The Westchester County Despair Association was founded by George Creel, who is one of our neighbors. In addition to being its founder5 he is its perpetual president. This association has a large and steadily6 growing membership. Any citybred person who moves up here among the rolling hills of our section with intent to get back to Nature, and who, in pursuance of that most laudable aim, encounters the various vicissitudes7 and the varied8 misfortunes which, it would seem, invariably do befall the amateur husbandman, is eligible9 to join the ranks.
If he builds a fine silo and promptly10 it burns down on him, as so frequently happens—silos appear to have a habit of deliberately11 going out of their way in order to catch afire—he joins automatically. If his new swimming pool won't hold water, or his new road won't hold anything else; if his hired help all quit on him in the busy season; if the spring freshets flood his cellar; if his springs go dry in August; if his horses succumb12 to one of those fatal diseases that are so popular among expensive horses; if his prize Jersey13 cow chokes on a turnip14; if his blooded hens are so busy dying they have no time to give to laying—why, then, under any one or more of these heads he is welcomed into the fold. I may state in passing that, after an experimental test of less than six months of country life, we are eligible on several counts. However, I shall refer to those details later.
Up until last spring we had been living in the city for twelve years, with a slice of about four years out of the middle, during which we lived in one of the most suburban15 of suburbs. First we tried the city, then the suburb, then the city again; and the final upshot was, we decided16 that neither city nor suburb would do for us. In the suburb there was the daily commuting17 to be considered; besides, the suburb was neither city nor country, but a commingling18 of the drawbacks of the city and the country, with not many of the advantages of either. And the city was the city of New York.
Ours, I am sure, had been the common experience of the majority of those who move to New York from smaller communities—the experience of practically all except the group from which is recruited the confirmed and incurable19 New Yorker. After you move to New York it takes several months to rid you of homesickness for the place you have left; this period over, it takes several years usually to cure you of the lure20 of the city and restore to you the longing21 for the simpler and saner22 things.
To be sure, there is the exception. When I add this qualification I have in mind the man who wearies not of spending his evenings from eight-thirty until eleven at a tired-business-man's show; of eating tired-business-man's lunch in a lobsteria on the Great White Way from eleven-thirty p. m. until closing time; of having his toes trodden upon by other tired business men at the afternoon-dancing parlor24; of twice a day, or oftener, being packed in with countless25 fellow tired business men in the tired cars of the tired Subway—I have him in mind, also the woman who is his ordained26 mate.
But, for the run of us, life in the city, within a flat, eventually gets upon our nerves; and life within the city, outside the flat, gets upon our nerves to an even greater extent. The main trouble about New York is not that it contains six million people, but that practically all of them are constantly engaged in going somewhere in such a hurry. Nearly always the place where they are going lies in the opposite direction from the place where you are going. There is where the rub comes, and sooner or later it rubs the nap off your disposition27.
The everlasting28 shooting of the human rapids, the everlasting portages about the living whirlpools, the everlasting bucking29 of the human cross currents—these are the things that, in due time, turn the thoughts of the sojourner30 to mental pictures of peaceful fields and burdened orchards31, and kindfaced cows standing knee-deep in purling brooks32, and bosky dells and sylvan33 glades34. At any rate, so our thoughts turned.
Then, too, a great many of our friends were moving to the country to live, or had already moved to the country to live. We spent week-ends at their houses; we went on house parties as their guests. We heard them babble35 of the excitement of raising things on the land. We thought they meant garden truck. How were we to know they also meant mortgages? At the time it did not impress us as a fact worthy36 of being regarded as significant that we should find a different set of servants on the premises37 almost every time we went to visit one of these families.
What fascinated us was the presence of fresh vegetables upon the table—not the car-sick, shopworn, wilted38 vegetables of the city markets, but really fresh vegetables; the new-laid eggs—after eating the other kind so long we knew they were new-laid without being told; the flower beds outside and the great bouquets39 of flowers inside the house; the milk that had come from a cow and not from a milkman; the home-made butter; the rich cream—and all.
We heard their tales of rising at daybreak and going forth41 to pick from the vines the platter of breakfast berries, still beaded with the dew. They got up at daybreak, they said, especially on account of the berry picking and the beauties of the sunrise. Having formerly42 been city dwellers43, they had sometimes stayed up for a sunrise; but never until now had they got up for one. The novelty appealed to them tremendously and they never tired of talking of it.
In the country—so they told us—you never needed an alarm clock to rouse you at dawn. Subsequently, by personal experience, I found this to be true. You never need an alarm clock—if you keep chickens. You may not go to bed with the chickens, but you get up with them, unless you are a remarkably45 sound sleeper46. When it comes to rousing the owner, from slumber47 before the sun shows, the big red rooster and the little brown hen are more dependable than any alarm clock ever assembled. You might forget to wind the alarm clock. The big red rooster winds himself. You might forget to set the alarm clock. The little brown hen does her own setting; and even in cases where she doesn't, she likes to wake up about four-forty-five and converse48 about her intentions in the matter in a shrill49 and penetrating50 tone of voice.
It had been so long since I had lived in the country I had forgotten about the early-rising habits of barnyard fowl51. I am an expert on the subject now. Only this morning there was a rooster suffering from hay fever or a touch of catarrh, or something that made him quite hoarse52; and he strolled up from the chicken house to a point directly beneath my bedroom window, just as the first pink streaks53 of the new day were painting the eastern skies, and spent fully54 half an hour there clearing his throat.
But I am getting ahead of my story. More and more we found the lure of the country was enmeshing our fancies. After each trip to the country we went back to town to find that, in our absence, the flat had somehow grown more stuffy55 and more crowded; that the streets had become more noisy and more congested. And the outcome of it with us was as the outcome has been with so many hundreds and thousands and hundreds of thousands of others. We voted to go to the country to live.
Having reached the decision, the next thing was to decide on the site and the setting for the great adventure. We unanimously set our faces against New Jersey, mainly because, to get from New Jersey over to New York and back again, you must take either the ferry or the tube; and if there was one thing on earth that we cared less for than the ferry it was the tube. To us it seemed that most of the desirable parts of Long Island were already pre雖pted by persons of great wealth, living, so we gathered, in a state of discriminating56 aloofness57 and, as a general rule, avoiding social association with families in the humbler walks of life. Round New York the rich cannot be too careful—and seldom are. Most of them are suffering from nervous culture anyhow.
Land in the lower counties of Connecticut, along the Sound, was too expensive for us to consider moving up there. But there remained what seemed to us then and what seems to us yet the most wonderful spot for country homes of persons in moderate circumstances anywhere within the New York zone, or anywhere else, for that matter—the hill country of the northern part of Westchester County, far enough back from the Hudson River to avoid the justly famous Hudson River glare in the summer, and close enough to it to enable a dweller44 to enjoy the Hudson River breezes and the incomparable Hudson River scenery.
Besides, a lot of our friends lived there. There was quite a colony of them scattered58 over a belt of territory that intervened between the magnificent estates of the multi-millionaires to the southward and the real farming country beyond the Croton Lakes, up the valley. By a process of elimination59 we had now settled upon the neighborhood where we meant to live. The task of finding a suitable location in this particular area would be an easy one, we thought.
I do not know how the news of this intention spread. We told only a few persons of our purpose. But spread it did, and with miraculous60 swiftness. Overnight almost, we began to hear from real-estate agents having other people's property to sell and from real-estate owners having their own property to sell. They reached us by mail, by telephone, by messenger, and in person. It was a perfect revelation to learn that so many perfectly61 situated62, perfectly appointed country places, for one reason or another, were to be had for such remarkable63 figures. Indeed, when we heard the actual amounts the figures were more than remarkable—they were absolutely startling. I am convinced that nothing is so easy to buy as a country place and nothing is so hard to sell. This observation is based upon our own experiences on the buying side and on the experiences of some of my acquaintances who want to sell—and who are taking it out in wanting.
In addition to agents and owners, there came also road builders, well diggers, interior decorators, landscape gardeners, general contractors64, an architect or so, agents for nurseries, tree-mending experts, professional foresters, persons desiring to be superintendent66 of our country place, persons wishful of taking care of our livestock67 for us—a whole shoal of them. It booted us nothing to explain that we had not yet bought a place; that we had not even looked at a place with the prospect68 of buying. Almost without exception these callers were willing to sit down with me and use up hours of my time telling me how well qualified69 they were to deliver the goods as soon as I had bought land, or even before I had bought it.
From the ruck of them as they came avalanching down upon us two or three faces and individualities stand out. There was, for example, the chimney expert. That was what he called himself—a chimney expert. His specialty70 was constructing chimneys that were guaranteed against smoking, and curing chimneys, built by others, which had contracted the vice71. The circumstance of our not having any chimneys of any variety at the moment did not halt him when I had stated that fact to him. He had already removed his hat and overcoat and taken a seat in my study, and he continued to remain right there. He seemed comfortable; in fact, I believe he said he was comfortable.
From chimneys he branched out into a general conversation with me upon the topics of the day.
In my time I have met persons who knew less about a wider range of subjects than he did, but they had superior advantages over him. Some had traveled about over the world, picking up misinformation; some had been educated into a broad and comprehensive ignorance. But here was a self-taught ignoramus—one, you might say, who had made himself what he was. He may have known all about the habits and shortcomings of flues; but, once you let him out of a chimney, he was adrift on an uncharted sea of mispronounced names, misstated facts and faulty dates.
We discussed the war—or, rather, he erroneously discussed it. We discussed politics and first one thing and then another, until finally the talk worked its way round to literature; and then it was he told me I was one of his favorite authors. "Well," I said to myself, at that, "this person may be shy in some of his departments, but he's all right in others." And then, aloud, I told him that he interested me and asked him to go on.
"Yes, sir," he continued; "I don't care what anybody says, you certainly did write one mighty73 funny book, anyhow. You've wrote some books that I didn't keer so much for; but this here book, ef it's give me one laugh it's give me a thousand! I can come in dead tired out and pick it up and read a page—yes, read only two or three lines sometimes—and just natchelly bust74 my sides. How you ever come to think up all them comical sayings I don't, for the life of me, see! I wonder how these other fellers that calls themselves humorists have got the nerve to keep on tryin' to write when they read that book of yours."
"What did you say the name of this particular book was?" I asked, warming to the man in spite of myself.
"It's called Fables75 in Slang," he said.
I did not undeceive him. He had spoiled my day for me. Why should I spoil his?
Then, there was the persistent76 nursery-man's agent, with the teeth. He was the most toothsome being I ever saw. The moment he came in, the thought occurred to me that in his youth somebody had put tooth powders into his coffee. He may not have had any more teeth than some people have, but he had a way of presenting his when he smiled or when he spoke77, or even when his face was in repose78, which gave him the effect of being practically all teeth. Aside from his teeth, the most noticeable thing about him was his persistence79. I began protesting that it would be but a waste of his time and mine to take up the subject of fruit and shade trees and shrubbery, because, even though I might care to invest in his lines, I had at present no soil in which to plant them. But he seemed to regard this as a mere80 technicality on my part, and before I was anywhere near done with what I meant to say to him he had one arm round me and was filling my lap and my arms and my desk-top with catalogues, price lists, illustrations in color, order slips, and other literature dealing81 with the products of the house he represented.
I did my feeble best to fight him off; but it was of no use. He just naturally surrounded me. Inside of three minutes he had me as thoroughly mined, flanked and invested as though he'd been Grant and I'd been Richmond. I could tell he was prepared to stay right on until I capitulated.
So, in order for me to be able to live my own life, it became necessary to give him an order. I made it as small an order as possible, because, as I have just said and as I told him repeatedly, I had no place in which to plant the things I bought of him, and could not tell when I should have a place in which to plant them. That petty detail did not concern him in the least. He promised to postpone82 delivery until I had taken title to some land somewhere; and then he smiled his all-ivory smile and released me from captivity83, and took his departure.
Two months later, when we had joined the landed classes, the consignment84 arrived—peach, pear, quince, cherry and apple. I was quite shocked at the appearance of the various items when we undid85 the wrappings. The pictures from which I had made my selections showed splendid trees, thick with foliage86 and laden87 with the most delicious fruit imaginable. But here, seemingly, was merely a collection of golf clubs in a crude and unfinished state—that is to say, they were about the right length and the right thickness to make golf clubs, but were unfinished to the extent that they had small tentacles88 or roots adhering to them at their butt40 ends.
However, our gardener—we had acquired a gardener by then—was of the opinion that they might develop into something. Having advanced this exceedingly sanguine89 and optimistic belief, he took out a pocket-knife and further maimed the poor little things by pruning90 off certain minute sprouts91 or nubs or sprigs that grew upon them; and then he stuck them in the earth. Nevertheless, they grew. At this hour they are still growing, and in time I think they may bear fruit. As a promise of future productivity they bore leaves during the summer—not many leaves, but still enough leaves to keep them from looking so much like walking sticks, and just enough leaves to nourish certain varieties of worms.
I sincerely trust the reader will not think I have been exaggerating in detailing my dealings with the artificers, agents and solicitors92 who descended93 upon us when the hue94 and cry—personally I have never seen a hue, nor, to the best of my knowledge, have I ever heard one; but it is customary to speak of it in connection with a cry and I do so—when, as I say, the presumable hue and the indubitable cry were raised in regard to our ambition to own a country place. Believe me, I am but telling the plain, unvarnished truth. And now we come to the home-seeking enterprise:
Sometimes alone, but more frequently in the company of friends, we toured Westchester, its main highways and its back roads, its nooks and its corners, until we felt that we knew its topography much better than many born and reared in it. Reason totters95 on her throne when confronted with the task of trying to remember how many places we looked at—places done, places overdone96, places underdone, and places undone97. Wherever we went, though, one of two baffling situations invariably arose: If we liked a place the price for that place uniformly would be out of our financial reach. If the price were within our reach the place failed to satisfy our desires.
After weeks of questing about, we did almost close for one estate. It was an estate where a rich man, who made his money in town and spent it in the country, had invested a fortune in apple trees. The trees were there—several thousand of them; but they were all such young trees. It would be several years before they would begin to bear, and meantime the services of a small army of men would be required to care for the orchards and prune98 them, and spray them, and coddle them, and chase insects away from them. I calculated that if we bought this place it would cost me about seven thousand dollars a year for five years ahead in order to enjoy three weeks of pink-and-white beauty in the blossoming time each spring.
Besides, it occurred to me that by the time the trees did begin to bear plentifully99 the fashionable folk in New York might quit eating apples; in which case everybody else would undoubtedly100 follow suit and quit eating them too. Ours is a fickle101 race, as witness the passing of the vogue102 for iron dogs on front lawns, and for cut-glass vinegar cruets on the dinner table; and a lot of other things, fashionable once but unfashionable now.
Also, the house stood on a bluff103 directly overlooking the river, with the tracks of the New York Central in plain view and trains constantly ski-hooting by. At the time of our inspection104 of the premises, long restless strings105 of freight cars were backing in and out of sidings not more than a quarter of a mile away. We were prepared, after we had moved to the country, to rise with the skylarks, but we could not see the advantage to be derived106 from rising with the switch engines. Switch engines are notorious for keeping early hours; or possibly the engineers suffer from insomnia107.
At length we decided to buy an undeveloped tract65 and do our own developing. In pursuance of this altered plan we climbed craggy heights with fine views to be had from their crests108, but with no water anywhere near; and we waded109 through marshy110 meadows, where there was any amount of water but no views. This was discouraging; but we persevered111, and eventually perseverance112 found its reward. Thanks to some kindly113 souls who guided us to it, we found what we thought we wanted.
We found a sixty-acre tract on a fine road less than a mile and a half from one of the best towns in the lower Hudson Valley. It combined accessibility with privacy; for after you quitted the cleared lands at the front of the property, and entered the woodland at the back, you were instantly in a stretch of timber which by rights belonged in the Adirondacks. About a third of the land was cleared—or, rather, had been cleared once upon a time. The rest was virgin114 forest running up to the comb of a little mountain, from the top of which you might see, spread out before you and below you, a panorama115 with a sweep of perhaps forty miles round three sides of the horizon.
There were dells, glades, steep bluffs116 and rolling stretches of fallow land; there were seven springs on the place; there was a cloven rift72 in the hill with a fine little valley at the bottom of it, and the first time I clambered up its slope from the bottom I flushed a big cock grouse117 that went booming away through the underbrush with a noise like a burst of baby thunder. That settled it for me. All my life I have been trying to kill a grouse on the wing, and here was a target right on the premises. Next day we signed the papers and paid over the binder118 money. We were landowners. Presently we had a deed in the safe-deposit box and some notes in the bank to prove it.
Over most of our friends we had one advantage. They had taken old-fashioned farms and made them over into modern country places. But once upon a time, sixty or seventy years back, the place of which we were now the proud proprietors119 had been the property of a man of means and good taste, a college professor; and, by the somewhat primitive120 standards of those days, it had been an estate of considerable pretensions121.
This gentleman had done things of which we were now the legatees. For example, he had spared the fine big trees, which grew about the dooryard of his house; and when he had cleared the tillable acres he had left in them here and there little thickets122 and little rocky copses which stood up like islands from the green expanses of his meadows. The pioneer American farmer's idea of a tree in a field or on a lawn was something that could be cut down right away. Also the original owner had planted orchards of apples and groves123 of cherries; and he had thrown up stout124 stone walls, which still stood in fair order.
But—alas!—he had been dead for more than forty years. And during most of those forty years his estate had been in possession of an absentee landlord, a woman, who allowed a squatter125 to live on the property, rent free, upon one unusual condition—namely, that he repair nothing, change nothing, improve nothing, and, except for the patch where he grew his garden truck, till no land. As well as might be judged by the present conditions, the squatter had lived up to the contract. If a windowpane was smashed he stuffed up the orifice with rags; if a roof broke away he patched the hole with scraps126 of tarred paper; if a tree fell its molder-ing trunk stayed where it lay; if brambles sprang up they flourished unvexed by bush hook or pruning blade.
Buried in this wilderness127 was an old frame residence, slanting128 tipsily on its rotted sills; and the cellar under it was a noisome129 damp hole, half filled with stones that had dropped out of the tottering130 foundation walls. There was a farmer's cottage which from decay and neglect seemed ready to topple over; likewise the remains131 of a cow barn, where no self-respecting cow would voluntarily spend a night; the moldy132 ruins of a coach house, an ice house and a chicken house; and flanking these, piles of broken, crumbling133 boards to mark the sites of sundry134 cribs and sheds.
The barn alone had resisted neglect and the gnawing135 tooth of time. This was because it had been built in the time when barns were built to stay. It had big, hand-hewn oak sticks for its beams and rafters and sills; and though its roof was a lacework of rotted shingles136 and its sides were full of gaps to let the weather in, its frame was as solid and enduring as on the day when it was finished. This, in short and in fine, was what we in our ignorance had acquired. To us it was a splendid asset. Persons who knew more than we did might have called it a liability.
All our friends, though, were most sanguine and most cheerful regarding the prospect. Jauntily137 and with few words they dismissed the difficulties of the prospect that faced us; and with the same jauntiness138 we, also, dismissed them.
"Oh, you won't have so very much to do!" I hear them saying. "To be sure, there's a road to be built—not over a quarter of a mile of road, exclusive of the turnround at your garage—when you've built your garage—and the turn in front of your house—when you've built your house. It shouldn't take you long to clear up the fields and get them under cultivation139. All you'll have to do there is pick the loose stones off of them and plow140 the land up, and harrow it and grade it in places, and spread a few hundred wagonloads of fertilizer; and then sow your grass seed. That old horsepond yonder will make you a perfectly lovely swimming pool, once you've cleaned it out and deepened it at this end, and built retaining walls round it, and put in a concrete basin, and waterproofed141 the sides and bottom. You must have a swimming pool by all means!
"And then, by running a hundred-foot dam across that low place in the valley you can have a wonderful little lake. You surely must have a lake to go with the swimming pool! Then, when you've dug your artesian well, you can couple up all your springs for an emergency supply. You know you can easily pipe the spring water into a tank and conserve142 it there. Then you'll have all the water you possibly can need—except, of course, in very dry weather in mid-summer.
"And, after that, when you've torn the old house down and put up your new house, and built your barn and your stable, and your farmer's cottage and your ice house, and your greenhouses, and your corn-crib, and your tool-shed, and your tennis court, and laid out some terraces up on that hillside yonder, and planned out your flower gardens and your vegetable garden, and your potato patch and your corn patch, and stuck up your chicken runs, and bought your work stock and your cows and chickens and things—oh, yes, and your kennels143, if you are going in for dogs—No? All right, then; never mind the kennels. Anyhow, when you've done those things and set out your shrubs144 and made your rose beds and planted your grapevines, you'll be all ready just to move right in and settle down and enjoy yourselves."
I do not mean that all of these suggestions came at once. As here enumerated145 they represent the combined fruitage of several conversations on the subject. We listened attentively146, making notes of the various notions for our comfort and satisfaction as they occurred to others. If any one had advanced the idea that we should install a private race track, and lay out nine holes, say, of a private golf course, we should have agreed to those items too. These things do sound so easy when you are talking them over and when the first splendid fever of land ownership is upon you!
Had I but known then what I know now! These times, when, going along the road, I pass a manure147 heap I am filled with envy of the plutocrat who owns it, though, at the same time, deploring148 the vulgar ostentation149 that leads him to spread his wealth before the view of the public. When I see a masonry150 wall along the front of an estate I begin to make mental calculations, for I understand now what that masonry costs, and know that it is cheaper, in the long run, to have your walls erected151 by a lapidary152 than by a union stonemason.
And as for a bluestone road—well, you, reader, may think bluestone is but a simple thing and an inexpensive one. Just wait until you have had handed to you the estimates on the cost of killing153 the nerve and cleaning out the cavities and inserting the fillings, and putting in the falsework and the bridgework, and the drains and the arches—and all! You might think dentists are well paid for such jobs; but a professional road contractor—I started to say road agent—makes any dentist look a perfect piker.
And any time you feel you really must have a swimming pool that is all your very own, take my advice and think twice. Think oftener than twice; and then compromise on a neat little outdoor sitz bath that is all your very own.
But the inner knowledge of these things was to come to us later. For the time being, pending23 the letting of contracts, we were content to enjoy the two most pleasurable sensations mortals may know—possession and anticipation154: the sense of the reality of present ownership and, coupled with this, dreams of future creation and future achievement. We were on the verge155 of making come true the treasured vision of months—we were about to become abandoned farmers.
No being who is blessed with imagination can have any finer joy than this, I think—the joy of proprietorship156 of a strip of the green footstool. The soil you kick up when you walk over your acres is different soil from that which you kick up on your neighbor's land—different because it is yours. Another man's tree, another man's rock heap, is a simple tree or a mere rock heap, as the case may be; and nothing more. But your tree and your rock heap assume a peculiar157 value, a special interest, a unique and individual picturesqueness158.
And oh, the thrill that permeates159 your being when you see the first furrow160 of brown earth turned up in your field, or the first shovel-load of sod lifted from the spot where your home is to stand! And oh, the first walk through the budding woods in the springtime! And the first spray of trailing arbutus! And the first spray of trailing poison ivy161! And the first mortgage! And the first time you tread on one of those large slick brown worms, designed, inside and out, like a chocolate 閏lair!
After all, it's the only life! But on the way to it there are pitfalls162 and obstacles and setbacks, and steadily mounting monthly pay rolls.
As shall presently develop.
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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touching
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thoroughly
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standing
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Founder
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steadily
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vicissitudes
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varied
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eligible
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promptly
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deliberately
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succumb
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jersey
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turnip
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suburban
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decided
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commuting
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commingling
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incurable
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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21
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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22
saner
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| adj.心智健全的( sane的比较级 )；神志正常的；明智的；稳健的 | |
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23
pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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24
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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25
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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26
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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27
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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28
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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29
bucking
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| v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的现在分词 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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30
sojourner
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| n.旅居者，寄居者 | |
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31
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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32
brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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33
sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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34
glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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35
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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36
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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37
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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38
wilted
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| （使）凋谢，枯萎( wilt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
bouquets
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| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
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40
butt
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|
| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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41
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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42
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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43
dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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44
dweller
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| n.居住者，住客 | |
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45
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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46
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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47
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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48
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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49
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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50
penetrating
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|
| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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51
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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52
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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53
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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54
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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55
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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56
discriminating
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| a.有辨别能力的 | |
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57
aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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58
scattered
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|
| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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59
elimination
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| n.排除，消除，消灭 | |
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60
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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61
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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62
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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63
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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64
contractors
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| n.（建筑、监造中的）承包人( contractor的名词复数 ) | |
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65
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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66
superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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67
livestock
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| n.家畜，牲畜 | |
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68
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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69
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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70
specialty
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| n.(speciality)特性，特质；专业，专长 | |
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71
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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72
rift
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| n.裂口，隙缝，切口；v.裂开，割开，渗入 | |
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73
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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74
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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75
fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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76
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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77
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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78
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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79
persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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80
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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81
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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82
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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83
captivity
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|
| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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84
consignment
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|
| n.寄售；发货；委托；交运货物 | |
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85
Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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86
foliage
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|
| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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87
laden
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|
| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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88
tentacles
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|
| n.触手( tentacle的名词复数 )；触角；触须；触毛 | |
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89
sanguine
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|
| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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90
pruning
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|
| n.修枝，剪枝，修剪v.修剪（树木等）( prune的现在分词 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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91
sprouts
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|
| n.新芽，嫩枝( sprout的名词复数 )v.发芽( sprout的第三人称单数 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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92
solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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93
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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94
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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95
totters
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的第三人称单数 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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96
overdone
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|
| v.做得过分( overdo的过去分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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97
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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98
prune
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| n.酶干；vt.修剪，砍掉，削减；vi.删除 | |
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99
plentifully
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| adv. 许多地，丰饶地 | |
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100
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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101
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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102
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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103
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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104
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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105
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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106
derived
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|
| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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107
insomnia
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| n.失眠，失眠症 | |
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108
crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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109
waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
marshy
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| adj.沼泽的 | |
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111
persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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113
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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114
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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115
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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116
bluffs
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| 恐吓( bluff的名词复数 )； 悬崖； 峭壁 | |
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117
grouse
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| n.松鸡；v.牢骚，诉苦 | |
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118
binder
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| n.包扎物，包扎工具；[法]临时契约；粘合剂；装订工 | |
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119
proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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120
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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121
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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122
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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123
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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125
squatter
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| n.擅自占地者 | |
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126
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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127
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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128
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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129
noisome
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| adj.有害的，可厌的 | |
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130
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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131
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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132
moldy
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| adj.发霉的 | |
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133
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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134
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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135
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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136
shingles
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| n.带状疱疹；（布满海边的）小圆石( shingle的名词复数 )；屋顶板；木瓦（板）；墙面板 | |
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137
jauntily
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| adv.心满意足地；洋洋得意地；高兴地；活泼地 | |
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138
jauntiness
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| n.心满意足；洋洋得意；高兴；活泼 | |
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139
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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140
plow
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| n.犁，耕地，犁过的地；v.犁，费力地前进[英]plough | |
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141
waterproofed
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| v.使防水，使不透水( waterproof的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
conserve
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| vt.保存，保护，节约，节省，守恒，不灭 | |
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143
kennels
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| n.主人外出时的小动物寄养处，养狗场；狗窝( kennel的名词复数 )；养狗场 | |
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144
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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145
enumerated
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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147
manure
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| n.粪，肥，肥粒；vt.施肥 | |
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148
deploring
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的现在分词 ) | |
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149
ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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150
masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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151
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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152
lapidary
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| n.宝石匠；adj.宝石的；简洁优雅的 | |
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153
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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154
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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155
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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156
proprietorship
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| n.所有（权）；所有权 | |
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157
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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158
picturesqueness
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159
permeates
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| 弥漫( permeate的第三人称单数 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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160
furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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161
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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162
pitfalls
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| （捕猎野兽用的）陷阱( pitfall的名词复数 )； 意想不到的困难，易犯的错误 | |
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