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第5节

before adam-第5节

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tools of speech not yet invented。 Instead of qualifying

nouns or verbs by the use of adjectives and adverbs; we

qualified sounds by intonation; by changes in quantity

and pitch; by retarding and by accelerating。  The

length of time employed in the utterance of a

particular sound shaded its meaning。



We had no conjugation。  One judged the tense by the

context。  We talked only concrete things because we

thought only concrete things。  Also; we depended

largely on pantomime。  The simplest abstraction was

practically beyond our thinking; and when one did

happen to think one; he was hard put to communicate it

to his fellows。  There were no sounds for it。  He was

pressing beyond the limits of his vocabulary。  If he

invented sounds for it; his fellows did not understand

the sounds。  Then it was that he fell back on

pantomime; illustrating the thought wherever possible

and at the same time repeating the new sound over and

over again。



Thus language grew。  By the few sounds we possessed we

were enabled to think a short distance beyond those

sounds; then came the need for new sounds wherewith to

express the new thought。 Sometimes; however; we thought

too long a distance in advance of our sounds; managed

to achieve abstractions (dim ones I grant); which we

failed utterly to make known to other folk。  After all;

language did not grow fast in that day。



Oh; believe me; we were amazingly simple。  But we did

know a lot that is not known to…day。  We could twitch

our ears; prick them up and flatten them down at will。

And we could scratch between our shoulders with ease。

We could throw stones with our feet。  I have done it

many a time。  And for that matter; I could keep my

knees straight; bend forward from the hips; and touch;

not the tips of my fingers; but the points of my

elbows; to the ground。  And as for bird…nestingwell;

I only wish the twentieth…century boy could see us。

But we made no collections of eggs。  We ate them。



I rememberbut I out…run my story。 First let me tell

of Lop…Ear and our friendship。  Very early in my life;

I separated from my mother。  Possibly this was because;

after the death of my father; she took to herself a

second husband。  I have few recollections of him; and

they are not of the best。  He was a light fellow。

There was no solidity to him。  He was too voluble。  His

infernal chattering worries me even now as I think of

it。  His mind was too inconsequential to permit him to

possess purpose。  Monkeys in their cages always remind

me of him。  He was monkeyish。  That is the best

description I can give of him。



He hated me from the first。  And I quickly learned to

be afraid of him and his malicious pranks。  Whenever he

came in sight I crept close to my mother and clung to

her。  But I was growing older all the time; and it was

inevitable that I should from time to time stray from

her; and stray farther and farther。  And these were the

opportunities that the Chatterer waited for。  (I may as

well explain that we bore no names in those days; were

not known by any name。  For the sake of convenience I

have myself given names to the various Folk I was more

closely in contact with; and the 〃Chatterer〃 is the

most fitting description I can find for that precious

stepfather of mine。  As for me; I have named myself

〃Big…Tooth。〃 My eye…teeth were pronouncedly large。)



But to return to the Chatterer。  He persistently

terrorized me。 He was always pinching me and cuffing

me; and on occasion he was not above biting me。  Often

my mother interfered; and the way she made his fur fly

was a joy to see。  But the result of all this was a

beautiful and unending family quarrel; in which I was

the bone of contention。



No; my home…life was not happy。  I smile to myself as I

write the phrase。  Home…life! Home! I had no home in

the modern sense of the term。  My home was an

association; not a habitation。  I lived in my mother's

care; not in a house。  And my mother lived anywhere; so

long as when night came she was above the ground。



My mother was old…fashioned。  She still clung to her

trees。  It is true; the more progressive members of our

horde lived in the caves above the river。  But my

mother was suspicious and unprogressive。 The trees were

good enough for her。  Of course; we had one particular

tree in which we usually roosted; though we often

roosted in other trees when nightfall caught us。  In a

convenient fork was a sort of rude platform of twigs

and branches and creeping things。  It was more like a

huge bird…nest than anything else; though it was a

thousand times cruder in the weaving than any

bird…nest。  But it had one feature that I have never

seen attached to any bird…nest; namely; a roof。



Oh; not a roof such as modern man makes! Nor a roof

such as is made by the lowest aborigines of to…day。  It

was infinitely more clumsy than the clumsiest handiwork

of manof man as we know him。 It was put together in a

casual; helter…skelter sort of way。 Above the fork of

the tree whereon we rested was a pile of dead branches

and brush。  Four or five adjacent forks held what I may

term the various ridge…poles。  These were merely stout

sticks an inch or so in diameter。  On them rested the

brush and branches。 These seemed to have been tossed on

almost aimlessly。  There was no attempt at thatching。

And I must confess that the roof leaked miserably in a

heavy rain。



But the Chatterer。  He made home…life a burden for both

my mother and meand by home…life I mean; not the

leaky nest in the tree; but the group…life of the three

of us。  He was most malicious in his persecution of me。

That was the one purpose to which he held steadfastly

for longer than five minutes。  Also; as time went by;

my mother was less eager in her defence of me。  I

think; what of the continuous rows raised by the

Chatterer; that I must have become a nuisance to her。

At any rate; the situation went from bad to worse so

rapidly that I should soon; of my own volition; have

left home。  But the satisfaction of performing so

independent an act was denied me。  Before I was ready

to go; I was thrown out。 And I mean this literally。



The opportunity came to the Chatterer one day when I

was alone in the nest。  My mother and the Chatterer had

gone away together toward the blueberry swamp。  He must

have planned the whole thing; for I heard him returning

alone through the forest; roaring with self…induced

rage as he came。  Like all the men of our horde; when

they were angry or were trying to make themselves

angry; he stopped now and again to hammer on his chest

with his fist。



I realized the helplessness of my situation; and

crouched trembling in the nest。  The Chatterer came

directly to the treeI remember it was an oak

treeand began to climb up。  And he never ceased for a

moment from his infernal row。  As I have said; our

language was extremely meagre; and he must have

strained it by the variety of ways in which he informed

me of his undying hatred of me and of his intention

there and then to have it out with me。



As he climbed to the fork; I fled out the great

horizontal limb。 He followed me; and out I went;

farther and farther。  At last I was out amongst the

small twigs and leaves。  The Chatterer was ever a

coward; and greater always than any anger he ever

worked up was his caution。  He was afraid to follow me

out amongst the leaves and twigs。  For that matter; his

greater weight would have crashed him through the

foliage before he could have got to me。



But it was not necessary for him to reach me; and well

he knew it; the scoundrel! With a malevolent expression

on his face; his beady eyes gleaming with cruel

intelligence; he began teetering。 Teetering!and with

me out on the very edge of the bough; clutching at the

twigs that broke continually with my weight。 Twenty

feet beneath me was the earth。



Wildly and morewildly he teetered; grinning at me his

gloating hatred。  Then came the end。  All four holds

broke at the same time; and I fell; back…downward;

looking up at him; my hands and feet still clutching

the broken twigs。  Luckily; there were no wild pigs

under me; and my fall was broken by the tough and

springy bushes。



Usually; my falls destroy my dreams; the nervous shock

being sufficient to bridge the thousand centuries in an

instant and hurl me wide awake into my little bed;

where; perchance; I lie sweating and trembling and hear

the cuckoo clock calling the hour in the hall。  But

this dream of my leaving home I have had many times;

and never yet have I been awakened by it。  Always do I

crash; shrieking; down through the brush and fetch up

with a bump on the ground。



Scratched and bruised and whimpering; I lay where I had

fallen。 Peering up through the bushes; I could see the

Chatterer。  He had set up a demoniacal chant of joy and

was keeping time to it wi

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