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“No，” said Harris， “if you want rest and change， you can’t beat a sea trip.”
I objected to the sea trip strongly. A sea trip does you good when you are going to have a couple of months of it， but， for a week， it is wicked.
You start on Monday with the idea 1）implanted in your bosom that you are going to enjoy yourself. You wave an airy 2）adieu to the boys on shore， light your biggest pipe， and 3）swagger about the deck as if you were 4）Captain Cook， 5）Sir Francis Drake， and Christopher Columbus all rolled into one. On Tuesday， you wish you hadn’t come. On Wednesday， Thursday， and Friday， you wish you were dead. On Saturday， you are able to swallow a little beef tea， and to sit up on deck， and answer with a 6）wan， sweet smile when kind-hearted people ask you how you feel now. On Sunday， you begin to walk again， and take solid food. And on Monday morning， as， with your bag and umbrella in your hand， you stand by the 7）gunwale， waiting to step ashore， you begin to thoroughly like it.
George said， “Let’s go up the river.”
He said we should have some fresh air， exercise and quiet； the constant change of scene would occupy our minds （including what there was of Harris’s）； and the hard work would give us a good appetite， and make us sleep well.
Harris said he didn’t think George ought to do anything that would have a tendency to make him sleepier than he always was， as it might be dangerous.
He said he didn’t very well understand how George was going to sleep any more than he did now， seeing that there were only twenty-four hours in each day， summer and winter alike； but thought that if he DID sleep any more， he might just as well be dead， and so save his board and lodging.
Harris said， however， that the river would 8）suit him to a “T.” I don’t know what a “T” is （except a sixpenny one， which includes bread-and-butter and cake 9）AD LIB.， and is cheap at the price， if you haven’t had any dinner）. It seems to suit everybody， however， which is greatly to its credit.
It suited me to a “T” too， and Harris and I both said it was a good idea of George’s； and we said it in a tone that seemed to somehow imply that we were surprised that George should have come out so sensible.
The only one who was not struck with the suggestion was Montmorency. He never did care for the river， did 10）Montmorency.
“It’s all very well for you fellows，” he says， “you like it， but I don’t. There’s nothing for me to do. Scenery is not in my line， and I don’t smoke. If I see a rat， you won’t stop； and if I go to sleep， you get fooling about with the boat， and 11）slop me overboard. If you ask me， I call the whole thing 12）bally foolishness.” We were three to one， however， and the motion was carried.
We pulled out the maps， and discussed plans.
We arranged to start on the following Saturday from Kingston. Harris and I would go down in the morning， and take the boat up to Chertsey， and George， who would not be able to get away from the City till afternoon （George goes to sleep at a bank from ten to four each day， except Saturdays， when they wake him up and put him outside at two）， would meet us there.
Should we “camp out” or sleep at inns？
George and I were for camping out. We said it would be so wild and free， so 13）patriarchal like.
Slowly the golden memory of the dead sun fades from the hearts of the cold， sad clouds. Silent， like sorrowing children， the birds have ceased their song， and only the 14）moorhen’s 15）plaintive cry and the harsh 16）croak of the 17）corncrake stirs the awed hush around the 18）couch of waters， where the dying day breathes out her last.
Then we run our little boat into some quiet 19）nook， and the tent is pitched， and the 20）frugal supper cooked and eaten. The big pipes are filled and lighted， and the pleasant chat goes round in musical 21）undertone； while， in the pauses of our talk， the river， splashing round the boat， 22）prattles strange old tales and secrets， sings low the old child’s song that it has sung so many thousand years.
Harris said， “How about when it rained？”
You can never rouse Harris. There is no poetry about Harris—no wild yearning for the unattainable. Harris never “weeps， he knows not why.” If Harris’s eyes fill with tears， you can bet it’s because Harris has been eating raw onions， or has put too much Worcester sauce over his 23）chop.
We therefore decided that we would sleep out on fine nights； and hotel it， and inn it， and 24）pub. it， like respectable folks， when it was wet， or when we felt inclined for a change.
哈里斯说：“不，如果你想休息，想换个环境，航海是上上之选。”
我坚决反对去航海。如果有几个月可以消磨的话，兴许它是个好提议，但若只有一个星期的话，就太糟糕了。
你星期一出发，胸中澎湃着好好玩一次的激情，轻快地挥手作别岸上的兄弟们，点上你最大号的烟斗，在甲板上大摇大摆地巡视，自以为是库克船长、弗朗西斯·德雷克爵士和哥伦布三位合而为一。星期二，你开始后悔。星期三、四、五，你痛不欲生。星期六，你开始能够吞下点清炖牛肉汤，去甲板上坐坐，当好心人问你感觉如何时，你能回以一个苍白的、甜甜的微笑。星期天，你开始四处走动，能吃些像样的食物。星期一早上，当你拿着行李和雨伞立在船舷边等待登岸时，才开始彻底喜欢上航海的滋味。
乔治说：“我们去河上泛舟吧。”
他说，我们可以享受到新鲜空气、运动和安宁；不断变换的景色可以填满我们的大脑（如果说哈里斯的那点也能称作脑子的话）；辛苦的体力劳动可以带给我们好胃口和好睡眠。
哈里斯说他认为乔治不应该做任何有可能让他睡得更好的事情，因为他已经睡得够好了，再睡好点就要出事了。
他说无法理解乔治如何能比现在睡得更多，要知道，无论春夏秋冬，一天总也超不出24小时。但他也设想了万一乔治真能睡得更久，那样还不如死了省出房钱和饭费。 然而哈里斯说，乘舟游河正合他的心意（译者注：原文为suit him to a “T”）。我不知道T是什么东西（除了一种6便士的T，也就是茶，喝这种茶附送无限量自取的黄油面包和蛋糕，对没吃饭的人来说，这个价钱相当公道）。不过好像每个人都很喜欢T，这东西盛名远扬。
这主意也很合我的心意。哈里斯和我都说乔治提的是个好主意，我们说这话时的语气似乎在暗示我们很惊讶乔治也能有这样的才智。
这个建议惟独没有打动蒙特莫伦西，他从不喜欢河流，不像与他同名的那位著名将军。
“这对你们倒是好得很，”他说，“你们喜欢这主意，可我不喜欢。我没有什么可做的。我既不爱看风景，也不爱抽烟。如果我看见了一只老鼠，你们也不会停下；如果我想睡觉，你们又在船上闹腾，把我晃下船去。要问我的看法，我得说这是一个彻头彻尾的蠢主意。”
可我们是3比1，于是这提议顺利地通过了表决。
我们掏出地图开始规划行程。
我们计划下星期六从金斯顿出发。早上我和哈里斯先下河，把船划到彻特西，乔治下午才能出城（他每天上午10点到下午4点会固定在一家银行睡觉，但每个星期六下午两点会被叫醒并被扔出门外），直接到那里和我们会合。
晚上我们应该睡帐篷还是住旅店呢？
我和乔治支持睡帐篷，因为那样自由自在、威风神气。
属于夕阳的金色记忆在寒冷悲伤的云儿心中渐渐消逝。鸟儿止住了鸣唱，静默得如同悲伤的孩子。只有水鸡凄惨的鸣叫和秧鸡嘶哑的嗓音不时搅动水边寂静凝重的空气。在这里，白天奄奄一息快要死去。
我们将小船驶入一个僻静角落，支好帐篷，煮一顿简单的晚饭。饭后点燃大烟斗，欢乐地聊天，唱歌般的声音飘向夜空的彼岸。在谈话的间隙，能听到河水轻拍着船儿，闲话年代久远的奇妙传说和秘密，低吟着它已唱了千万年的古老童谣。
哈里斯问：“下雨的话怎么办？”
你永远无法激发哈里斯的文学气质。他天生与诗情画意无缘，不会去“强烈渴望彼岸之花”。哈里斯从不“哭泣，并自感费解”。如果他双目噙泪，你可以打赌那是因为他刚刚在吃生洋葱，要不就是往排骨上放多了伍斯特辣酱。
于是我们决定：天晴就露营，下雨或者想要换个心情的时候，就像体面人一样去住酒店、住旅馆、住客栈。
I objected to the sea trip strongly. A sea trip does you good when you are going to have a couple of months of it， but， for a week， it is wicked.
You start on Monday with the idea 1）implanted in your bosom that you are going to enjoy yourself. You wave an airy 2）adieu to the boys on shore， light your biggest pipe， and 3）swagger about the deck as if you were 4）Captain Cook， 5）Sir Francis Drake， and Christopher Columbus all rolled into one. On Tuesday， you wish you hadn’t come. On Wednesday， Thursday， and Friday， you wish you were dead. On Saturday， you are able to swallow a little beef tea， and to sit up on deck， and answer with a 6）wan， sweet smile when kind-hearted people ask you how you feel now. On Sunday， you begin to walk again， and take solid food. And on Monday morning， as， with your bag and umbrella in your hand， you stand by the 7）gunwale， waiting to step ashore， you begin to thoroughly like it.
George said， “Let’s go up the river.”
He said we should have some fresh air， exercise and quiet； the constant change of scene would occupy our minds （including what there was of Harris’s）； and the hard work would give us a good appetite， and make us sleep well.
Harris said he didn’t think George ought to do anything that would have a tendency to make him sleepier than he always was， as it might be dangerous.
He said he didn’t very well understand how George was going to sleep any more than he did now， seeing that there were only twenty-four hours in each day， summer and winter alike； but thought that if he DID sleep any more， he might just as well be dead， and so save his board and lodging.
Harris said， however， that the river would 8）suit him to a “T.” I don’t know what a “T” is （except a sixpenny one， which includes bread-and-butter and cake 9）AD LIB.， and is cheap at the price， if you haven’t had any dinner）. It seems to suit everybody， however， which is greatly to its credit.
It suited me to a “T” too， and Harris and I both said it was a good idea of George’s； and we said it in a tone that seemed to somehow imply that we were surprised that George should have come out so sensible.
The only one who was not struck with the suggestion was Montmorency. He never did care for the river， did 10）Montmorency.
“It’s all very well for you fellows，” he says， “you like it， but I don’t. There’s nothing for me to do. Scenery is not in my line， and I don’t smoke. If I see a rat， you won’t stop； and if I go to sleep， you get fooling about with the boat， and 11）slop me overboard. If you ask me， I call the whole thing 12）bally foolishness.” We were three to one， however， and the motion was carried.
We pulled out the maps， and discussed plans.
We arranged to start on the following Saturday from Kingston. Harris and I would go down in the morning， and take the boat up to Chertsey， and George， who would not be able to get away from the City till afternoon （George goes to sleep at a bank from ten to four each day， except Saturdays， when they wake him up and put him outside at two）， would meet us there.
Should we “camp out” or sleep at inns？
George and I were for camping out. We said it would be so wild and free， so 13）patriarchal like.
Slowly the golden memory of the dead sun fades from the hearts of the cold， sad clouds. Silent， like sorrowing children， the birds have ceased their song， and only the 14）moorhen’s 15）plaintive cry and the harsh 16）croak of the 17）corncrake stirs the awed hush around the 18）couch of waters， where the dying day breathes out her last.
Then we run our little boat into some quiet 19）nook， and the tent is pitched， and the 20）frugal supper cooked and eaten. The big pipes are filled and lighted， and the pleasant chat goes round in musical 21）undertone； while， in the pauses of our talk， the river， splashing round the boat， 22）prattles strange old tales and secrets， sings low the old child’s song that it has sung so many thousand years.
Harris said， “How about when it rained？”
You can never rouse Harris. There is no poetry about Harris—no wild yearning for the unattainable. Harris never “weeps， he knows not why.” If Harris’s eyes fill with tears， you can bet it’s because Harris has been eating raw onions， or has put too much Worcester sauce over his 23）chop.
We therefore decided that we would sleep out on fine nights； and hotel it， and inn it， and 24）pub. it， like respectable folks， when it was wet， or when we felt inclined for a change.
哈里斯说：“不，如果你想休息，想换个环境，航海是上上之选。”
我坚决反对去航海。如果有几个月可以消磨的话，兴许它是个好提议，但若只有一个星期的话，就太糟糕了。
你星期一出发，胸中澎湃着好好玩一次的激情，轻快地挥手作别岸上的兄弟们，点上你最大号的烟斗，在甲板上大摇大摆地巡视，自以为是库克船长、弗朗西斯·德雷克爵士和哥伦布三位合而为一。星期二，你开始后悔。星期三、四、五，你痛不欲生。星期六，你开始能够吞下点清炖牛肉汤，去甲板上坐坐，当好心人问你感觉如何时，你能回以一个苍白的、甜甜的微笑。星期天，你开始四处走动，能吃些像样的食物。星期一早上，当你拿着行李和雨伞立在船舷边等待登岸时，才开始彻底喜欢上航海的滋味。
乔治说：“我们去河上泛舟吧。”
他说，我们可以享受到新鲜空气、运动和安宁；不断变换的景色可以填满我们的大脑（如果说哈里斯的那点也能称作脑子的话）；辛苦的体力劳动可以带给我们好胃口和好睡眠。
哈里斯说他认为乔治不应该做任何有可能让他睡得更好的事情，因为他已经睡得够好了，再睡好点就要出事了。
他说无法理解乔治如何能比现在睡得更多，要知道，无论春夏秋冬，一天总也超不出24小时。但他也设想了万一乔治真能睡得更久，那样还不如死了省出房钱和饭费。 然而哈里斯说，乘舟游河正合他的心意（译者注：原文为suit him to a “T”）。我不知道T是什么东西（除了一种6便士的T，也就是茶，喝这种茶附送无限量自取的黄油面包和蛋糕，对没吃饭的人来说，这个价钱相当公道）。不过好像每个人都很喜欢T，这东西盛名远扬。
这主意也很合我的心意。哈里斯和我都说乔治提的是个好主意，我们说这话时的语气似乎在暗示我们很惊讶乔治也能有这样的才智。
这个建议惟独没有打动蒙特莫伦西，他从不喜欢河流，不像与他同名的那位著名将军。
“这对你们倒是好得很，”他说，“你们喜欢这主意，可我不喜欢。我没有什么可做的。我既不爱看风景，也不爱抽烟。如果我看见了一只老鼠，你们也不会停下；如果我想睡觉，你们又在船上闹腾，把我晃下船去。要问我的看法，我得说这是一个彻头彻尾的蠢主意。”
可我们是3比1，于是这提议顺利地通过了表决。
我们掏出地图开始规划行程。
我们计划下星期六从金斯顿出发。早上我和哈里斯先下河，把船划到彻特西，乔治下午才能出城（他每天上午10点到下午4点会固定在一家银行睡觉，但每个星期六下午两点会被叫醒并被扔出门外），直接到那里和我们会合。
晚上我们应该睡帐篷还是住旅店呢？
我和乔治支持睡帐篷，因为那样自由自在、威风神气。
属于夕阳的金色记忆在寒冷悲伤的云儿心中渐渐消逝。鸟儿止住了鸣唱，静默得如同悲伤的孩子。只有水鸡凄惨的鸣叫和秧鸡嘶哑的嗓音不时搅动水边寂静凝重的空气。在这里，白天奄奄一息快要死去。
我们将小船驶入一个僻静角落，支好帐篷，煮一顿简单的晚饭。饭后点燃大烟斗，欢乐地聊天，唱歌般的声音飘向夜空的彼岸。在谈话的间隙，能听到河水轻拍着船儿，闲话年代久远的奇妙传说和秘密，低吟着它已唱了千万年的古老童谣。
哈里斯问：“下雨的话怎么办？”
你永远无法激发哈里斯的文学气质。他天生与诗情画意无缘，不会去“强烈渴望彼岸之花”。哈里斯从不“哭泣，并自感费解”。如果他双目噙泪，你可以打赌那是因为他刚刚在吃生洋葱，要不就是往排骨上放多了伍斯特辣酱。
于是我们决定：天晴就露营，下雨或者想要换个心情的时候，就像体面人一样去住酒店、住旅馆、住客栈。