Mrs. Ewing
By Mrs. Marshall
“A. L. O. E.” (Miss Tucker)
Forty years ago, the mystic letters “A. L. O. E.” (“A Lady of England”) on the title-page of a book ensured its welcome from the children of those days. There was not then the host of gaily1 bound volumes pouring from the press to be piled up in tempting2 array in every bookseller’s shop at Christmas. The children for whom “A. L. O. E.” wrote were contented3 to read a “gift-book” more than once; and, it must be said, her stories were deservedly popular, and bore the crucial test of being read aloud to an attentive4 audience several times.
Many of these stories still live, and the allegorical style in which “A. L. O. E.” delighted has a charm for certain youthful minds to this day. There is a pride and pleasure in thinking out the lessons hidden under the
names of the stalwart giants in the “Giant Killer,” which is one of “A. 50. O. E.‘s” earlier and best tales. A fight with Giant Pride, a hard battle with Giant Sloth5, has an inspiriting effect on boys and girls, who are led to “look at home” and see what giants hold them in bondage6.
“A. L. O. E.‘s” style was almost peculiar7 to herself. She generally used allegory and symbol, and she was fired with the desire to arrest the attention of her young readers and “do them good.” We may fear that she often missed her aim by forcing the moral, and by indulging in long and discursive8 “preachments,” which interrupted the main current of the story, and were impatiently skipped that it might flow on again without vexatious hindrances9.
In her early girlhood and womanhood “A. L. O. E.” had written plays, which, we are told by her biographer, Miss Agnes Giberne, were full of wit and fun. Although her literary efforts took a widely different direction when she began to write for children, still there are flashes of humour sparkling here and there on the pages of her most didactic stories, showing that her keen sense of the ludicrous was present though it was kept very much in abeyance10.
From the first publication of “The Claremont Tales” her success as a writer for children was assured. The list of her books covering the space of fifteen or twenty years is a very long one, and she had no difficulty in
finding publishers ready to bring them out in an attractive form.
“The Rambles11 of a Rat” is before me, as I write, in a new edition, and is a very fair specimen12 of “A. L. O. E.‘s” work. Weighty sayings are put into the mouth of the rats, and provoke a smile. The discussion about the ancestry13 of Whiskerando and Ratto ends with the trite14 remark—which, however, was not spoken aloud—that the great weakness of one opponent was pride of birth, and his anxiety to be thought of an ancient family; but the chief matter, in Ratto’s opinion, was not whether our ancestors do honour to us, but whether by our conduct we do not disgrace them. Probably this page of the story was hastily turned here, that the history of the two little waifs and strays who took shelter in the warehouse16, where the rats lived, might be followed.
Later on there is a discussion between a father and his little boy about the advantage of ragged17 schools, then a somewhat new departure in philanthropy. Imagine a boy of nine, in our time, exclaiming, “What a glorious thing it is to have ragged schools and reformatories, to give the poor and the ignorant, and the wicked, a chance of becoming honest and happy.” Boys of Neddy’s age, nowadays, would denounce him as a little prig, who ought to be well
snubbed for his philanthropical ambition, when he went on to say, “How 1 should like to build a ragged school myself!” “The Voyage of the Rats to Russia” is full of interest and adventure, and the glimpse of Russian life is vivid, and in “A. L. O. E.‘s” best manner.
Indeed, she had a graphic18 pen, and her descriptions of places and things were always true to life. In “Pride and his Prisoners,” for instance, there are stirring scenes, drawn19 with that dramatic power which had characterised the plays she wrote in her earlier days. “The Pretender, a farce20 in two Acts, by Charlotte Maria Tucker,” is published in Miss Giberne’s biography. In this farce there is a curious and constantly recurring21 play on words, but the allegory and the symbol with which she afterwards clothed her stories are absent.
“A. L. O. E.” did not write merely to amuse children; and the countless22 fairy tales and books of startling adventure, in their gilded23 covers and with their profuse24 illustrations, which are published every year, have thrown her stories into the shade. But they are written with verve and spirit, and in good English, which is high praise, and cannot always be given to the work of her successors in juvenile25 literature. In her books, as in every work she undertook throughout her life, she had
the high and noble aim of doing good. Whether she might have widened the sphere of her influence by less of didactic teaching, and by allowing her natural gifts to have more play, it is not for us to inquire.
It is remarkable26 that this long practice in allegory and symbol fitted her for her labours in her latter years, amongst the boys and girls of the Far East. Her style was well adapted to the Oriental mind, and kindled27 interest and awoke enthusiasm in the hearts of the children in the Batala Schools. Here she did a great work, which she undertook at the age of fifty-four, when she offered her services to the Church Missionary28 Society as an unpaid29 missionary.
“All for love, and no reward” may surely be said to be “A. L. O. E.’s” watchword, as, with untiring energy, she laboured amongst the children in a distant part of the empire. Even there she was busy as an author. By her fertile pen she could reach thousands in that part of India who would never see her face or hear her voice. She wrote for India as she had written for England, ever keeping before her the good of her readers. The Hindu boys and girls, as well as the children of this country, have every reason to hold her name in grateful remembrance as one of the authors who have left a mark on the reign30 of Queen Victoria.
Mrs. Ewing
There lingers over some people whom we know a nameless charm. It is difficult to define it, and yet we feel it in their presence as we feel the subtle fragrance31 of flowers, borne to us on the wings of the fresh breeze, which has wandered over gorse and heather, beds of wild hyacinth, and cowslip fields, in the early hours of a sunny spring day. A charm like this breathes over the stories which Mrs. Ewing has left as an inheritance for English children, and for their elders also, for all time. The world must be better for her work; and looking back over the sometimes toilsome paths of authorship, this surely, above all others, is the guerdon all craftswomen of the pen should strive to win.
There is nothing morbid33 or melodramatic in Mrs. Ewing’s beautiful stories. They bubble over with the joys of child-life; they bristle34 with its humour; they touch its sorrows with a tender, sympathetic hand; they lend a gentle sadness of farewell to Death itself, with the sure hope of better things to come.
It was in 1861 and 1862 that those who were looking for healthy stories for children found, in “Melchior’s
Dream and other Tales,” precisely35 what they wanted. Soon after, Aunt Judy’s Magazine, edited by Mrs. Ewing’s mother, Mrs. Gatty, made a new departure in the periodical literature for children. The numbers were eagerly looked for month by month, and the title of the magazine was given to commemorate36 the “Judy” of the nursery, who had often kept a bevy37 of little brothers and sisters happy and quiet by pouring forth38 into their willing ears stories full of the prowess of giants, the freaks of fairies, with occasional but always good-natured shafts39 aimed at the little faults and frailties40 of the listening children.
Aunt Judy’s Magazine had no contributions from Mrs. Ewing’s pen till May 1866 and May 1867. Then the delightful41 “Remembrances of Mrs. Overtheway” enchanted42 her youthful readers. Little Ida’s own story and her lonely childhood had an especial charm for them; and Mrs. Overtheway’s remembrances of the far-off days when she, too, was a child, were told as things that had really happened. And so they had! For, in the disappointment of the imaginative child who had created a fair vision from her grandmother’s description of Mrs. Anastasia Moss43 as a golden-haired beauty in rose-bud brocade, and instead, saw an old lady with sunken black eyes, dressed in feuilles mortes satin, many a child may
have found the salient parts of her own experience rehearsed!
“Alas!” says Mrs. Overtheway, when little Ida, soothed44 by her gentle voice, has fallen asleep. “Alas! my grown-up friends, does the moral belong to children only? Have manhood and womanhood no passionate45, foolish longings46, for which we blind ourselves to obvious truth, and of which the vanity does not lessen47 the disappointment? Do we not all toil32 after rose-buds to find feuilles mortes?” It is in touches like this, in her stories, that Mrs. Ewing appeals to many older hearts as well as to those of the young dreamers, taking their first steps in the journey of life.
In 1857, Juliana Horatia Gatty married Alexander Ewing, A.P.D., and for some time “Mrs. Overtheway’s Remembrances” were not continued. The last of them, “Kerguelin’s Land,” is considered by some critics the most beautiful of the series, ending with the delightful surprise of little Ida’s joy in the return of her lost father.
Mrs. Ewing’s stories are so rich in both humour and pathos48, that it is difficult to choose from them distinctive49 specimens50 of her style, and of that charm which pervades51 them, a charm which we think is peculiarly her own.
Mrs. Ewing gave an unconsciously faithful portrait of
herself in “Madam Liberality.” The reader has in this story glimpses of the author’s own heroic and self-forgetful childhood. Perhaps this tale is not as well known as some which followed it: so a few notes from its pages may not be unwelcome here.
Madam Liberality, when a little girl, was accustomed to pick out all the plums from her own slice of cake and afterwards make a feast with them for her brothers and sisters and the dolls. Oyster52 shells served for plates, and if by any chance the plums did not go round the party, the shell before Madam Liberality’s place was always the empty one. Her eldest53 brother had given her the title of Madam Liberality; and yet he could, with refreshing54 frankness, shake his head at her and say, “You are the most meanest and the generousest person I ever knew.”
Madam Liberality wept over this accusation55, and it was the grain of truth in it that made her cry, for it was too true that she screwed, and saved, and pinched to have the pleasure of “giving away.” “Tom, on the contrary, gave away without pinching and saving. This sounds much handsomer, and it was poor Tom’s misfortune that he always believed it to be so, though he gave away what did not belong to him, and fell back for the supply of his own pretty numerous wants upon other people, not forgetting Madam Liberality.”
What a clever analysis of character is this! We have all known the “Toms,” for they are numerous, and some of us have known and but scantily56 appreciated the far rarer “Madam Liberalitys.”
It is difficult to read unmoved of the brave child’s journey alone to the doctor to have a tooth taken out which had caused her much suffering. Then when about to claim the shilling from her mother, which was the accustomed reward for the unpleasant operation, she remembered the agreement was a shilling for a tooth with fangs57, sixpence for a tooth without them. She did so want the larger sum to spend on Christmas presents; so, finding a fang58 left in her jaw59, she went back to the doctor, had it extracted, and staggered home once more, very giddy but very happy, with the tooth and the fang safe in a pill box!
“Moralists say a great deal about pain treading so very closely on the heels of pleasure in this life, but they are not always wise or grateful enough to speak of the pleasure which springs out of pain. And yet there is a bliss60 which comes just when pain has ceased, whose rapture61 rivals even the high happiness of unbroken health.
“Relief is certainly one of the most delicious sensations which poor humanity can enjoy.”
Madam Liberality often suffered terrible pain from
quinsy. Thus we read sympathetically of her heroic efforts one Christmastide, when nearly suffocated62 with this relentless63 disease, to go on with her preparations to get her little gifts ready for the family. And how we rejoice when a cart rumbles64 up to the door and brings a load of beautiful presents, sent by a benevolent65 lady who has known Madam Liberality’s desire to make purchases for her brothers and sisters, and has determined66 to give her this delightful surprise.
The story of Madam Liberality, from childhood to maturity67, is, we think, written in Mrs. Ewing’s best manner, though, perhaps, it has never gained the widespread popularity of “Jackanapes,” and “The Story of a Short Life,” or “A Flat Iron for a Farthing.”
Of the last-named story Mrs. Bundle is almost the central figure. In the childhood of Reginald Dacre, who writes his own reminiscences, she played a prominent part. Loyal and true, she held the old traditions of faithful service; her master’s people were her people, and she had but few interests apart from them.
The portrait of Reginald’s mother hung in his father’s dressing-room, and was his resort in the early days of his childish sorrows. Once when his dog Rubens had been kicked by a guest in his father’s house, Reginald went to
that picture of his golden-haired mother and wept out his plaintive68 entreaties69 that “Mamma would come back to Rubens and to him—they were so miser-ra-ble.” “Then,” he says, “in the darkness came a sob70 that was purely71 human, and 1 was clasped in a woman’s arms and covered with tender kisses and soothing72 caresses73. For one wild moment, in my excitement and the boundless74 faith of childhood, I thought my mother had heard me and come back. But it was only Nurse Bundle!”
Then, passing over many years, when Reginald Dacre brought his bride to his old home, this faithful friend, after giving her loving welcome to the new Mrs. Dacre, went, in the confusion and bewilderment of old age, with its strange mingling75 of past and present, to the room where the portrait of her lost lady with the golden hair still hung; and there, the story goes on to say, “There, where years before she had held me in her arms with tears, I, weeping also, held her now in mine—quite dead!”
This is one of the most pathetic incidents in all Mrs. Ewing’s works, told without the least exaggeration and with the simplicity76 which is one of the characteristics of her style.
“Lob Lie by the Fire” contains some of the author’s brightest flashes of humour, and yet it closes with a description of Macalister’s death, drawn with the tender
hand with which that solemn mystery is ever touched by Mrs. Ewing, beautiful in its pathetic simplicity. Nothing in its way can be more profoundly touching77 than the few words which end this story:—
“After a while Macalister repeated the last word, ’Home.’ And as he spoke15 there spread over his face a smile so tender and so full of happiness that John Broom held his breath as he watched him. As the light of sunrise creeps over the face of some rugged78 rock, it crept from chin to brow, and the pale blue eyes shone, tranquil79, like water that reflects heaven. And when it had passed, it left them still open—but gems80 that had lost their ray.”
“Jackanapes” is so well known, almost the best known of the author’s charming stories, that we will not dwell on the pathos of that last scene, when Jackanapes, like one in the old allegory, heard the trumpets81 calling for him on the other side—the gallant82 boy who had laid down his life for his friend. But the character of the Gray Goose, who slept securely with one leg tucked up under her on the green, is so delightfully83 suggestive that we must give some of her wisdom as a specimen of the author’s humorous but never unkindly hits at the weaknesses to which we are all prone84.
“The Gray Goose and the big Miss Jessamine were the
only elderly persons who kept their ages secret. Indeed, Miss Jessamine never mentioned any one’s age, or recalled the exact year in which anything had happened. The Gray Goose also avoided dates. She never got farther than ‘last Michaelmas,’ ‘the Michaelmas before that,’ and ‘the Michaelmas before the Michaelmas before that.’ After this her head, which was small, became confused, and she said ‘Ga-ga!’ and changed the subject.”
Then again:
“The Gray Goose always ran away at the first approach of the caravans85, and never came back to the green till nothing was left of the fair but footmarks and oyster-shells. Running away was her pet principle; the only system, she maintained, by which you can live long and easily, and lose nothing.
“Why in the world should any one spoil the pleasures of life, or risk his skin, if he can help it?
‘What’s the use?
Said the goose.’
Before answering which one might have to consider what world, which life, and whether his skin were a goose skin. But the Gray Goose’s head would never have held all that.”
Major Ewing was stationed at Aldershot in 1869, and
during the eight years Mrs. Ewing lived there her pen was never idle. Aunt Judy’s Magazine for 1870 was well supplied with tales, of which “Amelia” is perhaps one of the best.
To her life at Aldershot we owe the story which had for its motto “L?tus sorte mea,” and which is full of the most graphic descriptions of the huts and the soldiers’ life in camp. As in the story of Madam Liberality we have glimpses of the author’s childhood with all its little cares and joys, so in the “Story of a Short Life” we have the actual of a soldier’s life in camp.
O’Reilly, the useful man of all trades, with his warm Irish heart, and his devotion to the Colonel’s wife, his erratic86 and haphazard87 way of performing his duties, his admiration88 for the little gentleman in his velvet89 coat and lace collar, who stood erect90 by his side when the funeral passed to the music of the Dead March, imitating his soldierlike bearing and salute91, is a vivid picture touched by the skilled hand of a word painter.
So also is the figure of the V.C., who in his first talk with the crippled child, stands before us as the ideal of a brave soldier, who sets but little store on his achievements, modest as the truly great always are, and encouraging the boy to fight a brave battle against irritable92 temper and impatience93 at the heavy cross of suffering laid upon him.
“‘You are a V.C.,’ Leonard is saying, ‘and you ought to know. I suppose nothing—not even if I could be good always from this minute right away till I die—nothing could ever count up to the courage of a V.C.?’
“‘God knows it could, a thousand times over,’ was the V.C.‘s reply.
“‘Where are you going? Please don’t go. Look at me. They’re not going to chop the Queen’s head off, are they?’
“‘Heaven forbid! What are you thinking about?’
“‘Why because—look at me again—ah! you’ve winked94 it away; but your eyes were full of tears, and the only other brave man I ever heard of crying was Uncle Rupert, and that was because he knew they were going to chop the poor king’s head off.’ That was enough to make anybody cry.”
They were in the room where the picture of the young cavalier ancestor of Leonard hung. He always called him “Uncle Rupert,” and he would meditate95 on the young face with the eyes dim with tears—eyes which always seemed to follow him, and, as he fancied, watched him sorrowfully, now no longer able to jump about and play with the Sweep, but lying helpless on his couch, or limping about on his crutches96, often with pain and difficulty.
This conversation between the V.C. and Leonard was the beginning of a strong friendship which was put to the test one Sunday when Leonard lay dying in the hut of his uncle, the barrack-master.
The V.C. hated anything like display or bringing himself into notice. Thus it cost him something to take up his position outside the iron church in the camp, that Leonard might hear the last verses of the tug97-of-war hymn98. The V.C.‘s attachment99 to his little friend triumphed over his dislike to stand alone singing,
“The Son of God goes forth to war,
A kingly crown to gain.”
The melodious100 voice of the gallant young soldier rang through the air and reached the dying ears of little Leonard. The soldiers loved this hymn, and the organist could never keep them back. The soldiers, the story says, had begun to tug. In a moment more the organ stopped, and the V.C. found himself with over three hundred men at his back, singing without accompaniment and in unison101:
“A noble army, men and boys,
The matron and the maid,
Around the Saviour’s throne rejoice
In robes of white arrayed.”
Even now, as the men paused to take breath after their “tug,” the organ spoke again softly but seraphically. Clearer and sweeter above the voices behind him rose the voice of the V.C. singing to his little friend:
“They climbed the steep ascent102 to Heaven
Through peril103, toil and pain.”
The men sang on, but the V.C. stopped as if he had been shot. For a man’s hand had come to the Barrack Master’s window and pulled down the blind!
Here, again, we have an instance of this author’s power to touch her readers, even to tears, by the true pathos which needs but few words to bring it home to many hearts.
Taken as a whole, “The Story of a Short Life” has, it may be, some faults of construction, which arose from its being written in detached portions. The history of St. Martin, though it is not without its bearing on the story of the beautiful and once active child’s bruised104 and broken life, and his desire to be a soldier, rather spoils the continuity of the narrative105.
“The Story of a Short Life” was not published in book form until four days before the author’s death; but it was not her last work, though from its appearance at that moment the title was spoken of by some reviewers as singularly appropriate.
Mrs. Ewing’s love for animals may be seen in all her stories—Leonard’s beloved “Sweep,” Lollo the red-haired pony106 on which Jackanapes took his first ride, and the dog in the blind man’s story dying of grief on his grave, are all signs of the author’s affection for those who have been well called “our silent friends.” Her own pets were indeed her friends—from a pink-nosed bulldog called Hector, to a refugee pup saved from the common hang-man, and a collie buried with honours, his master making a sketch107 of him as he lay on his bier.
Mrs. Ewing was passionately108 fond of flowers, and “Mary’s Meadow” was written in the last years of her life as a serial109 for Aunt Judy’s Magazine. Her very last literary work was a series of letters from a Little Garden, and the love of and care for flowers is the theme.
Much of Mrs. Ewing’s work cannot be noticed in a paper which is necessarily short. But enough has been said to show what was her peculiar gift as a writer for children.
It is sometimes said that to write books for children cannot be considered a high branch of literature. We venture to think this is a mistake. There is nothing more difficult than to arrest the attention of children. They do not as a rule care to be written down to—they can
appreciate what is good and are pleased when their elders can enter into and admire the story which has interested and delighted them.
To write as Mrs. Ewing wrote is undoubtedly110 a great gift which not many possess, but a careful study of her works by young and old authors and readers alike cannot be without benefit. She was a perfect mistress of the English language; she was never dull and never frivolous111. There is not a slip-shod sentence, or an exaggerated piling up of adjectives to be found in her pages. She knew what she had to say, and she said it in language at once pure, forcible, and graceful112.
We must be grateful to her for leaving for us, and for our children’s children, so much that is a model of all that tends to make the literature of the young—yes, and of the old also—attractive, healthy, and delightful.
The End
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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tempting
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contented
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attentive
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sloth
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| n.[动]树懒；懒惰，懒散 | |
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bondage
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peculiar
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discursive
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hindrances
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| 阻碍者( hindrance的名词复数 )； 障碍物； 受到妨碍的状态 | |
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abeyance
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rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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specimen
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ancestry
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trite
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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warehouse
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ragged
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graphic
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drawn
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farce
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recurring
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countless
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gilded
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profuse
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juvenile
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remarkable
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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missionary
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unpaid
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reign
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fragrance
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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bristle
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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36
commemorate
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| vt.纪念，庆祝 | |
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37
bevy
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| n.一群 | |
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38
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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39
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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40
frailties
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| n.脆弱( frailty的名词复数 )；虚弱；（性格或行为上的）弱点；缺点 | |
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41
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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42
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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43
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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44
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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45
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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46
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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47
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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48
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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49
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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50
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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51
pervades
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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52
oyster
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| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
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53
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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54
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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scantily
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| adv.缺乏地；不充足地；吝啬地；狭窄地 | |
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57
fangs
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| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
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58
fang
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| n.尖牙，犬牙 | |
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59
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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63
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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rumbles
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| 隆隆声，辘辘声( rumble的名词复数 ) | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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67
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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70
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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72
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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74
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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76
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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77
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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81
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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83
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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84
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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85
caravans
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| （可供居住的）拖车（通常由机动车拖行）( caravan的名词复数 )； 篷车； （穿过沙漠地带的）旅行队（如商队） | |
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86
erratic
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| adj.古怪的，反复无常的，不稳定的 | |
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87
haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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88
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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89
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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92
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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93
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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94
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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95
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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96
crutches
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| n.拐杖, 支柱 v.支撑 | |
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97
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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98
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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99
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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100
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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101
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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102
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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103
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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104
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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105
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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106
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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107
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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108
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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109
serial
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| n.连本影片，连本电视节目；adj.连续的 | |
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110
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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111
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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112
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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