Directions:TranslatethefollowingtextintoChinese.Lateonachillyautumnafternoon,Istartdiggingonthelittleslopebehindmyhouse.Abaleofpeat,abagofbonemealandabarrowloadofrich,blackcompostpreparetherootysoilforbulbs.Iwon

Question

Directions:Translate the following text into Chinese.
Late on a chilly autumn afternoon,I start digging on the little slope behind my house.A bale of peat,a bag of bone meal and a barrowload of rich,black compost prepare the rooty soil for bulbs.
I wonder why I am bothering to plant these flowers of spring and summer -- tulips,narcissuses and lilies.I don't own this land or the old house that sits on it.Fortunately the landlords indulge my gardening whims in the spirit of home improvement:the rampant mint that I set out beneath the bedroom window,the harlequin pansies dotting the rock garden beside the kitchen door,and these fleshy white kernels parceled out on the cold earth around me.Yet why should I spend time and money on something I may enjoy for only a season or two before I move to another place,another garden not my own?
It was my father,an amateur farmer,who first taught me how things grew and the value of long-term investments.He spent 30 years of his life working as a civil engineer for the state,designing highways.Then,in his 60s,after my mother died,he took up painting -- as if the pigments,brushes and linseed oil represented only a subtle change of medium from the crushed rock and asphalt in which he had worked before.
My father was meticulous about small things he considered important,but he was also the most guileless man I've ever known.He never invested in anything riskier than U.S.Savings Bonds,which took years to mature and then blossomed and vanished in a single day to pay for cars or college loans.To him,this sort of bargain made good sense:it was the way of nature and the way of the world.You planted,then you waited.
And yet somehow the big payoff -- the flower,the fruit,the cash in your hand -- gave nothing more than an intense and fleeting joy,the final affirmation of a dream.The deeper satisfaction was always in the growth itself,the greening force that carries all of the sweet,uncertain hopes for the future.
Squatting here in the tall grass on the hill,I remember humid summer evenings when my father would finish mowing and walk into the barn to pick up a flat of petunias,portulaca or whatever needed planting.Smelling of gasoline,sweat and fresh-cut clippings,he would kneel in the pale twilight and dig holes with an old wooden-handled trowel,his left arm scything back and forth through the cloud of mosquitoes surrounding his head.
The same trowel rests in my hand now,though the handle has loosened over the years.Shadows gather quickly in these shortened days of fall,and I work faster,more deliberately.Bend,dig,drop,cover,tamp,repeat.The sun has always dipped below the horizon,but the crowns of the maple trees across the road gleam like red gold above the roof of the house.And a few unplanted bulbs are still upon the ground,living promissory notes that will mature and come due in the spring.

Answer 1

文章很美!
题目：请将以下文章翻译成中文.
在一个寒冷的秋天的傍晚,我开始在屋后的小斜坡上挖坑.旁边是一大包泥炭,一袋子骨肥还有一小车为鳞茎准备的黑色的肥沃的带着根的堆肥.
我思索着为什么我要自找麻烦去种植这些在夏天和春天开放的郁金香、水仙和百合.我并不拥有这所房子和这块儿土地.幸运的是房东不反对我为了改善住房而产生的奇异的园林改造想法：我在卧房的窗户外种植的薄荷,长得特别旺盛；在厨房的门旁滑稽的三色紫罗兰点缀着石头花园；当然还有这些装得满满的种子包裹,就放在我旁边的冷冷的土地上.为什么我就得这样花费时间、金钱用在园艺上,说不定有一天我一时兴起就因为某个原因搬到另一个园子,一个依然不属于我的园子.
是我的父亲,一个业余的农夫,教会我如何种植,如何获得长期的回报.他30年来都作为国家的城市建设工程师,负责设计高速公路.然而,在他60岁那年,我母亲去世了,他开始了绘画——好像颜料、画笔和亚麻油就是他当年工作时遇到的碾碎的石头和沥青.
对被认为珍贵的东西哪怕是细小的东西,我父亲都会小心翼翼,但是他却是一个坦率的人,这一点我以前没有意识到.在美国他从不作风险投资.存储债券需要等待许多年,然后才“开花”、“结果”,接着又因为买轿车或者偿还大学贷款而花费一空.对于他来说,这种“契约”很有意义：这是一个自然而然的道路,这个世界的道路；先种植,然后等待收获.
然而不知为什么——盛开的花朵、果实、手里的现金——不过是一阵激情和短暂的乐趣,最终依然是一场梦.更深层的满足似乎自己在生长,新的力量带着所有的甜美和不确定的期望走向了未来.
蹲坐在长满深草的丘陵上,我想起了在一个湿润的夏天的夜晚,我父亲割完草回来,走到谷仓里取出一个扁平的矮牵牛花、马齿苋或者任何需要种植的东西.伴随着汽油的味道、汉水和新割完植物的气味,父亲可以跪在暗淡的天空下,开始用那把旧的木质的手柄泥铲挖土,他的左胳膊就像镰刀一样前后摆动,头顶上是烟雾一样的蚊子.
那把泥铲现在就在我的手上,尽管许多年来把柄松了.注意力又很快回到了白天越来越短的秋天,我有意识的加快了工作.弯腰挖土、种上植物、盖上土、夯实、再从头做.太阳已经下落到地平线以下了,但是路的对面枫树的“王冠”就像闪着光的红色的金子,高高的安置在房顶上.还剩下少许未种的鳞茎依然放在土地上,就像有生命的约定,它们将在春天到期成熟.