【圣诞特辑】Whistling Dick's Christmas Stocking ——O. Henry(5)

As Whistling Dick picked his way where night still lingered among the big, reeking, musty warehouses, he gAve way to the habit that had won for him his title. Subdued, yet clear, with each note as true and liquid as a bobolink's, his whistle tinkled about the dim, cold mountains of brick like drops of rain falling into a hidden pool. He followed an air, but it swam mistily into a swirling current of improvisation. You could cull out the trill of mountain brooks, the staccato of green rushes shivering above chilly lagoons, the pipe of sleepy birds.