月影十字 月影十字
亲代和自代的乱伦接受不能,除非是同性别间。
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【短篇】黄金谷 吧里好像没有这篇啊。我是正在看英文版,想在吧里找找看中文版对照着看的。 只找到了英文版的。 【ALL GOLD CANYON】1905 All Gold CanyonIt was the green heart of the canyon, where the walls swerved back from therigid plan and relieved their harshness of line by making a little shelterednook and filling it to the brim with sweetness and roundness and softness.Here all things rested. Even the narrow stream ceased its turbulent down-rushlong enough to form a quiet pool. Knee-deep in the water, with drooping headand half-shut eyes, drowsed a red-coated, many-antlered buck. On one side, beginning at the very lip of the pool, was a tiny meadow, a cool,resilient surface of green that extended to the base of the frowning wall.Beyond the pool a gentle slope of earth ran up and up to meet the opposingwall. Fine grass covered the slope--grass that was spangled with flowers, withhere and there patches of color, orange and purple and golden. Below, thecanyon was shut in. There was no view. The walls leaned together abruptly andthe canyon ended in a chaos of rocks, moss-covered and hidden by a greenscreen of vines and creepers and boughs of trees. Up the canyon rose far hillsand peaks, the big foothills, pine-covered and remote. And far beyond, likeclouds upon the border of the slay, towered minarets of white, where theSierra's eternal snows flashed austerely the blazes of the sun. There was no dust in the canyon. The leaves and flowers were clean andvirginal. The grass was young velvet. Over the pool three cottonwoods senttheir scurvy fluffs fluttering down the quiet air. On the slope the blossomsof the wine-wooded manzanita filled the air with springtime odors, while theleaves, wise with experience, were already beginning their vertical twistagainst the coming aridity of summer. In the open spaces on the slope, beyondthe farthest shadow-reach of the manzanita, poised the mariposa lilies, likeso many flights of jewelled moths suddenly arrested and on the verge oftrembling into flight again. Here and there that woods harlequin, the madrone,permitting itself to be caught in the act of changing its pea-green trunk tomadder-red, breathed its fragrance into the air from great clusters of waxenbells. Creamy white were these bells, shaped like lilies-of-the-valley, withthe sweetness of perfume that is of the springtime. There was not a sigh of wind. The air was drowsy with its weight of perfume.It was a sweetness that would have been cloying had the air been heavy andhumid. But the air was sharp and thin. It was as starlight transmuted intoatmosphere, shot through and warmed by sunshine, and flower-drenched withsweetness. An occasional butterfly drifted in and out through the patches of light andshade. And from all about rose the low and sleepy hum of mountainbees--feasting Sybarites that jostled one another good-naturedly at the board,nor found time for rough discourtesy. So quietly did the little stream dripand ripple its way through the canyon that it spoke only in faint andoccasional gurgles. The voice of the stream was as a drowsy whisper, everinterrupted by dozings and silences, ever lifted again in the awakenings. The motion of all things was a drifting in the heart of the canyon. Sunshineand butterflies drifted in and out among the trees. The hum of the bees andthe whisper of the stream were a drifting of sound. And the drifting sound anddrifting color seemed to weave together in the making of a delicate andintangible fabric which was the spirit of the place. It was a spirit of peacethat was not of death, but of smooth-pulsing life, of quietude that was notsilence, of movement that was not action, of repose that was quick withexistence without being violent with struggle and travail. The spirit of theplace was the spirit of the peace of the living, somnolent with the easementand content of prosperity, and undisturbed by rumors of far wars.
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