“The phone box?”
　“在電話里?”

　“Sure,” Mr. Bowen said. “I can hear you talk. Why couldn't I hear the fiddle?”
　“是啊,”鮑溫先生說,“我能聽到你說話,怎么會聽不到你的琴聲呢?”

　　Dad took the fiddle to the telephone and thumped the strings. Putting the receiver to his ear, he said, “Hear anything. Will?”
　　爸爸把小提琴拿到話機旁,重重地撥弄了幾下琴弦。然后他把聽筒拿到耳邊,問:“威爾,聽到嗎?”

　　“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.
　　“當然聽到,”鮑溫先生說,“你能不能拉《沙麗·古丁》,就像前幾天那樣?”爸爸把聽筒遞給我。他向前走近掛在墻上的話筒,盡情地拉奏起這首《沙麗·古丁》。我聽到電話那頭傳來伯溫先生的口哨聲和歡呼聲。

　　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.
　　曲終之時,電話的那頭已經聚集了六位鄰居,他們談論著透過電話聆聽音樂有多美妙。他們又點了很多曲子,我轉告爸爸,他都一一彈奏了。

　　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.
　　我們的派對熱線廣播成為了當地生活的固定節目。當嚴冬季節將務農的人們困在室內的時候,就會有人給我們打電話,請爸爸給他們拉小提琴。久而久之,這慢慢成為了一種社交生活。在無線電廣播普及之前,我們家的點播熱線總是響個不停。