At dusk I awakened. The first of night was seeping into the neighborhood, shadow by shadow. A pale wash of sunset pinked chimneys and rooftops. As I watched, the sky darkened to the deep, translucent blue of almost-evening, and a brilliant first star appeared—my own reliable wishing star, right where it belonged.

       Suddenly my world was righted. This was the magic time when wishes were made and faces washed, when daddies appeared and babies had baths——a friendly time. Without hesitation, I ran to the nearest door and banged on it. Within an hour I was safely home.

       My parents asked why I had waited so long to seek help. I could not explain. I cannot now, except to say that the enchantment of dusk is still upon me, still smoothes away my fears and lifts my spirit. I dare more at dusk.

       The lights come on, for one thing——the companionable lights. Have you ever walked home on a late winter afternoon, under a leaden sky in a steady snowfall, and been surprised by the silent coming-on of street lights? All in a moment, they line the road like transforming angels, their frosty halos sparkling, and you go the rest of the way guarded and at peace.

       Dusk is for homecoming, a wonderfully hollow-and-hungry-for-dinner hour. Telling of his boyhood in a small English village, Laurie Lee writes exuberantly, “The day was over and we had used it, running errands or prowling the fields. We returned to the kitchen, back to its smoky comfort. Every stone in the path as I ran down home shook my bones with arriving joy.”

       But almost as good as returning home at day’s end is the exhilarating business of faring forth then. There is no better time to take a train to the city than in the precious interval between day and night, when the blue air seems strung with excitement, almost tasting of adventure. Or to walk in a quiet country lane as the sparrows cheep sleepily, and night insects awaken to begin a fine musical clamor. Listen to that cricket!

       In that hour, an ordinary neighborhood stroll has an atmosphere of expectancy. Glimpsed through lamp lit windows, everybody seems to be getting ready for something. Before her mirror, a pretty girl puts on makeup. In the front room, a boy builds a fire. And look, in the next house, that elegant lady lighting candles——there’s going to be a party.

       Meanwhile, nearly forgotten, the last lovely light of day is caught on a pond and behind a hill, back of your barn and around the corner. But when you look again, it will be gone.

       To go out…to go somewhere and meet the evening…

       What happiness for a child to burst from the house to play in the hide-and-seek dusk! As the hour grows later, the games become marvelously harder. “I see Mary!” But is it Mary? Or a figment, a witching shadow?

       An elusive greenish-yellow gleam flashes, then another. Fireflies! The hunt is on. Running, shouting, hot cheeks soothed by the cooling air, boys and girls call from up and down the river-bank, ”Got one?” “Got more’n you!”

       Lovers wander hand in hand, paying no attention to the packs of children. A favorite place in our town is a wooded bridge over a little rocky waterfall. Young couples meet there. They lean on the rail and toss a pebble into the falls, or a leaf. Or they walk slowly by the river, under the honey locust trees; and when the bridge is nearly swallowed by darkness, they cross it again, heading back.

       “Someday I’ll meet you at the sunset, the way I used to,” a soldier wrote his girl. She mentioned the letter to me. That evening I saw her standing alone on the bridge. Through the long, memory-crowded dusk, she stood there, throwing pebbles into the water.

       I have a friend who often sits by herself on the porch after supper. “I love the smell of sundown,” she told me once, and the odd phrase stayed with me.

       Never again can I be oblivious to the smells that mark the seasons at twilight. To a certain muddy March freshness, when the air has a balmy promise. To the nostalgia of bonfire smoke as it drifts through our town in autumn. To the knife-edge savor of winter dusk when the sky is shot with purple and glows with an icy, quartz-colored radiance, and I pause on the steps, broom in hand, after brushing away a light fall of snow.

       Winter dusk. That seems almost the best of all. Describing the onset of the 4 1／2 month-long night at Ross Ice Barrier, in the Antarctic, Admiral Richard E.Byrd wrote: “In the northeast a silver green serpentine aurora pulsed and quivered gently. The day was dying, the night being born——but with great peace. In that instant I could feel no doubt of man’s oneness with the universe. The conviction came that there must be a purpose in the whole, and that man was part of that purpose.”

       In the measureless blue of twilight, one glimpses, perhaps, a mystery and meaning beyond the turn of this trivial whirling stone on which we live.

    记得很小的时候，有一天母亲带我去逛市集，我走丢了。找来找去找不到她，只得独自往回走。我东投西奔，指望能撞见认得的东西。但到处都是陌生的房屋，看起来都像闭门却扫、闲人莫入的样子。我不敢敲任何一家的门，走到荒僻空地上的一棵树旁，筋疲力尽地倒在地上睡着了。醒来已是黄昏。层阴沓至，早夜的初昏正在渗入左邻右舍。落日淡淡夕照染红了烟囱和屋顶。指顾间，天色渐渐暗得成了一片澄郁参半的深蓝，几乎像暮夜一般，第一颗明星出现了——我有求必应的星宿，又出现在它值守的地方。

    骤然间，我的天地豁然开朗。这是我们祷告许愿和洗脸的时间，是父亲回家、婴孩洗澡的美妙当儿——这是爱心四溢的时刻。我坦然跑到最近的一家人家叩门。不到一小时就平安回到了家。

    父母问我，为什么等了这么久才去求助。我说不出理由。至今还是说不出，只能说黄昏对我的魅力仍然存在，能祛去我的恐惧，振奋我的情绪。一到黄昏，我就比较大胆。

    不说别的，单说灯光就亮起来了——可亲的灯光。冬天彤云密布、漫天大雪的夜晚，你踽踽步行回家，可曾乍见街灯静静地亮起来而觉得惊喜？刹那间，街灯排列在路旁，就像瞬息万变的天使，闪烁着霜也似的光轮，一路呵护，你便走得泰然无恐了。

    黄昏是归家的时候，是饥肠辘辘的吃晚餐时候。劳利·李提起幼年在英国小乡村的往事，兴奋地写道：“太阳下山了。我们跑腿办事或在田野里乱撞了一天，回到那烟雾腾腾，温暖的厨房。归途中踏着路上每一块石头，浑身的骨头都快活得震颤。”

    傍晚回家固然很好，可是在黄昏出发，趣味之佳也不相上下。从白天到黑夜那一段宝贵的过渡时间，暗蓝色的天空似乎洋溢着魅力，寻幽探胜的机会显然就在眼前。在这时乘火车到城市去是不能再好的了。或者在麻雀欲睡，吱吱细语；夜虫初醒，唧唧争鸣的时候，在静静的乡间小径里漫步，也其妙无比。你且去听听蟋蟀的低呤吧！

    在这时徜徉于附近一带，就觉得有什么事要发生似的。向灯烛辉煌的窗子望去，人人似乎都在准备什么。俊俏的少女对镜化妆。男孩子为客厅的壁炉生火。瞧！隔壁那屋子里，雍容华贵的太太在点蜡烛，家里晚上要有宴会。

    这当儿，落日的余辉倒映在池塘里，半掩在小山或你家谷仓后边，或者在屋角流连，这些景色几乎你已遗忘。等你再去回顾，已经消逝了。

    到外边去……到某处去与夜相见……

    小孩子从屋里跑出来，在暮色苍茫中捉迷藏，多快乐啊！时间越晚，这个游戏越难玩，也越有意思。“我看见玛丽了！”可真是玛丽？还是幻象？魅影？

    一丝绿里带黄的光芒乍闪即逝，接着又一丝。那是萤火虫！快去捉啊！男孩子和女孩子飞跑，喧嚷、火辣辣的面颊拂着凉润的清风，他们在河边往返呼问：“你捉到一只了吗？”“我捉到的比你多！”

    情侣携手漫步，绝不理睬那三五成群的孩子。我们镇上有一条俯临小瀑布的木桥，是幽期密约的胜地。年轻的情侣常在那里见面。他们凭着桥栏，把一粒鹅卵石或一片树叶投在瀑布里，或在河边皂荚树下徐步。木桥快让夜色笼罩的时候，再从桥上经过，走回家去。

    “有一天我会在日落时和你相会，像以前那样！”一个兵这么写信给他的情人。她把信里的话告诉了我。那天晚上，我看见她独自伫立在那木桥上。在往事知多少的暮色中，她在桥上站很久，把鹅卵石投在水里。

    我有个朋友，晚餐后常在阳台上独坐。“我爱黄昏的气息。”一次她告诉我。这句特别的话我一直没忘记。

    此后在黄昏，我便不能自己地领悟到季节不同的气息。我领悟到三月里空气中初透微熏的清新。我领悟到秋天野火飘过我们市镇的烟味，不禁勾起了乡思。隆冬，天上的紫霭变幻，闪烁着石英色冰凉的光芒。我扫去一层薄雪，倚着扫帚，在台阶上小立，觉得黄昏的风，锐利有如锋刃。

    冬天的黄昏，似乎最能引人入胜。海军上将李佳德·布尔德叙述南极罗斯冰障四个半月长的长夜将临夜情景，写道：“银绿色，长蛇似的极光，在东北方很文静地翕张、颤动。白昼即将终了，黑夜正在诞生——但却非常安静。在这一刹那间，人与宇宙成为一体，绝无可疑。我不由得不深信：这整个现象一定有一个意义，而且与人息息相关。”

    在黄昏无际的蓝霭中，人也许能超乎碌碌旋转的地球之外，而领悟到宇宙的奥秘和意义。