这是十二月里一个晴朗而又寒冽的清晨。在僻远的乡下,有一位头上包着红布的黑人老太太,正在横穿松林的小路上走着。她的名字叫菲尼克斯·杰克逊。她身材矮小,老态龙钟,像祖父时代的旧钟的钟摆一样,左右摇晃着,不紧不慢地缓缓穿过阴幽的树影。她拿着一支伞柄做的细小的手杖,不停地敲打着前边封冻的土地,在宁静的空气中发出持续的沉抑的响声,就像孤寂的小鸟的啼啭,情思冥邈。她身穿一条拖到脚面的带黑条纹的长裙,系着同样长 This is a sunny and chilly morning in December. In the remote country, there is a black lady with a red cloth on his head, walking across the pine forest path. Her name is Phoenix Jackson. She is short, old-fashioned, like the grandfather’s old clock pendulum, shaking around, slowly moving slowly through the shadow of the gloomy trees. She took a small cane made of an umbrella handle, kept knocking on the front of the frozen land, in the quiet air issued a sustained sounded the noise, like the lonely bird’s cry, emotions. She wore a black stripe skirt dragged to the foot, the same length