“The phone box?”
　“在电话里?”

　“Sure,” Mr. Bowen said. “I can hear you talk. Why couldn't I hear the fiddle?”
　“是啊,”鲍温先生说,“我能听到你说话,怎么会听不到你的琴声呢?”

　　Dad took the fiddle to the telephone and thumped the strings. Putting the receiver to his ear, he said, “Hear anything. Will?”
　　爸爸把小提琴拿到话机旁,重重地拨弄了几下琴弦。然后他把听筒拿到耳边,问:“威尔,听到吗?”

　　“Sure can,” Mr. Bowen said. “Could you try Sally Goodin and play it just like you did the other night?” Dad handed the receiver to me. He stepped up to the mouthpiece on the wall box and 15)cut loose on Sally Goodin. I could bear Mr. Bowen whistling and yelling.
　　“当然听到,”鲍温先生说,“你能不能拉《沙丽·古丁》,就像前几天那样?”爸爸把听筒递给我。他向前走近挂在墙上的话筒,尽情地拉奏起这首《沙丽·古丁》。我听到电话那头传来伯温先生的口哨声和欢呼声。

　　By the time the tune was finished there were half a dozen neighbors on the line, and they talked about how wonderful the music sounded over the telephone. They made numerous requests; I relayed them to Dad and he played the numbers.
　　曲终之时,电话的那头已经聚集了六位邻居,他们谈论着透过电话聆听音乐有多美妙。他们又点了很多曲子,我转告爸爸,他都一一弹奏了。

　　Our party line broadcasts became regular features of community life. On rough-weather days of winter when farm folks were forced to remain in the house, someone would ring us and ask Dad to play, and usually it developed into a network affair. Our phone kept ringing with requests for music until radio came in.
　　我们的派对热线广播成为了当地生活的固定节目。当严冬季节将务农的人们困在室内的时候,就会有人给我们打电话,请爸爸给他们拉小提琴。久而久之,这慢慢成为了一种社交生活。在无线电广播普及之前,我们家的点播热线总是响个不停。