Perhaps I should say that sometimes we talk furnishings with Mistress Maude, but more often we talk farming problems, with particular reference to our own successes and the failures of our friends in the same sphere of endeavor. Indeed, farming is the commonest topic of conversation in our vicinity. Because, like us, nearly all our friends in this part of the country were formerly5 flat dwellers7 and because, like us, all of them have done a lot of experimenting in the line of intensified8, impractical9 agriculture since they moved to the country.
We seek to profit by one another's mistakes, and we do—that is, we profit by them to the extent of gloating over them. Then we go and make a few glaring mistakes on our own account, and when the word of it spreads through the neighborhood, seemingly on the wings of the wind, it is their turn to gloat. We have a regular Gloat Club with an open membership and no dues. If an amateur tiller of the soil and his wife drop in on us on a fine spring evening to announce that yesterday they had their first mess of green peas, whereas our pea vines are still in the blossoming state; or if in midsummer they come for the express purpose of informing us that they have been eating roasting ears for a week—they knowing full well that our early corn has suffered a backset—we compliment them with honeyed words, and outwardly our manner may bespeak10 a spirit of friendly congratulation, but in our souls all is bitterness.
After they have left one catches oneself saying to one's helpmeet: "Well, the Joneses are nice people in a good many respects. Jones would loan you the last cent he had on earth if you were in trouble and needed it, and in most regards Mrs. Jones is about as fine a little woman as you'd meet in a day's ride. But dog-gone it, I wish they didn't brag11 so much!" Then one of us opportunely12 recalls that last year their potatoes developed a slow and mysterious wasting disease resembling malignant13 tetter, which carried off the entire crop in its infancy14, whereas we harvested a cellarful of wonderful praties free from skin blemishes15 of whatever sort; and warmed by that delectable16 recollection we cheer up a bit. And if our strawberries turn out well or our apple trees bear heavily or our cow has twin calves17, both of the gentler sex, we lose no time in going about the countryside to spread the tidings, leaving in our wake saddened firesides and hearts all abrim with the concentrated essence of envy.
Practically all our little group specialize. We go in for some line that is absolutely guaranteed to be profitable until the expense becomes too great for a person of limited means any longer to bear up under. Then we drop that and specialize in another line, also recommended as being highly lucrative18, for so long as we can afford it; and then we tackle something else again. It is a never-ending round of new experiences, because no matter how disastrously19 one's most recent experiment has tinned out the agricultural weeklies are constantly holding forth21 the advantages of a field as yet new and untried and morally insured to be one that will yield large and nourishing dividends22. It is my sober conviction that the most inspired fiction writers in America—the men with the most buoyant imaginations—are the regular contributors to our standard agricultural journals. And next to them the most gifted romancers are the fellows who sell bulbs and seeds. They are not fabulists exactly, because fables23 have morals and frequently these persons have none, but they are inspired fancifiers, I'll tell the world.
Each succeeding season finds each family among us embarking24 upon some new and fascinating venture. For instance, I have one friend who this year went in for bees—Italian bees, I think he said they were, though why he should have been prejudiced against the native-born variety I cannot understand. He used to drop in at our place to borrow a little cooking soda25—he was constantly running out of cooking soda at his house owing to using so much of it on his face and hands and his neck for poulticing purposes—and tell us what charming creatures bees were and how much honey he expected to lay by that fall. From what he said we gathered that the half had never been told by Maeterlinck about the engaging personal habits and captivating tribal26 customs of bees; bees, we gathered, were, as a race, perhaps a trifle quicktempered and hot-headed, or if not exactly hotheaded at least hot elsewhere, but ever ready to forgive and forget and, once the heat of passion had passed, to let bygones be bygones. A bee, it seemed from his accounts, was one creature that always stood ready to meet you halfway27.
He finally gave up bee culture though, not because his enthusiasm had waned28, for it did not, but for professional reasons solely29. He is a distinguished30 actor and when he got the leading r鬺e in a new play it broke in on his study of the part to be dropping the manuscript every few minutes and grabbing up a tin dish and running out in an endeavor, by the power of music, to induce a flock of swarming31 bees to rehive themselves, or whatever it is bees are supposed to do when favored with a pie-pan solo. It seemed his bees had a perfect mania32 for swarming. The least little thing would set them off. There must have been too much artistic33 temperament34 about the premises35 for such emotional and flighty creatures as bees appear to be.
Then there was another reason: After the play went on he found it interfered36 with his giving the best that was in him to his art if he had to go on for a performance all bumpy37 in spots; also he discovered that grease paint had the effect of irritating a sting rather than soothing38 it. The other afternoon he came over and offered to give me his last remaining hive of bees. Indeed, he almost pressed them on me.
I declined though. I told him to unload his little playmates on some stranger; that I valued his friendship and hoped to keep it; the more especially, as I now confessed to him, since I had lately thought that if literature ever petered out I might take up the drama as a congenial mode of livelihood39, and in such case would naturally benefit through the good offices of a friend who was already in the business and doing well at it. Not, however, that I felt any doubt regarding my ultimate success. I do not mean by this that I have seriously considered playwriting as a regular profession. Once I did seriously consider it, but nobody else did, and especially the critics didn't. Remembering what happened to the only dramatic offering I ever wrote, I long ago made up my mind that if ever I wrote another play—which, please heaven, I shall not—I would call it Solomon Grundy, whether I had a character of that name in it or not. You may recall what happened to the original Solomon Grundy—how he was born on a Monday, began to fail on Thursday, passed away on Saturday of the same week and was laid to eternal rest on Sunday. So even though I never do another play I have the name picked out and ready and waiting.
No, my next venture into the realm of Thespis, should necessity direct my steps thither40, would land me directly upon the histrionic boards. Ever since I began to fill out noticeably I have nourished this ambition secretly. As I look at it, a pleasing plumpness of outline should be no handicap but on the contrary rather a help. My sex of course is against my undertaking41 to play The Two Orphans42, otherwise I should feel no doubt of my ability to play both of them, and if they had a little sister I shouldn't be afraid to take her on, too. But I do rather fancy myself in the title r鬺es of The Corsican Brothers. If I should show some enterprising manager how he might pay out one salary and save another, surely the idea would appeal to him; and some of these fine days I may give the idea a try. So having this contingency43 in mind I gently but firmly told my friend to take his bees elsewhere. I told him I had no intention of looking a gift bee in the mouth.
We have another neighbor who has gone in rather extensively for blooded stock with the intention ultimately of producing butter and milk for the city market. During practically all his active life he has been a successful theatrical44 manager, which naturally qualifies him for the cow business. He is doing very well at it too. So long as he continues to enjoy successful theatrical seasons he feels that he will be able to go on with cows. Being a shrewd and far seeing business man he has it all figured out that a minimum of three substantial enduring hits every autumn will justify45 him in maintaining his herd46 at its present proportions, whereas with four shows on Broadway all playing to capacity he might even increase it to the extent of investing in a few more head of registered thoroughbred stock.
From him I have gleaned47 much regarding cows. Before, the life of a cow fancier had been to me as a closed book. Generally speaking, cows, so far as my personal knowledge went, were divided roughly into regular cows running true to sex, and the other kind of cows, which were invariably referred to with a deep blush by old-fashioned maiden48 ladies. True enough, we owned cows during the earlier stages of our rural life; in fact, we own one now, a mild-eyed creature originally christened Buttercup but called by us Sahara because of her prevalent habits. But gentle bone-dry Sahara is just a plain ordinary cow of undistinguished ancestry49. In the preceding generations of her line scandal after scandal must have occurred; were she a bagpipe50 solo instead of a cow scarcely could she have in her more mixed strains than she has. We acquired her at a bargain in an auction51 sale; she is a bargain to any one desiring a cow of settled and steady habits, regular at her meals, always with an unfailing appetite and having a deep far-reaching voice. There is also an expectation that some future day we may also derive52 from her milk. However, this contingency rests, as one might say, upon the laps of the gods.
The point I am getting at though is that Sahara, whatever else of merit she may possess in the matters of a kind disposition53 and a willingness to eat whatever is put before her, is after all but a mere54 common country-bred cow; whereas the cows whose society my wealthy neighbor cultivates are the pedigreed aristocrats55 of their breed, and for buying and selling purposes are valued accordingly. Why, from the way the proprietors56 of registered cows brag about their ancient lineage and their blue-blooded forbears you might think they were all from South Carolina or Massachusetts—the cows, I mean, not necessarily the proprietors.
So it is with the man of whom I have been speaking. Having become a breeder of fancy stock he now appraises57 a cow not for what she can do on her own intrinsic merits but for the size of her family tree, provided she brings with her the documents to prove it. So far as cows are concerned he has become a confirmed ancestor worshipper. I am sure he would rather own a quarter interest in a collateral58 descendant of old Prince Bullcon the First of the royal family of the Island of Guernsey, even though the present bearer of the name were but an indifferent milker and of unsettled habits, than to be the sole possessor of some untitled but versatile59 cow giving malted milk and whipped cream. Such vagaries60 I cannot fathom61. In a democratic country like this, or at least in a country which used to be democratic, it seems to me we should value a cow not for what her grandparents may have been; not for the names emblazoned on her genealogical record, but for what she herself is.
The other Sunday we drove over to his place ostensibly to pay a neighborly call but really to plant distress62 in his fireside circle by incidentally mentioning that our young grapevines were bearing magnificently.
You see, a member of the Gloat Club is expected to work at his trade Sundays as well as weekdays; and besides we had heard that his arbors, with the coming of the autumn, had seemed a bit puny63. So the opportunity was too good to be lost and we went over.
After I had driven the harpoon64 into his soul and watched it sink into him up to the barbs65 he took me out to see the latest improvements he had made in his cow bam and to call upon the newest addition to his herd. These times you can bed a hired hand down almost anywhere, but if you go in for blooded stock you must surround them with the luxuries to which they have been accustomed, else they are apt to go into a decline. He invited my inspection66 of the porcelain-walled stalls and the patent feeding devices and the sanitary67 fixtures68 which abounded69 on every hand, and to his recently installed cream separator. In my youth the only cream separator commonly in vogue70 was the type of drooping71 mustache worn by the average deputy sheriff, and anyhow, with it, cream separating was merely incidental, the real purposes of the mustache being to be ornamental72 and impressive and subtly to convey a proper respect for the majesty73 of the law. Often a town marshal wore one too. But the modern separator is a product of science and not a gift of Nature skillfully elaborated by the art of the barber. It costs a heap of money and it operates by machinery74 and no really stylish75 dairy farm is complete without it.
When I had viewed these wonders he led me to a glorified76 pasture lot and presented me to the occupant—a smallish cow of, a prevalent henna tone. Except that she had rather slender legs and a permanent wave between the horns she seemed to my uninitiated eyes much the same as any other cow of the Jersey77 persuasion78. I realized, however, that she must be very high-church. My friend, I knew, would harbor no nonconformist cows in his place, and besides, she distinctly had the high-church manner, a thing which is indefinable in terms of speech but unmistakably to be recognized wherever found. Otherwise, though, I could observe nothing about her calculated to excite the casual passer-by. But my friend was all enthusiasm.
"Now," he said proudly, "what do you think of that for a perfect specimen79?"
"Well," I said, "anybody could tell that she's had a lot of refining influences coming into her life. She's no doubt cultured and ladylike to a degree; and she has the fashionable complexion80 of the hour and she's all marcelled up and everything, but excepting for these adornments has she any special accomplishments82 that are calculated to give her class?"
"Class!" he repeated. "Class, did you say? Say, listen! That cow has all the class there is. She's less than two years old and she cost me a cool fifteen hundred cash—and cheap at the figure, at that."
"Fifteen hundred," I murmured dazedly83. "What does she give?"
"Why, she gives milk, of course," he explained. "What else would she be giving?"
"Well," I said, "I should think that at that price she should at least give music lessons. Perhaps she does plain sewing?"
"Say," he demanded, "what do you expect for fifteen hundred dollars? Fifteen hundred is a perfectly84 ridiculous price to pay for a cow with a pedigree such as this cow has. She's registered back I don't know how far. It's the regal breeding you pay for when you get an animal like this—not the animal herself."
But I refused to be swept off my feet. Before this I had associated with royalty85. I once met a lineal descendant of William the Conqueror86; he told me so himself. Being a descendant was apparently87 the only profession he had, and I judged this cow was in much the same line of business. "Well," I replied, "all I can say is that I wouldn't care if her ancestors came over on the Mayflower—if she belonged to me she'd have to show me something in the line of special endeavor. She'd have to have talents or we'd part company pretty pronto, I'm telling you."
"It is evident you do not understand anything about blooded stock," he said. "The grandmother of this cow was insured for fifteen thousand dollars, and her great-grandfather, King Bulbul, was worth a fortune. The owner was offered fifty thousand for him—and refused it."
In my surprise I could only mutter over and over again the name of William Tell's brother. A great many people do not know that William Tell ever had a brother. His first name was Wat.
After that my friend gave me up as one hopelessly sunken in ignorance, and by a mutual88 yet unspoken consent we turned the subject to the actors' strike, which was then in full blast. But at intervals89 ever since I have been thinking of what he told me. To my way of thinking there is something wrong with the economic system of a country which saddles an income tax on an unmarried man with an income of more than two thousand dollars a year and if he be married sinks the ax into all he makes above three thousand, leaving him the interest deduction90 on the extra one thousand, amounting, I believe, to about twelve dollars and a half, for the support of his wife, on the theory that under the present scale of living any reasonably prudent91 man can suitably maintain a wife on twelve-fifty a year—I repeat, there is something radically92 wrong with a government which does this to the wage-earner and yet passes right on by a cow that carries fifteen thousand in life insurance and a bull worth fifty thousand in his own right. It amounts to class privilege, I maintain. It's almost enough to make a man vote the Republican ticket, and I may yet do it, too, sometime when there aren't any Democrats93 running, just to show how I feel about it.
Yet others of our acquaintances in the amateur-farming group have taken up fruit growing or pigeons or even Belgian hares. Belgian hares have been highly recommended to us as being very prolific94. You start in with one pair of domestic-minded Belgian hares and presently countless95 thousands of little Belgian heirs and heiresses are gladdening the landscape. From what I can hear the average Belgian hare has almost as many aunts and uncles and cousins as a microbe has. They pay well, too. You can sell a Belgian hare to almost anybody who hat never tried to eat one. But as we have only about sixty acres and part of that in woodland, we have felt that there was scarcely room enough for us to go in for Belgian hares without sacrificing space which we may require for ourselves.
Mainly our experiments have been confined to hogs96 and poultry98. I will not claim that we have been entirely successful in these directions. The trouble seems to be that our pigs are so tremendously opposed to race suicide and that our hens are so firmly committed to it. Now offhand99 you might think an adult animal of the swine family that completely gave herself over to the idea of multiplying and replenishing the earth with her species would be an asset to any farm, but in my own experience I have found that such is not always the case. Into the world a brood of little pinky-white squealers are ushered100. They grow apace, devouring101 with avidity the most expensive brands of pig food that the grocer has in stock; and then, just when your mind is filled with delectable visions of hams in the smokehouse and flitches of bacon in the cellar and tierces of lard in the cold-storage room and spare-ribs and crackling and home-made country sausage and pork tenderloins on the table—why, your prospects102 deliberately103 go and catch the hog97 cholera104 and are shortly no more. They have a perfect mania for it. They'll travel miles out of their way to catch it; they'll sit up until all hours of the night in the hope of catching105 it. Hogs will swim the Mississippi River—and it full of ice—to get where hog cholera is. Our hogs have been observed in the act of standing106 in the pen with their snouts in the air, sniffing107 in unison108 until they attracted the germs of it right out of the air. It is very disheartening to be counting on bacon worth eighty cents a pound only to find that all you have on your hands is a series of hurried interments.
In their own sphere of life turkeys are as suicidally minded as hogs are. I speak with authority here because we tried raising turkeys, too. For a young turkey to get its feet good and wet spells doom109 for the turkey, and accordingly it practically devotes its life to getting its feet wet. If it cannot escape from the pen into the damp grass immediately following a rain it will in its desperation take other measures with a view to catching its death of cold. One of the most distressing110 spectacles to be witnessed in all Nature is a half-grown feebleminded turkey obsessed111 with the maniacal112 idea that it was born a puddle113 duck, running round and round a coop trying to find a damp spot to stand on; it is a pitiful sight and yet exasperating114. In order to get its feet wet an infant turkey has been known to jump down an artesian well two hundred feet deep. This is not mere idle rumor115; it if a scientific fact well authenticated116. If somebody would only invent a style of overshoe that might be worn in comfort by an adolescent turkey without making the turkey feel distraught or self-concious, that person would confer a boon117 upon the entire turkey race and at the same time be in a fair way to reap a fortune for himself. I know that a few months back if such an article had been in the market I would gladly have taken fifty pairs, assorted118 misses' and children's sizes.
As for hens, I confess that at times I have felt like altogether abandoning my belief in the good faith and honest intentions of hens. Naturally one thinks of hens in connection with fresh-laid eggs, but my experience has been that the hen does not follow this line of reasoning. She prefers to go off on a different bent119. She figures she was created to adorn81 society, not to gladden the breakfast platter of man. Or at any rate I would state that this has been the obsession120 customarily harbored by the hens which we have owned and which we persistently121 continue, in the face of disappointment compounded, to go on owning.
We started out by buying, at a perfectly scandalous outlay122, a collection of blooded hens of the white Plymouth Rock variety. We had been told that the sun never set on a setting white Plymouth Rock hen; that a white Plymouth Rock hen which had had the right sort of influences in her life and the right sort of hereditary123 instincts to guide her in her maturer career would inevitably124 dedicate her entire being to producing eggs. And we believed it until the hens we had purchased themselves offered proof to the absolute contrary.
It was enough almost to break one's heart to see a great broad-beamed, full-busted husky hen promenading125 round the chicken run, eating her head off, gadding126 with her sister idlers, wasting the precious golden hours of daylight in idle social pursuits and at intervals saying to herself: "Lay an egg? Well, I guess not! Why should I entail127 a strain on my nervous system and deny myself the pleasures of the gay life for the sake of these people? If they were able to pay four dollars for me, sight unseen, they are sufficiently128 affluent129 to buy their own eggs. Am I right? I'll say I am!"
You could look at her expression and tell what she was thinking. And then when you went and made the rounds of the empty and untenanted nests you knew that you had correctly fathomed130 the workings of her mind.
We tried every known argument on those hens in an effort to make them see the error of their ways and the advantages of eggs. We administered to them meat scraps131 and fresh carrots and rutabagas and sifted132 gravel133 and ground-up oyster134 shells; the only result was to make them finicky and particular regarding their diet. No longer were they satisfied with the things we ate ourselves; no, they must have special dishes; they wished to be pampered135 like invalids136. We bought for them large quantities of costly137 chick feed—compounds guaranteed to start the most confirmed spinster hen to laying her head off.
So far as I might observe, this, too, was of no avail. The more confirmed imbibers of the special dishes merely developed lumpy dropsical figures and sat about in shady spots and brooded in a morbid138 way as though they had heavy loads on their minds. We killed one of them as a sacrifice to scientific investigation139 and cut her open, and lo, she was burdened inside with half-developed yolks—a case, one might say, of mislaid eggs.
In desperation I even thought of invoking140 the power of mental suggestion on them. Possibly it might help to hang up a picture of a lady sturgeon in the henhouse? Or would it avail to shoo them into a group and read aloud to them the begat chapter in the Old Testament141?
While I was considering these expedients142 some one suggested that probably the trouble lay in the fact that our fowls143 either were too highly bred or were too closely related and perhaps an infusion144 of new blood was what was needed. So now we went to the other extreme and added to our flock a collection of ordinary scrub hens, mixed as to breed and homely145 as to their outward appearance, but declared—by their former owner—to be passionately146 addicted147 to the pursuit of laying eggs. Conceding that this was true, the fact remained that immediately they passed into our possession they became slackers and nonproducers. I imagine the mistake we made was in permitting them to associate with the frivolous148 white d閎utantes we already owned; undoubtedly149 those confirmed bachelor maids put queer ideas into their heads, causing them to believe there was no nourishment150 in achieving eggs to be served up with a comparative stranger's fried ham. On the theory that they might require exercise to stimulate151 their creative faculties152 we let them range through the meadows. Some among them promptly153 deserted154 the grassy155 leas to ravage156 our garden; others made hidden nests in the edges of the thickets157, where the hawks158 and the weasels and the skunks159 and the crows might fatten160 on the fruits of their misdirected industry. So we cooped them up again in their run, whereupon they developed rheumatism161 and sore eyes and a perverted162 craving163 for eating one another's tail feathers. At present our chicken yard is nothing more nor less than a hen sanitarium. But we do not despair of ultimate success with our hens. We may have to cross them with the Potomac shad, but we mean to persevere164 until victory has perched upon our roosts. As Rupert Hughes remarked when, after writing a long list of plays which died a-borning, he eventually produced a riotous165 hit of hits: "Well, I'm only human—I couldn't fail every time."
I should have said that there is one fad166 to which all our Westchester County colony of amateur farmers are addicted. Some may pursue one agricultural hobby and some another, but almost without exception the members of our little community are confirmed hired-help fanciers. You meet a neighbor and he tells you that after a disastrous20 experience with Polled Polaks he is now about to try the White Face Cockneys; they have been highly recommended to him. And next month when you encounter him again he is experimenting with Italian road builders or Scotch167 gardeners or Swedish stable hands or Afro-American tree trimmers or what not.
One member of our group after a prolonged season of alternating hopes and disappointments during which he first hired and then for good and sufficient reasons fired representatives of nearly all the commoner varieties—plain and colored, domestic and imported, strays, culls168 and mavericks—decided to try his luck in the city at one of the employment agencies specializing in domestic servitors for country places. He procured169 the address of such an establishment and repaired thither—simply attired170 in his everyday clothes. As soon as he entered the place he realized that he was in the wrong pew; here, plainly, was a shop to which repaired the proprietors of ostentatious estates rather than the modest owners of farms, among whom he numbered himself. He tried to back out, making himself as inconspicuous as possible in so doing, but at that before he succeeded in escaping he had two good jobs offered to him—one as assistant groom171 in a racing172 stable over on Long Island and one as general handyman at a yacht club up in Connecticut. He is convinced now that the rich are so hard pressed for servants that they'll hire almost anybody without requiring references.
None of us will ever be rich; we're all convinced of that, the cost of impractical farming being what it is, but by the same token none of us would give up the pleasures of a landed proprietor's lot—the word landed being here used to imply one baited, hooked and caught; i.e., a landed sucker—for the life of a flat dweller6 again. It's a great life if a fellow doesn't weaken—and we'll never weaken.
The End
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2 entirely | |
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35 premises | |
n.建筑物,房屋 | |
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36 interfered | |
v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 );调停;妨碍;干涉 | |
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37 bumpy | |
adj.颠簸不平的,崎岖的 | |
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38 soothing | |
adj.慰藉的;使人宽心的;镇静的 | |
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39 livelihood | |
n.生计,谋生之道 | |
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40 thither | |
adv.向那里;adj.在那边的,对岸的 | |
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41 undertaking | |
n.保证,许诺,事业 | |
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42 orphans | |
孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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43 contingency | |
n.意外事件,可能性 | |
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44 theatrical | |
adj.剧场的,演戏的;做戏似的,做作的 | |
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45 justify | |
vt.证明…正当(或有理),为…辩护 | |
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46 herd | |
n.兽群,牧群;vt.使集中,把…赶在一起 | |
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47 gleaned | |
v.一点点地收集(资料、事实)( glean的过去式和过去分词 );(收割后)拾穗 | |
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48 maiden | |
n.少女,处女;adj.未婚的,纯洁的,无经验的 | |
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49 ancestry | |
n.祖先,家世 | |
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50 bagpipe | |
n.风笛 | |
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51 auction | |
n.拍卖;拍卖会;vt.拍卖 | |
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52 derive | |
v.取得;导出;引申;来自;源自;出自 | |
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53 disposition | |
n.性情,性格;意向,倾向;排列,部署 | |
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54 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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55 aristocrats | |
n.贵族( aristocrat的名词复数 ) | |
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56 proprietors | |
n.所有人,业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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57 appraises | |
v.估价( appraise的第三人称单数 );估计;估量;评价 | |
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58 collateral | |
adj.平行的;旁系的;n.担保品 | |
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59 versatile | |
adj.通用的,万用的;多才多艺的,多方面的 | |
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60 vagaries | |
n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 );异想天开;异常行为;难以预测的情况 | |
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61 fathom | |
v.领悟,彻底了解 | |
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62 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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63 puny | |
adj.微不足道的,弱小的 | |
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64 harpoon | |
n.鱼叉;vt.用鱼叉叉,用鱼叉捕获 | |
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65 barbs | |
n.(箭头、鱼钩等的)倒钩( barb的名词复数 );带刺的话;毕露的锋芒;钩状毛 | |
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66 inspection | |
n.检查,审查,检阅 | |
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67 sanitary | |
adj.卫生方面的,卫生的,清洁的,卫生的 | |
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68 fixtures | |
(房屋等的)固定装置( fixture的名词复数 ); 如(浴盆、抽水马桶); 固定在某位置的人或物; (定期定点举行的)体育活动 | |
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69 abounded | |
v.大量存在,充满,富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70 Vogue | |
n.时髦,时尚;adj.流行的 | |
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71 drooping | |
adj. 下垂的,无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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72 ornamental | |
adj.装饰的;作装饰用的;n.装饰品;观赏植物 | |
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73 majesty | |
n.雄伟,壮丽,庄严,威严;最高权威,王权 | |
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74 machinery | |
n.(总称)机械,机器;机构 | |
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75 stylish | |
adj.流行的,时髦的;漂亮的,气派的 | |
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76 glorified | |
美其名的,变荣耀的 | |
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77 jersey | |
n.运动衫 | |
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78 persuasion | |
n.劝说;说服;持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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79 specimen | |
n.样本,标本 | |
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80 complexion | |
n.肤色;情况,局面;气质,性格 | |
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81 adorn | |
vt.使美化,装饰 | |
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82 accomplishments | |
n.造诣;完成( accomplishment的名词复数 );技能;成绩;成就 | |
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83 dazedly | |
头昏眼花地,眼花缭乱地,茫然地 | |
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84 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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85 royalty | |
n.皇家,皇族 | |
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86 conqueror | |
n.征服者,胜利者 | |
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87 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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88 mutual | |
adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
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89 intervals | |
n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 );间隔时间;[数学]区间;(戏剧、电影或音乐会的)幕间休息 | |
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90 deduction | |
n.减除,扣除,减除额;推论,推理,演绎 | |
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91 prudent | |
adj.谨慎的,有远见的,精打细算的 | |
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92 radically | |
ad.根本地,本质地 | |
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93 democrats | |
n.民主主义者,民主人士( democrat的名词复数 ) | |
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94 prolific | |
adj.丰富的,大量的;多产的,富有创造力的 | |
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95 countless | |
adj.无数的,多得不计其数的 | |
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96 hogs | |
n.(尤指喂肥供食用的)猪( hog的名词复数 );(供食用的)阉公猪;彻底地做某事;自私的或贪婪的人 | |
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97 hog | |
n.猪;馋嘴贪吃的人;vt.把…占为己有,独占 | |
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98 poultry | |
n.家禽,禽肉 | |
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99 offhand | |
adj.临时,无准备的;随便,马虎的 | |
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100 ushered | |
v.引,领,陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101 devouring | |
吞没( devour的现在分词 ); 耗尽; 津津有味地看; 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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102 prospects | |
n.希望,前途(恒为复数) | |
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103 deliberately | |
adv.审慎地;蓄意地;故意地 | |
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104 cholera | |
n.霍乱 | |
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105 catching | |
adj.易传染的,有魅力的,迷人的,接住 | |
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106 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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107 sniffing | |
n.探查法v.以鼻吸气,嗅,闻( sniff的现在分词 );抽鼻子(尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气);抱怨,不以为然地说 | |
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108 unison | |
n.步调一致,行动一致 | |
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109 doom | |
n.厄运,劫数;v.注定,命定 | |
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110 distressing | |
a.使人痛苦的 | |
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111 obsessed | |
adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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112 maniacal | |
adj.发疯的 | |
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113 puddle | |
n.(雨)水坑,泥潭 | |
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114 exasperating | |
adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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115 rumor | |
n.谣言,谣传,传说 | |
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116 authenticated | |
v.证明是真实的、可靠的或有效的( authenticate的过去式和过去分词 );鉴定,使生效 | |
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117 boon | |
n.恩赐,恩物,恩惠 | |
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118 assorted | |
adj.各种各样的,各色俱备的 | |
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119 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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120 obsession | |
n.困扰,无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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121 persistently | |
ad.坚持地;固执地 | |
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122 outlay | |
n.费用,经费,支出;v.花费 | |
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123 hereditary | |
adj.遗传的,遗传性的,可继承的,世袭的 | |
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124 inevitably | |
adv.不可避免地;必然发生地 | |
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125 promenading | |
v.兜风( promenade的现在分词 ) | |
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126 gadding | |
n.叮搔症adj.蔓生的v.闲逛( gad的现在分词 );游荡;找乐子;用铁棒刺 | |
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127 entail | |
vt.使承担,使成为必要,需要 | |
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128 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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129 affluent | |
adj.富裕的,富有的,丰富的,富饶的 | |
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130 fathomed | |
理解…的真意( fathom的过去式和过去分词 ); 彻底了解; 弄清真相 | |
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131 scraps | |
油渣 | |
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132 sifted | |
v.筛( sift的过去式和过去分词 );筛滤;细查;详审 | |
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133 gravel | |
n.砂跞;砂砾层;结石 | |
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134 oyster | |
n.牡蛎;沉默寡言的人 | |
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135 pampered | |
adj.饮食过量的,饮食奢侈的v.纵容,宠,娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136 invalids | |
病人,残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
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137 costly | |
adj.昂贵的,价值高的,豪华的 | |
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138 morbid | |
adj.病的;致病的;病态的;可怕的 | |
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139 investigation | |
n.调查,调查研究 | |
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140 invoking | |
v.援引( invoke的现在分词 );行使(权利等);祈求救助;恳求 | |
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141 testament | |
n.遗嘱;证明 | |
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142 expedients | |
n.应急有效的,权宜之计的( expedient的名词复数 ) | |
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143 fowls | |
鸟( fowl的名词复数 ); 禽肉; 既不是这; 非驴非马 | |
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144 infusion | |
n.灌输 | |
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145 homely | |
adj.家常的,简朴的;不漂亮的 | |
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146 passionately | |
ad.热烈地,激烈地 | |
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147 addicted | |
adj.沉溺于....的,对...上瘾的 | |
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148 frivolous | |
adj.轻薄的;轻率的 | |
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149 undoubtedly | |
adv.确实地,无疑地 | |
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150 nourishment | |
n.食物,营养品;营养情况 | |
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151 stimulate | |
vt.刺激,使兴奋;激励,使…振奋 | |
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152 faculties | |
n.能力( faculty的名词复数 );全体教职员;技巧;院 | |
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153 promptly | |
adv.及时地,敏捷地 | |
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154 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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155 grassy | |
adj.盖满草的;长满草的 | |
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156 ravage | |
vt.使...荒废,破坏...;n.破坏,掠夺,荒废 | |
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157 thickets | |
n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 );丛状物 | |
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158 hawks | |
鹰( hawk的名词复数 ); 鹰派人物,主战派人物 | |
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159 skunks | |
n.臭鼬( skunk的名词复数 );臭鼬毛皮;卑鄙的人;可恶的人 | |
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160 fatten | |
v.使肥,变肥 | |
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161 rheumatism | |
n.风湿病 | |
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162 perverted | |
adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 );腐蚀;败坏;使堕落 | |
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163 craving | |
n.渴望,热望 | |
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164 persevere | |
v.坚持,坚忍,不屈不挠 | |
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165 riotous | |
adj.骚乱的;狂欢的 | |
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166 fad | |
n.时尚;一时流行的狂热;一时的爱好 | |
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167 scotch | |
n.伤口,刻痕;苏格兰威士忌酒;v.粉碎,消灭,阻止;adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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168 culls | |
n.挑选,剔除( cull的名词复数 )v.挑选,剔除( cull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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169 procured | |
v.(努力)取得, (设法)获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 );拉皮条 | |
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170 attired | |
adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服,使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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171 groom | |
vt.给(马、狗等)梳毛,照料,使...整洁 | |
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172 racing | |
n.竞赛,赛马;adj.竞赛用的,赛马用的 | |
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