《故都的秋》
虚词有哪些秋天，无论在什么地方的秋天，总是好的；可是啊，北国的秋，却特别地来得清，来得静，来得悲凉。我的不远千里，要从杭州赶上青岛，更要从青岛赶上北平来的理由，也不过想饱尝一尝这‚秋‛，这故都的秋味。
上海迪斯尼英语江南，秋当然也是有的，但草木凋得慢，空气来得润，天的颜色显得淡，并且又时常多雨而少风；一个人夹在苏州上海杭州，或厦门香港广州的市民中间，混混沌沌地过去，只能感到一点点清凉，秋的味，秋的色，秋的意境与姿态，总看不饱，尝不透，赏玩不到十足。秋并不是名花，也并不是美酒，那一种半开、半醉的状态，在领略秋的过程上，是不合适的。
不逢北国之秋，已将近十余年了。在南方每年到了秋天，总要想起陶然亭的芦花，钓鱼台的柳影，西山的虫唱，玉泉的夜月，潭柘寺的钟声。在北平即使不出门去吧，就是在皇城人海之中，租人家一椽破屋来住着，早晨起来，泡一碗浓茶，向院子一坐，你也能看得到很高很高的碧绿的天色，听得到青天下驯鸽的飞声。从槐树叶底，朝东细数着一丝一丝漏下来的日光，或在破壁腰中，静对着像喇叭似的牵牛花(朝荣)的蓝朵，自然而然地也能够感觉到十分的秋意。说到了牵牛花，我以为以蓝色或白色者为佳，紫黑色次之，淡红色最下。最好，还要在牵牛花底，教长着几根疏疏落落的尖细且长的秋草，使作陪衬。
北国的槐树，也是一种能便人联想起秋来的点辍。像花而又不是花的那一种落蕊，早晨起来，会铺得满
地。脚踏上去，声音也没有，气味也没有，只能感出一点点极微细极柔软的触觉。扫街的在树影下一阵扫后，灰土上留下来的一条条
扫帚的丝纹，看起来既觉得细腻，又觉得清闲，潜意识下并且还觉得有点儿落寞，古人所说的梧桐一叶而天下知秋的遥想，大约也就在这些深沉的地方。
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秋蝉的衰弱的残声，更是北国的特产，因为北平处处全长着树，屋子又低，所以无论在什么地方，都听得见它们的啼唱。在南方是非要上郊外或山上去才听得到的。这秋蝉的嘶叫，在北方可和蟋蟀耗子一样，简直像是家家户户都养在家里的家虫。
还有秋雨哩，北方的秋雨，也似乎比南方的下得奇，下得有味，下得更像样。
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在灰沉沉的天底下，忽而来一阵凉风，便息列索落地下起雨来了。一层雨过，云渐渐地卷向了西去，天又晴了，太阳又露出脸来了，着着很厚的青布单衣或夹袄的都市闲人，咬着烟管，在雨后的斜桥影里，上桥头树底下去一立，遇见熟人，便会用了缓慢悠闲的声调，微叹着互答着地说：
swingers‚唉，天可真凉了-----‛(这了字念得很高，拖得很长。)
‚可不是吗?一层秋雨一层凉了!‛
北方人念阵字，总老像是层字，平平仄仄起来，这念错的歧韵，倒来得正好。
北方的果树，到秋天，也是一种奇景。第一是枣子树，屋角，墙头，茅房边上，灶房门口，它都会一株株地长大起来。像橄榄又像鸽蛋似的这枣子颗儿，在小椭圆形的细叶中间，显出淡绿微黄的颜色的时候，正是秋的全盛时期，等枣树叶落，枣子红完，西北风就要起来了，北方便是沙尘灰土的世界，只有这枣子、
柿子、葡萄，成熟到八九分的七八月之交，是北国的清秋的佳日，是一年之中最好也没有的Golden Days。
有些批评家说，中国的文人学士，尤其是诗人，都带着很浓厚的颓废的色彩，所以中国的诗文里，赞颂秋的文字的特别的多。但外国的诗人，又何尝不然?我虽则外国诗文念的不多，也不想开出帐来，做一篇秋的诗歌散文钞，但你若去一翻英德法意等诗人的集子，或各国的诗文的Anthology来，总能够看到许多并于秋的歌颂和悲啼。各著名的大诗人的长篇田园诗或四季诗里，也总以关于秋的部分。写得最出色而最有味。足见有感觉的动物，有情趣的人类，对于秋，总是一样地特别能引起深沉，幽远、严厉、萧索的感触来的。不单是诗人，就是被关闭在牢狱里的囚犯，到了秋天，我想也一定能感到一种不能自己的深情，秋之于人，何尝有国别，更何尝有人种阶级的区别呢?不过在中国，文字里有一个‚秋士‛的成语，读本里又有着很普遍的欧阳子的《秋声》与苏东坡的《赤壁赋》等，就觉得中国的文人，与秋和关系特别深了，可是这秋的深味，尤其是中国的秋的深味，非要在北方，才感受得到底。
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南国之秋，当然也是有它的特异的地方的，比如甘四桥的明月，钱塘江的秋潮，普陀山的凉雾，荔枝湾的残荷等等，可是色彩不浓，回味不永。比起北国的秋来，正像是黄河之与白干，稀饭之与馍馍，鲈鱼之与大蟹，黄犬之与骆驼。
秋天，这北国的秋天，若留得住的话，我愿把寿命的三分之二折去，换得一个三分之一的零头。
Autumn in the Old Capital
asonsAutumn is always pleasant no matter where it is. But autumn in the North is especially clear,especially rene, especially pathetic in its coolness. It was for no other purpo than to savour this ‚autumn‛to the full, the taste of autumn in the old capital, that I went to the trouble of journeying a thousand li, from Hangzhou to Qingdao, and thence to Beiping.
There is autumn also south of the Yangtze, of cour. But there the grass and trees take more time to wither, the air is moist and the sky is pale. There is frequent rain and less wind. One who dwells among the citizens of Suzhou, Shanghai or Hangzhou, of Xiamen, Hong Kong or Guangzhou, spends his days listlessly, with but a vague feeling of coolness. As to the taste and colour of autumn, its particular significance and moods, it is impossible to have one’s fill of eing, tasting or enjoying. Autumn is not a famous flower, nor a delicious wine. It is inappropriate while enjoying the pleasures
of autumn to expect something in a state of half-open or half-tipsy.
It is almost ten-odd years since I last had occasion to e autumn in the North. In the South,the return of each autumn would bring memories of the Pavilion of Happiness nestling among red flowers, the Fishing Terrace canopied by the shadows of willows, the chirp of incts
in the Western Hills, the glamour of moonlight over the Jade Springs, the chime of bells in the Tanzhesi Temple. Here in Beiping, suppo you are living amidst the city’s teeming millions in a ramshackle hou that you have rented. On rising one early morning and ating yourlf in the courtyard with a cup of strong tea before you, without even venturing out of doors you can e an azure sky high above, and hear homing pigeons whirring past under it. Facing the east, you count the rays of sunlight filtering through the leaves of scholar-trees. From a gap in some dilapidated wall, you brood silently over the blue trumpet-like petals of morning-glories. And a n of the fullness of autumn will come upon you unawares.Speaking of morning-glories, the blue or white flowers em to me best, tho of dark-purple next and the pink ones last. And at the bottom of the morning-glories, to crown all, let there be a sprinkling of spar, sharp-pointed long blades of autumn grass, to t off the flowers with.
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The scholar-trees in North China are also an attraction that calls to mind the advent of autumn. You get up in the early morning, to find the ground carpeted all over with their fallen petals, which still have something of the look of flowers, though actually not flowers any longer. Tread on them, and you are conscious only of a very slight and soft n of touch,with neither sound nor smell. The lines left on the dusty soil by scavengers in their round of sweeping under the shadows of
