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冬天一個冰寒的晚上。在寂寬的馬路旁邊，疏枝交橫的樹下，候着最後一輛搭客汽車的，只我一人。雖然不遠的牆邊，也蹲有一團黑影，但他卻是伸手討錢的。馬路兩旁，遠遠近近都立着燈窗明燦的別墅，向暗藍的天空靜靜地微笑着。在馬路仁是冷冰冰的，還颳着一陣陣猛厲的風。留在枝頭的一兩片枯葉，也不時發出破碎的哭聲。
那蹲着的黑影，接了我的一枚銅板，就高興地站起來向我搭話，一面抱怨着天氣：“真冷呀，再沒有比這裏更冷了!……先生，你說是不是?”
看見他並不是個討厭的老頭子，便也高興地說道：“鄉下怕更要冷些吧?”
“不，不。”他接着咳嗽起來，要吐出的話，塞在喉管裏了。
我說：“爲什麼?你看見一下霜，鄉下的房屋和田野，便在早上白了起來，街上卻一點也看不見。”
他捶了幾下胸口之後，興奮地接着說道：“是的，是的……鄉下冷，你往人家門前的稻草堆上一鑽就暖了哪……這街上，哼，鬼地方!……還有那些山裏呵，比鄉下更冷哩，咳，那纔好哪!火燒一大堆，大大小小一家人，鬧熱呀!……”
接着他便說到壯年之日，在南方那些山中冬夜走路的事情。一個人的漂泊生活，我是喜歡打聽的，同時車又沒有馳來.便慫思他說了下去。他說晚上在那些山裏，只要你是一個正派的人，就可以朝燈火人家一直走去，迎着犬聲，敞開樹陰下的柴門，大膽地闖進。對着火堆周圍的人們，不管他男的女的，用
兩手向他們兩肩頭一分，就把你帶着風寒露溼的身子，輕輕地放了進去。燒山芋和熱茶的香味，便一下子撲人你的鼻子。擡頭看，四周閃着微笑的眼睛，歡迎着，毫沒有怪你唐突的神情。你剛開口說由哪兒來的時候，一杯很熱的濃茶，就遞在你的'下巴邊上。老太婆盼咐她的孫女，快把火撥大些，多添點子柴，說是客人要烘吸他的身子;你暖和了，還不覺得疲倦的話，你可以摸摸小孩子的下巴，擰擰他們的臉蛋，做一點奇怪的樣子，給他們嬉笑。年輕的媽媽，一高興了，便會慫恿他的孩子把拿着要吃的燒山芋，分開一半，放在你這位客人的手上。如果你要在他們家過夜，他們的招待，就更來得殷勤些。倘若歇一會，暖
暖身子，還要朝前趕路，一出柴門，還可聽見一片歡送的聲音：“轉來時，請來玩呀!”老頭子講着講着，給冷風一吹，便又咳嗽起來，我聽得冷都忘記了，突然老頭子忘形地拉着我問道：
“先生，這到底是什麼原因哪?……這裏的人家，火堆一定燒得多的，看窗子多麼亮哪……他們爲什麼不準一個異鄉人進去烤烤手哩?”
搭客汽車從遠處轟轟地馳來了，我趕忙擺他的手，高聲說道：
“因爲他們是文明的人，不像那些山裏的……”
再跳進通明的汽車裏，驀地離開他了。但遠的南國山中，小小的燈火人家裏面，那些豐美的醉人的溫暖，卻留在我的冬夜的胸中了。
It was a cold winter night. The street was deserted. I stood alone under a tree with an entanglement of bare branches overhead, waiting for the last bus to arrive. A few paces off in the darkness there was a shadowy figure squatting against the wall, but tie turned out to be a tramp. The street was lined with fine houses, their illuminated windows beaming quietly towards the dark blue sky. It was icy cold with a gust of strong wired howling around. A couple of withered leaves, still clinging to the branches, rustled mournfully from time to tithe. The shadowy figure, taking a copper coin from me with thanks, straightened up to attempt a conversation with me.
"It's really cold here," he complained. "It couldn't be colder anywhere else do you think, sir?"
Seeing that he was not too nasty an old man, I readily responded: "It must he colder in the country, I'm afraid.”
"No, no," he disagreed and began to cough, his words stuck up in his throat.
"Why?" I asked. "In the country when it frosts, you always find the roofs and the fields turning white in the morning, but you don't see that here on the streets.”
He patted his chest to ease off his coughing and went on excitedly: "True, true... it's cold in the country, but when you get into somebody's straw stack, you are warm again at once.... But this street, humm, what a terrible place! In the mountains, it's even colder, but when they have a fire in the house with the whole family sitting around it, wow, it's heaven!"
Then he began to relate to me the adventures of his younger days-travelling alone in winter nights through the mountains in the south. As I was interested in stories about wanderers and since the bus had not arrived yet, I encouraged him to go on.
"When you end up in the mountains at night," he said, "and if you are a decent person, you can always turn to the place where there is a light flickering and a dog harking. You push open the bramble gate under the shade and walk in without hesitation. Part the people, men or women, around the fire with your hands and you bring yourself -- a cold and wet man with dew-among them. Immediately your nose is filled with the aroma of hot tea and roast sweet potatoes. When you look round you see friendly faces smiling at you; there is no hint of anything like blame for what elsewhere might be considered as brusqueness. Scarcely have you begun to tell them where you come from when a cup of hot and strong tea is handed over to you. Grandma will tell her granddaughter to feed the fire with more wood, saying that the guest needs more beat to warm up. When you are recovered from cold and fatigue, you tend to tease the baby, stroking his chin, giving a gentle pinch to his cheek or making a face to provoke him to gurgle. He delighted young mother will encourage her baby to share his sweet potato with you. The baby will then break it in two and thrust one half into your hand. If you intend to stay overnight, you will be entertained with all possible hospitality. If you've just dropped in to warm up and then go on your way, they will see you off at the gate, saying 'Please do drop in on us again on your way back, ' "
In the middle of his babbling another gust of wind brushed by and the old man began to cough again. I was so intrigued by his story that I did not feel the cold any more. Suddenly he grabbed my hand, forgetting that we were strangers, and asked:
"Sir, could you tell me why the people here even do not allow a countryman in to warm his hands? They must've got bigger fires in their houses- Look at their bright windows. . . "
The bus came rumbling up. Withdrawing my hand from his, I answered at the top of my voice
"Because they are more civilized than the mountain people. . . "
With that I jumped onto the brightly-lit bus which started moving on, leaving the old man behind. But the little houses with flickering oil lamps in the remote mountains and the intoxicating warmth and friendliness of their inhabitants left a deep impress on my memory.
