。但当她回来时，总是微笑着的。

时光匆匆而逝，我没有注意到她越来越虚弱，而且也不那么爱笑了。亲近往往使人忽略彼此外表的变化，因为你觉得自己是在跟对方的心灵——可以说是和人本质的东西进行对话，而不会去注意对方的脸是什么样子。当然，我觉察到她是孤独的，却不知道她已经病了。

开学之后，我开始迅速地成长。我开始踢足球并交了一个好朋友。但周末我仍然会去小屋待一会儿，那里永远都有新鲜的黄油酥饼。

—天早上，当我下楼去厨房时，桌上放着那个熟悉的饼干罐，我走向冰箱时看到了它。

我母亲以一种不同寻常的温柔的眼神看着我。“孩子，”她痛苦地开口了。从她的语调中我立即明白了一切。

她把手放在饼干罐上。“这是克劳福德先生今天早上拿来的，”她停了一下，我可以看出她有什么话难以说出口，“是罗伯逊-格拉斯哥夫人留给你的。”

我盯着窗外，眼泪浸满双眼。

“我很难过，迈克尔，她昨天去世了，”她继续说道，“她年纪太大了，而且又得了病，是说再见的时候了。”

母亲搂着我的肩膀。“你曾经让她非常愉快，因为她很孤独，”她说，“你很幸运能成为她的一个那么好的朋友。”

默默地，我拿起罐子走进房间并把它放到我的床上。然后迅速下楼，冲出前门，跑向树林。

我徘徊了很久，直到眼泪干了才又能看清东西。春天来了——从我第一次在熊树林见到这位老夫人已差不多整整一年了。环顾四周，我意识到如今我懂得了许多。在她的帮助下，我了解到了许多关于鸟类、昆虫、植物和树木的知识。然后，我想起在我的卧室里有一罐这世界上最好吃的黄油酥饼，我应该回去把它吃掉，就像以往每个周末在罗伯逊-格拉斯哥太太小屋里所做的那样。

很快，那个圆圆的旧饼干罐装满了干树叶、化石、五彩的石子和数不清的其他零星的东西， 时至今日我仍然保留着它。

但我得到更多的是，很久以前在熊树林中不期而遇的馈赠。它是大自然本身所授予的智慧，关于见过的和未见过的、关于不断变化的和永远不变的事物，以及无论两个灵魂看起来是多么不相干，他们都可能获得最珍贵和稀有的东西——一份持久的、惠及彼此的友谊。

Key Words:

network  ['netwə:k]      

n. 网络，网状物，网状系统

fence      [fens]     

n. 栅栏，围墙，击剑术

n. 买卖赃物的人