I don’t think I like a climate which produces a thunderstorm every afternoon. One disadvantage of this electric excitement is that I hardly ever get out for a walk or drive. All day it is burning hot: if there is a breath of air, it is sultry, and adds to the oppression of the atmosphere instead of refreshing1 it. Then about midday great fleecy banks of cloud begin to steal up behind the ridge2 of hills to the south-west. Gradually they creep round the horizon, stretching their soft gray folds farther and farther to every point of the compass, until they have shrouded3 the dazzling blue sky and dropped a cool, filmy veil of mist between the sun’s fierce, steady blaze and the baked earth below. That is always my nervous moment. F—— declares I am exactly like an old hen with her chickens; and I acknowledge that I should like to cluck and call everything and everybody into shelter and safety. If little G—— is out on his pony6 alone, as is generally the case—for he returns from school early in the afternoon—and I think of the great open veldt, the rough, broken track and the treacherous7 swamp, what wonder is it that I cannot rest in-doors, but am always making bareheaded expeditions every five minutes to the brow of the hill to see if I can discern the tiny figure tearing along the open, with its floating white puggery streaming behind? The pony may safely be trusted not to loiter, for horse and cow, bird and beast, know what that rapidly-darkening shadow means, and what sudden death lurks8 within those patches of inky clouds, from which a deep and rolling murmur9 comes from time to time. I am uneasy even if F—— has not returned, for the little river, the noisy Umsindusi, thinks nothing of suddenly spreading itself far and wide over its banks, turning the low-lying ground into a lake for miles.
It is true that this may only last for a few hours, or even moments, but five minutes is quite enough to do a great deal of mischief10 when a river is rising at the rate of two feet a minute—mischief not only to human beings, but to bridges, roads and drains, as well as plantations12 and fields. Yet that tropical downpour, where the clouds let loose the imprisoned14 moisture suddenly in solid sheets of water instead of by the more slow and civilized15 method of drops, is a relief to my mind, for there are worse possibilities than a wet jacket behind those lurid16, low-hanging vapors17. There are hailstorms, like one yesterday morning which rattled18 on the red tile roof like a discharge of musketry, and with nearly as damaging an effect, for several tiles were broken and tumbled down, leaving melancholy19 gaps, like missing teeth, in the eaves. There are thunderbolts, which strike the tallest trees, leaving them in an instant gaunt and bare and shriveled, as though centuries had suddenly passed over their green and waving heads. There are flashes of lightning which dart20 through a verandah or room, and leave every living thing in it struck down dead—peals21 of thunder which seem to shake the very earth to its centre. There are all these meteorological possibilities—nay, probabilities—following fast upon a burning, hot, still morning; and what wonder is it that I am anxious and nervous until everybody belonging to me is under shelter, though shelter can only be from the driving rain or tearing gusts22 of wind? No wall or window, no bolt or bar, can keep out the dazzling death which swoops23 down in a violet glare and snatches its victims anywhere and everywhere. A Kafir washerman, talking yesterday morning to his employer in her verandah, was in the act of saying, “I will be sure to come to-morrow,” when he fell forward on his face, dead from a blinding flash out of a passing thundercloud. An old settler, a little way upcountry, was reading prayers to his household the other night, and in a second half the little kneeling circle were struck dead alongside of the patriarchal reader—dead on their knees. Two young men were playing a game of billiards24 quietly enough: one was leaning forward to make a stroke when there came a crash and a crackle, and he dropped dead with his cue in his hand. The local papers are full every day of a long list of casualties, but it is not from these sources I have drawn25 the preceding examples: I only chanced to hear them yesterday, and they all happened quite close by.
As for cattle or trees being killed, that is an every-day occurrence in summer, and even a hailstorm, so long as it does not utterly26 bombard the town and leave the houses roofless and open to wind and weather, is not thought anything of. The hail-shower of yesterday, though, bombarded my creepers and reduced them to a pitiful state in five minutes. So soon as it was possible to venture outside the house, F—— called me to see the ruin of leaf and bud which strewed27 the cemented floor of the verandah. It is difficult to describe, and still more difficult to believe, the state to which the foliage28 had been reduced. On the weather side of the house every leaf was torn off, and not only torn, but riddled29 through and through as though by a charge of swan-shot. All my young rose-shoots, climbing so swiftly up to the roof of the verandah, were snapped off and stripped of their tender leaves and pretty buds. The honeysuckles’ luxuriant foliage was all gone, lying in a wet, forlorn mass of beaten green leaves around each pillar, and there was not a leaf left on the vines. But a much more serious trouble came out of that storm. Though it has passed with the passing fury of wind and rain, still, it will always leave a feeling of insecurity in my mind during similar outbursts. The great hailstones were forced by the driving wind in immense quantities beneath the tiles, and deposited on the rude planking which, painted white, forms the ceiling. This planking has the boards wide apart, so it is not difficult to see that so soon as the warmth of the house melted the hailstones—that is, in five minutes—the water trickled30 down as through a sieve31. It was not to be dealt with like an ordinary leak: it was here, there and everywhere, on sofas and chairs, beds and writing-tables; and the moment the sun shone out again, bright and hot as ever, the contents of the house had to be turned out of doors to dry. Drying meant, however, warping32 of writing-tables, and in fact of all woodwork, and fading of chintzes, beneath the broiling33 glare of a midday sun. Such are a few of the difficulties of existence in South Africa—difficulties, however, which must be met and got over as best they may, and laughed at once they are past and over, as I am really doing in spite of my affectation of grumbling34.
A very pleasant adventure came to us the other evening, however, through one of these sudden thunderstorms. Imagine a little tea-table, with straw chairs all around it, standing35 in the verandah. A fair and pleasant view lies before us of green rises and still greener hollows, with dark dots of plantations from which peep red roofs or white gables. Beyond, again, lies Maritzburg under the lee of higher hills, which cast a deeper shadow over the picturesque37 little town. We are six in all, and four horses are being led up and down by Kafir grooms38, for their riders have come out for a breath of air after a long, burning day of semi-tropical heat, and also for a cup of tea and a chat. We were exactly even, three ladies and three gentlemen; and we grumbled40 at the weather and complained of our servants according to the usual style of South-African conversation.
Presently, some one said, “It’s much cooler now.”
“Yes,” was the answer, “but look at those clouds; and is that a river rolling down the hillside?”
Up to that moment there had not been a drop of rain, but even as the words passed the speaker’s lips a blinding flash of light, a sullen41 growl42 and a warning drop of rain, making a splash as big as half a crown at our feet, told their own story. In less time than it takes me to write or you to read the horses had been hastily led up to the stable and stuffed into stalls only meant for two, and already occupied. But Natalian horses are generally meek44, underbred, spiritless creatures, with sense enough to munch45 their mealies in peace and quiet, no matter how closely they are packed. As for me, I snatched up my tea-tray and fled into the wee drawing-room. Some one else caught up the table; the straw chairs were left as usual to be buffeted46 by the wind and weather, and we retreated to the comparative shelter of the house. But no doors or windows could keep out the torrent47 of rain which burst like a waterspout over our heads, forcing its way under the tiles, beneath the badly-fitting doors and windows, sweeping48 and eddying49 all around like the true tropical tempest it was. Claps of thunder shook the nursery, where we three ladies had taken refuge, ostensibly to encourage and cheer the nurse, but really to huddle50 together like sheep with the children in our midst. Flash after flash lit up the fast-gathering51 darkness as the storm rolled away, to end in an hour or so as suddenly as it began. By this time it was not much past six, and though the twilight52 is early in these parts, there was enough daylight still left for our guests to see their way home. So the horses were brought, adieux were made, and our guests set forth53, to return, however, in half an hour asking whether there was any other road into town, for the river was sweeping like a maelstrom54 for half a mile on either side of the frail55 wooden bridge by which they had crossed a couple of hours earlier. Now, the only other road into town is across a ford56, or “drift,” as it is called here, of the same river a mile higher up. Of course, it was of no use thinking of this way for even a moment; but as they were really anxious to get home if possible, F—— volunteered to go back and see if it was practicable to get across by the bridge. I listened and waited anxiously enough in the verandah, for I could hear the roar of the rushing river down below—a river which is ordinarily as sluggish57 as a brook58 in midsummer—and I was so afraid that F—— or one of the other gentlemen would rashly venture across. But it was not to be attempted by any one who valued his life that evening, and F—— returned joyously60, bringing our guests home as captives. It was great fun, for, in true colonial fashion, we had no servants to speak of except the nurse, the rest being Kafirs, one more ignorant than the other. And fancy stowing four extra people into a house with four rooms already full to overflowing61! But it was done, and done successfully too, amid peals of laughter and absurd contrivances and arrangements, reminding us of the dear old New Zealand days.
The triumph of condensation62 was due, however, to Charlie, the Kafir groom39, who ruthlessly turned my poor little pony carriage out into the open air to make room for some of his extra horses, saying, “It wash it, ma’—make it clean: carriage no can get horse-sickness.” And he was right, for it is certain death to turn a horse unaccustomed to the open out of his stable at night, especially at this time of year. We were all up very early next morning, and I had an anxious moment or two until I knew whether my market-Kafir could get out to me with bread, etc.; but soon after seven I saw him trudging63 gayly along with his bare legs, red tunic64 and long wand or stick, without which no Kafir stirs a yard away from home. Apropos65 of that red tunic, it was bought and given to him to prevent him from wearing the small piece of waterproof66 canvas I gave him to wrap up my bread, flour, sugar, etc. in on a wet morning. I used to notice that these perishable67 commodities arrived as often quite sopped68 through and spoiled after this arrangement about the waterproof as before, but the mystery was solved by seeing “Ufan” (otherwise John) with my basket poised69 on his head, the rain pelting70 down upon its contents, and the small square of waterproof tied with a string at each corner over his own back. That reminds me of a hat I saw worn in Maritzburg two days ago in surely the most eccentric fashion hat was ever yet put on. It was a large, soft gray felt, and, as far as I could judge, in pretty good condition. The Kafir who sported it had fastened a stout71 rope to the brim, at the extreme edge of the two sides. He had then turned the hat upside down, and wore it thus securely moored72 by these ropes behind his ears and under his chin. There were sundry73 trifles of polished bone, skewers74 and feathers stuck about his head as well, but the inverted75 hat sat serenely76 on the top of all, the soft crown being further secured to its owner’s woolly pate77 by soda-water wire. I never saw anything so absurd in my life; but Charlie, who was holding my horse, gazed at it with rapture78, and putting both hands together murmured in his best English and in the most insinuating79 manner, “Inkosi have old hat, ma’? Like dat?” He evidently meant to imitate the fashion if he could.
Poor Charlie has lost his savings—three pounds. He has been in great trouble about it, as he was saving up his money carefully to buy a wife. It has been stolen, I fear, by one of his fellow-servants, and suspicion points strongly to Tom the Pickle80, who cannot be made to respect the rights of property in any shape, from my sugar upward. The machinery81 of the law has been set in motion to find these three pounds, with no good results, however; and now Charlie avows82 his intention of bringing a “witch-finder” (that is, a witch who finds) up to tell him where the money is. I am invited to be present at the performance, but I only hope she won’t say I have got poor Charlie’s money, for the etiquette83 is that whoever she accuses has to produce the missing sum at once, no matter whether he knows anything about its disappearance84 or not.
Before I quite leave the subject of thunderstorms—of which I devoutly85 hope this is the last month—I must observe that it seems a cruel arrangement that the only available material for metaling the roads should be iron-stone, of which there is an immense quantity in the immediate86 neighborhood of Maritzburg. It answers the purpose admirably so far as changing the dismal87 swamps of the streets into tolerably hard highroads goes; but in such an electric climate as this it is really very dangerous. Since the principal street has been thus improved, I am assured that during a thunderstorm it is exceedingly dangerous to pass down it. Several oxen and Kafirs have been struck down in it, and the lightning seems to be attracted to the ground, and runs along it in lambent sheets of flame. Yet I fancy it is a case of iron-stone or nothing, for the only other stone I see is a flaky substance which is very friable89 and closely resembles slate90, and would be perfectly91 unmanageable for road-making purposes.
Speaking of roads, I only wish anybody who grumbles92 at rates and taxes, which at all events keep him supplied with water and roads, could come here for a month. First, he should see the red mud in scanty93 quantities which represents our available water-supply (except actually in the town); and next he should walk or ride or drive—for each is equally perilous—down to the town, a mile or two off, with me of a dark night. I say, “with me,” because I should make it a point to call the grumbler’s attention to the various pitfalls95 on the way. I think I should like him to drive about seven o’clock, say to dinner, when one does not like the idea of having to struggle with a broken carriage or to go the remainder of the way on foot. About 7 P. M. the light is peculiarly treacherous and uncertain, and is worse than the darkness later on. Very well, then, we will start, first looking carefully to the harness, lest Charlie should have omitted to fasten some important strap96 or buckle97. There is a track—in fact, there are three tracks—all the way down to the main road, but each track has its own dangers. Down the centre of one runs a ridge like a backbone98, with a deep furrow99 on either hand. If we were to attempt this, the bed of the pony carriage would rest on the ridge, to the speedy destruction of the axles. To the right there is a grassy100 track, which is as uneven101 as a ploughed field, and has a couple of tremendous holes, to begin with, entirely102 concealed103 by waving grass. The secret of these constant holes is that a nocturnal animal called an ant-bear makes raids upon the ant-hills, which are like mole-hills, only bigger, destroys them, and scoops104 down to the new foundation in its search for the eggs, an especial dainty hard to get at. So one day there is a little brown hillock to be seen among the grass, and the next only a scratched-up hole. The tiny city is destroyed, the fortress105 taken and razed106 to the ground. All the ingenious galleries and large halls are laid low and the precious nurseries crumbled107 to the dust. If we get into one of these, we shall go no farther (a horse broke his neck in one last week). But we will suppose them safely passed; and also the swamp. To avoid this we must take a good sweep to the left over perfectly unknown ground, and we shall be sure to disturb a good many Kafir cranes—birds who are so ludicrously like the black-headed, red-legged, white-bodied cranes in a “Noah’s ark” that they seem old friends at once. Now, there is one deep, deep ravine right across the road, and then a steep hill, halfway108 down which comes a very pretty bit of driving in doubtful light. You’ve got to turn abruptly109 to the left on the shoulder of the hill. Exactly where you turn is a crevasse110 of unknown depth, originally some sort of rude drain. The rains have washed away the hoarding111, made havoc112 around the drain, and left a hole which it is not pleasant to look into on foot and in broad daylight. But, whatever you do, don’t, in trying to avoid this hole, keep too much to the right, for there is what was once intended for a reasonable ditch, but furious torrents113 of water racing114 along have seized upon it as a channel and turned it into a river-course. After that, at the foot of the hill, lies a quarter of a mile of mud and heavy sand, with alternate big projecting boulders116 and deep holes made by unhappy wagons117 having stuck therein. Then you reach—always supposing you have not yet broken a spring—the willow119 bridge, a little frail wooden structure, prettily120 shaded and sheltered by luxuriant weeping willows121 drooping122 their trailing green plumes124 into the muddy Umsindusi; and so on to the main road into Pieter-Maritzburg. Such a bit of road as this is! It ought to be photographed. I suppose it is a couple of dozen yards wide (for land is of little value hereabouts, and we can afford wide margins125 to our highways), and there certainly is not more than a strip a yard wide which is anything like safe driving. In two or three places it is deeply furrowed127 for fifty yards or so by the heavy summer rains. Here and there are standing pools of water in holes whose depth is unknown, and everywhere the surface is deeply seamed and scarred by wagon118-wheels. Fortunately for my nerves, there are but few and rare occasions on which we are tempted59 to confront these perils128 by night, and hitherto we have been tolerably fortunate.
March 10.
You will think this letter is nothing but a jumble129 of grumbles if, after complaining of the roads, I complain of my hens; but, really, if the case were fairly stated, I am quite sure that Mr. Tetmegeier or any of the great authorities on poultry130-keeping would consider I had some ground for bemoaning131 myself. In the first place, as I think I have mentioned before, there is a sudden and mysterious disease among poultry which breaks out like an epidemic132, and is vaguely133 called “fowl-sickness.” That possibility alone is an anxiety to one, and naturally makes the poultry-fancier desirous of rearing as many chickens as possible, so as to leave a margin126 for disaster. In spite of all my incessant134 care and trouble, and a vast expenditure135 of mealies, to say nothing of crusts and scraps136, I only manage to rear about twenty-five per cent. of my chickens. Even this is accomplished137 in the face of such unparalleled stupidity on the part of my hens that I wonder any chickens survive at all. Nothing will induce the hens to avail themselves of any sort of shelter for their broods. They just squat138 down in the middle of a path or anywhere, and go to sleep there. I hear sleepy “squawks” in the middle of the night, and find next morning that a cat or owl4 or snake has been supping off half my baby-chickens. Besides this sort of nocturnal fatalism, they perpetrate wholesale139 infanticide during the day by dragging the poor little wretches140 about among weeds and grass five feet high, all wet and full of thorns and burs. But it is perhaps in the hen-house that the worst and most idiotic141 part of their nature shows itself. Some few weeks ago I took three hens who were worrying us all to death by clucking entreaties142 to be given eggs to sit upon, and established them in three empty boxes, with seven or eight eggs under each. What do you think these hens have done? They have contrived143, in the first place, to push and roll all the eggs into one nest. Then they appear to have invited every laying hen in the place into that box, for I counted forty-eight eggs in it last week. Upon these one hen sits, in the very centre. Of course, there are many eggs outside her wings, although she habitually144 keeps every feather fluffed out to the utmost; which must in itself be a fatigue145. Around her, standing, but still sitting vigorously, were three other hens covering, or attempting to cover, this enormous nestful of eggs. Every now and then they appear to give a party, for I find several eggs kicked out into the middle of the hen-house, and strange fowls146 feeding on them amid immense cackling. Nothing ever seems to result from this pyramid of feathers. It (the pyramid) has been there just five weeks now, and at distant intervals147 a couple of chickens have appeared which none of the hens will acknowledge. Sitting appears to be their one idea. They look upon chickens as an interruption to their more serious duties, and utterly disregard them. It is quite heartbreaking to see these unhappy chickens seeking for a mother, and meeting with nothing but pecks and squalls, which plainly express, “Go along, do!” One hen I have left, as advised, to her own devices, and she has shown her instinct by laying ten eggs on a rafter over the stable, upon which she can barely balance herself and them. Upon these eggs she is now sitting with great diligence, but as each chicken is hatched there is no possible fate for it but to tumble off the rafter and be killed. There is no ladder or any means of ascent148, or of descent except a drop of a dozen feet. Another hen has turned a pigeon off her nest, and insisted on sitting upon the two eggs herself. Great was her dismay, however, when she found that her babies required to be fed every five minutes, and that no amount of pecking could induce them to come out for a walk the day they were hatched. She deserted149 them, of course, and the poor little pigeons died of neglect. Now, do you not think Kafir hens are a handful for a poor woman, who has quantities of other things to do, to have to manage?
Part of my regular occupation at this time of year, when nearly every blade of grass carries a tick at its extreme tip, is to extract these pertinacious150 little beasties from the children’s legs and arms. I can understand how it is that G—— is constantly coming to me saying, “A needle, mumsy, if you please: here is such a big tick!” because he is always in the grass helping151 Charlie to stuff what he has cut for the horses into a sack or assisting some one else to burn a large patch of rank vegetation, and dislodging snakes, centipedes and all sorts of venomous things in the process,—I can understand, I say, how this mischievous152 little imp13, who is always in the front of whatever is going on, should gather unto himself ticks, mosquitoes, and even “fillies;” but I cannot comprehend why the baby, who, from lack of physical possibilities, leads a comparatively harmless and innocent existence, should also attract ticks to his fat arms and legs. I thought perhaps they might come from a certain puppy which gets a good deal of hugging up, but I am assured that a tick never leaves an animal. They will come off the grass upon any live thing passing, but they never move once they have taken hold of flesh with their cruel pincers. It is quite a dreadful thing to see the oxen “out-spanned” when they come down to the “spruit” to drink. Their dewlaps, and indeed their whole bodies, seem a mass of these horrible, swollen153, bloated insects, as big as a large pea already, but sucking away with all their might, and resisting all efforts the unhappy animals can make with tail or head to get rid of them. Whenever I see the baby restless and fidgety, I undress him, and I am pretty sure to find a tick or two lazily moving about looking for a comfortable place to settle. G—— gave me quite a fright the other day. He was nicely dressed, for a wonder, to go for a drive with me in the carriage, and was standing before my looking-glass attempting to brush his hair. Suddenly I saw a stream of blood pouring down his neck, and on examination I found that he must have dislodged the great bloated tick lying on his collar, and which had settled on a vein154 just above his ear. The creature had made quite a wound as it was being torn away by the brush, and the blood was pouring freely from it, and would not be staunched. No cold water or plaster or anything would stop it, and the end was that poor little G—— had to give up his drive and remain at home with wet cloths on his head. He was rather proud of it, all the same, considering it quite an adventure, especially as he declared it did not hurt at all. Both the children keep very well here, although they do not look so rosy155 as they used to in England; but I am assured that the apple-cheeks will come back in the winter. They have enormous appetites, and certainly enjoy the free, unconventional life amazingly; only Baby will not take to a Kafir nurse-boy. He condescends156 to smile when Charlie or any of the servants (for they all pet him a great deal) executes a war-dance for his amusement or sings him a song, but he does not like being carried about in their arms. I have now got a Kafir nurse-girl, a Christian157. She is a fat, good-tempered and very docile158 girl of about fifteen, who looks at least twenty-five years old. Baby only goes to her to pluck off the gay ’kerchief she wears on her head. When that is removed he shrieks159 to get away from her.
It is so absurd to see an English child falling into colonial ways. G—— talks to all the animals in Kafir, for they evidently don’t understand English. If one wants to get rid of a dog, it is of no use saying “Get out!” ever so crossly; but when G—— yells “Foot-sack!” (this is pure phonetic160 spelling, out of my own head) the cur retreats precipitately161. So to a horse: you must tell him to go on in Kafir, and he will not stop for any sound except a long low whistle. G—— even plays at games of the country. Sometimes I come upon the shady side of the verandah, taken up with chairs arranged in pairs along all its length and a sort of tent of rugs and shawls at one end, which is the wagon. “I am playing at trekking163, mumsy dear: would you like to wait and see me out-span? There is a nice place with water for the bullocks, and wood for my fire. Look at the brake of my wagon; and here’s such a jolly real bullock-whip Charlie made me out of a bamboo and strips of bullock-hide.” G—— can’t believe he ever played at railways or horses or civilized games, and it is very certain that the baby will trek162 and out-span so soon as he can toddle164.
We grown-up people catch violent colds here; and it is no wonder, considering the changes of weather, far beyond what even you, with your fickle165 climate, have to bear. Twenty-four hours ago it was so cold that I was glad of my sealskin jacket at six o’clock in the evening, and it was really bitterly cold at night. The next morning there was a hot wind, and it has been like living at the mouth of a furnace ever since. What wonder is it that I hear of bronchitis or croup in almost every house, and that we have all got bad colds in our throats and chests? I heard the climate defined the other day as one in which sick people get well, and well people get sick, and I begin to think it is rather a true way of looking at it. People are always complaining, and the doctors (of whom there are a great many in proportion to the population) seem always very busy. Everybody says, “Wait till the winter,” but I have been here four months now, three of which have certainly been the most trying and disagreeable, as to climate and weather, I have ever experienced; nor have I ever felt more generally unhinged and unwell in my life. This seems a hard thing to say of a climate with so good a reputation as this, but I am obliged to write of things as I find them. I used to hear the climate immensely praised in England, but I don’t hear much said in its favor here. The most encouraging remark one meets with is, “Oh, you’ll get used to it.”
Howick, March 13.
It is difficult to imagine that so cool and charming a spot as this is only a dozen miles from Maritzburg, of which one gets so tired. It must be acknowledged that each mile might fairly count for six English ones if the difficulty of getting over it were reckoned. The journey occupied three hours of a really beautiful afternoon, which had the first crisp freshness of autumn in its balmy breath, and the road climbed a series of hills, with, from the top of each, a wide and charming prospect166. We traveled in a sort of double dog-cart of a solidity and strength of construction which filled me with amazement167 until I saw the nature of the ground it had to go over. Then I was fain to confess it might have been—if such were possible—twice as strong with advantage, for in spite of care and an exceeding slow pace we bent88 our axles. This road is actually the first stage of the great overland journey to the diamond-fields, and it is difficult to imagine how there can be any transport service at all in the face of such difficulties. I have said so much about bad roads already that I feel more than half ashamed to dilate168 upon this one; yet roads, next to servants, are the standing grievance169 of Natal43. To see a road-party at work—and you must bear in mind that thousands are spent annually170 on roads—is to understand in a great measure how so many miles come to be mere171 quagmires172 and pitfalls for man and beast. A few tents by the roadside here and there, a little group of lazy, three-parts-naked Kafirs, a white man in command who probably knows as little of the first principles of roadmaking as his dog, and a feeble scratching up of the surrounding mud, transferring it from one hole to the other,—that is roadmaking in Natal, so far as it has presented itself to me. On this particular route the fixed173 idea of the road-parties—of which we passed three—was to dig a broad, wide ditch a couple of feet below the level of the surrounding country, and to pick up the earth all over it, so that the first shower of rain might turn it into a hopeless, sticky mass of mud. As for any idea of making the middle of the road higher than the sides, that appears to be considered a preposterous174 one, and is not, at all events, acted upon in any place I have seen. It was useless to think of availing ourselves of the ditch, for the mud looked too serious after last night’s heavy rain; so we kept to an older track, where we bumped in and out of holes in a surprising and bruising175 fashion. It took four tolerably stout and large horses to get us along at all; and if they had not been steadily176 and carefully driven, we should have been still more black and blue and stiff and aching than we were. I wonder if you will believe me when I say that I was assured that many of the holes were six feet deep? I don’t think our wheels went into any hole more than three feet below the rough surface. I found, however, that the boulders were worse than the holes. One goes, to a certain extent, quietly in and out of a hole, but the wheel slips very suddenly off the top of a high boulder115, and comes to the ground with a cruel jerk. There was plenty of rock in the hillside, so every now and then the holes would be filled up by boulders, and we crawled for some yards over ground which had the effect of an exceedingly rough wall having tumbled down over it. If one could imagine Mr. MacAdam’s idea carried out in Brobdingnag, one would have some faint notion of the gigantic proportions of the hardening material on that road.
It was—as is often the case where an almost tropical sun draws up the moisture from the earth—a misty177 evening, and the distant view was too vague and vaporous to leave any distinct picture on my memory. Round Howick itself are several little plantations in the clefts179 of the nearest downs, and each plantation11 shelters a little farm or homestead. We can only just discern in more distant hollows deep blue-black shadows made by patches of real native forest, the first I have seen; but close at hand the park-like country is absolutely bare of timber save for these sheltering groups of gum trees, beneath whose protection other trees can take root and flourish. Gum trees seem the nurses of all vegetation in a colony: they drain a marshy180 soil and make it fit for a human dwelling-place wherever they grow. There you see also willows with their delicate tender leaves, and sentinel poplars whose lightly-poised foliage keeps up a cool rustle181 always. But now the road is getting a trifle better, and we are beginning to drop down hill. Hitherto it has been all stiff collar-work, and we have climbed a thousand feet or more above Maritzburg. It is closing in quite a cold evening, welcome to our sun-baked energies, as we drive across quite an imposing182 bridge (as well it may be, for it cost a good many thousand pounds) which spans the Umgeni River, and so round a sharp turn and up a steepish hill to where the hotel stands amid sheltering trees and a beautiful undergrowth of ferns and arum lilies. Howick appears to be all hotel, for two have already been built, and a third is in progress. A small store and a pretty wee church are all the other component183 parts of the place. Our hotel is delightful184, with an enchanting185 view of the Umgeni widening out as it approaches the broad cliff from which it leaps a few hundred yards farther on.
Now, ever since I arrived in Natal I have been pining to see a real mountain and a real river—not a big hill or a capricious spruit, sometimes a ditch and sometimes a lake, but a respectable river, too deep to be muddy. Here it is before me at last, the splendid Umgeni, curving among the hills, wide and tranquil186, yet with a rushing sound suggestive of its immense volume. We can’t waste a moment in-doors: not even the really nice fresh butter—and what a treat that is you must taste Maritzburg butter to understand—nor the warm tea can detain us for long. We snatch up our shawls and run out in the gloaming to follow the river’s sound and find out the spot where it leaps down. It is not difficult, once we are in the open air, to decide in which direction we must go, and for once we brave ticks, and even snakes, and go straight across country through the long grass. There it is. Quite suddenly we have come upon it, so beautiful in its simplicity187 and grandeur188, no ripple189 or break to confuse the eye and take away the sense of unity190 and consolidation191. The river widens, and yet hurries, gathering up strength and volume until it reaches that great cliff of iron-stone. You could drop a plumb-line over it, so absolutely straight is it for three hundred and fifty feet. I have seen other waterfalls in other parts of the world, but I never saw anything much more imposing than this great perpendicular192 sheet of water broken into a cloud of spray and foam193 so soon as it touches the deep, silent basin below. The water is discolored where it flings itself over the cliff, and there are tinges194 and stains of murky195 yellow on it there, but the spray which rises up from below is purer and whiter than driven snow, and keeps a great bank of lycopodium moss196 at the foot of the cliff, over which it is driven by every breath of air, fresh and young and vividly197 green. Many rare ferns and fantastic bushes droop123 on either side of the great fall—droop as if they too were giddy with the noise of the water rushing past them, and were going to fling themselves into the dark pools below. But kindly198 Nature holds them back, for she needs the contrast of branch and stem to give effect to the purity of the falling water. Just one last gleam of reflected sunlight gilded199 the water’s edge where it dashed over the cliff, and a pale crescent moon hung low over it in a soft “daffodil sky.” It was all ineffably200 beautiful and poetic201, and the roar of the falling river seemed only to bring out with greater intensity202 the absolute silence of the desolate203 spot and the starlight hour.
March 15.
If the fall was beautiful in the mysterious gloaming, it looks a thousand times more fair in its morning splendor204 of sunshine. The air here is pleasant—almost cold, and yet deliciously balmy. It is certainly an enchanting change from Pieter-Maritzburg, were it not for the road which lies between. It is not, however, a road at all. What is the antithesis205 of a road, I wonder—the opposite of a road? That is what the intervening space should be called. After the river takes its leap it moves quietly away among hills and valleys, a wide sheet of placid206 water, as though there was nothing more needed in the way of exertion207. I hear there are some other falls, quite as characteristic in their way, a few miles farther in the interior, but as the difficulty of getting to them is very great they must wait until we can spare a longer time here. To-day we drove across frightful208 places until we got on a hill just opposite the fall. I am not generally nervous, but I confess to a very bad five minutes as we approached the edge of the cliff. The brake of the dog-cart was hard down, but the horses had their ears pricked209 well forward and were leaning back almost on their haunches as we moved slowly down the grassy incline. Every step seemed as if it would take us right over the edge, and the roar and rush of the falling water opposite appeared to attract and draw us toward itself in a frightful and mysterious manner. I was never more thankful in my life than when the horses stood stark210 still, planted their fore36 feet firmly forward, and refused, trembling all over, to move an inch nearer. We were not really so very close to the edge, but the incline was steep and the long grass concealed that there was any ground beyond. After all, I liked better returning to a cliff a good deal nearer to the falls, where a rude seat of stones had been arranged on a projecting point from whence there was an excellent view. I asked, as one always does, whether there had ever been any accidents, and among other narratives211 of peril94 and disaster I heard this one.
Some years ago—nothing would induce the person who told me the story to commit himself to any fixed period or any nearer date than this—a wagon drawn by a long team of oxen was attempting to cross the “drift,” or ford, which used to exist a very short way above the falls. I saw the spot afterward212, and it really looked little short of madness to have attempted to establish a ford so near the place where the river falls over this great cliff. They tried to build a bridge, even, at the same spot, but it was swept away over and over again, and some of the buttresses213 remain standing to this day. One of them rests on a small islet between the river and the cliff, only a few yards away from the brink214 of the precipice215. It is a sort of rudimentary island, formed by great blocks of stone and some wind-blown earth in which a few rank tufts of grass have taken root, binding216 it all together. But this island does not divide the volume of water as it tumbles headlong over the cliff, for the river is only parted by it for a brief moment. It sweeps rapidly round on either side of the frail obstacle, and then unites itself again into a broad sheet just before its leap. The old boers used to imagine that this island broke the force of the current, and would protect them from being carried over the falls by it. In winter, when the water is low and scarce, this may be so, but in summer it is madness to trust to it. Anyway, the Dutchman got his team halfway across, a Kafir sitting in the wagon and driving, another lad acting217 as “forelooper” and guiding the “span” (as a team is called here). The boer prudently218 rode, and had no sooner reached the midstream than he perceived the current to be of unusual depth and swiftness. He managed, however, to struggle across to the opposite bank, and from thence he beheld219 his wagon overturn, his goods wash out of it and sweep like straws over the precipice: as for the poor little forelooper, nobody knows what became of him. The overturned wagon, with the struggling oxen still yoked220 to it and the Kafir driver clinging on, swept to the edge of the falls. There a lucky promontory221 of this miniature island caught and held it fast, drowning some of the poor bullocks indeed, but saving the wagon. Doubtless, the Kafir might easily have saved himself, for he had hold of the wagon when it was checked in its rapid rush. But instead of grasping at bush or rock, at a wheel or the horn of a bullock, he stood straight up, holding his whip erect222 in his right hand, and with one loud defiant223 whoop224 of exultation225 jumped straight over the fearful ledge5. His master said the fright must have driven him mad, for he rode furiously along the bank shouting words of help and encouragement, which probably the poor Kafir never heard, for he believed his last hour had come and sprang to meet the death before him with that dauntless bravery which savages226 so often show in the face of the inevitable227. As one sat in safety and looked at the rushing, irresistible228 water, one could easily picture to one’s self the struggling pile of wagon and oxen in the water just caught back at the edge, the frantic229 horseman by the river-side gesticulating wildly, and the ebony figure erect and fearless, with the long streaming whip held out, taking that desperate leap as though of his own free will.
I think we spent the greater part of the day at the fall, looking at it under every effect of passing cloud-shadow or sunny sky, beneath the midday brilliancy of an almost tropical sun and in the soft pearly-gray tints230 of the short twilight. The young moon set almost as soon as she rose, and gave no light to speak of: it was therefore no use stumbling in the dark to the edge of so dangerous a cleft178 when we could see nothing except the ghostly shimmer231 of spray down below, and only hear the ceaseless roar of the water. So how do you think we amused ourselves after our late dinner? We went to a traveling circus advertised to play at Howick “for one night only.” That is to say, it was not there at all, because the wagons had all stuck fast in some of the holes in that fearful road. But the performing dogs and ponies232 had not stuck, nor the “boneless boy”. “He could not stick anywhere,” as G—— remarked, and they held a little performance of their own in a room at the other hotel. Thither233 we stumbled through pitchy darkness at nine o’clock, G—— insisting on being taken out of bed and dressed again to come with us. There was a good deal of difference between the behavior and demeanor234 of the black and white spectators of that small performance. The Kafirs sat silent, dignified235 and attentive236, gazing with wide-open eyes at the “boneless boy,” who turned himself upside down and inside out in the most perplexing fashion. “What do you think of it?” I asked a Kafir who spoke237 English. “Him master take all him bone out ’fore him begin, inkosa-casa: when him finish, put ’em all back again inside him;” and indeed that was what our pliable238 friend looked like. We two ladies—for I had the rare treat of a charming companion of my own “sect” on this occasion—could not remain long, however, on account of our white neighbors. Many were drunk, all were uproarious. They lighted their cigars with delightful colonial courtesy and independence, and called freely for more liquor; so we were obliged to leave the boneless one in the precise attitude of one of those porcelain239 grotesque240 monsters one sees, his feet held tightly in his hands on either side of his little grinning Japanese face, and his body disposed comfortably in an arch over his head. Even G—— had to give up and come away, for he was stifled241 by smoke and frightened by the noise. The second rank of colonists242 here do not seem to me to be drawn from so respectable and self-respecting a class as those I came across in New Zealand and Australia. Perhaps it is demoralizing to them to find themselves, as it were, over the black population whom they affect to despise and yet cannot do without. They do not seem to desire contact with the larger world outside, nor to receive or welcome the idea of progress which is the life-blood of a young colony. Natal resembles an overgrown child with very bad manners and a magnificent ignorance of its own shortcomings.
At daylight next morning we were up betimes and made an early start, so as to avoid the heat of the morning sun. A dense243 mist lay close to the earth as far as the eye could reach, and out of its soft white billows only the highest of the hilltops peeped like islands in a lake of fleecy clouds. We bumped along in our usual style, here a hole, there a boulder, slipping now on a steep cutting—for this damp mist makes the hillsides very “greasy,” as our driver remarked—climbing painfully over ridge after ridge, until we came to the highest point of the road between us and Maritzburg. Here we paused for a few moments to breathe our panting team and to enjoy the magnificent view. I have at last seen a river worthy244 of the name, and now I see mountains—not the incessant rising hills which have opened out before me in each fresh ascent, but a splendid chain of lofty mountains—not peaks, for they are nearly all cut quite straight against the sky, but level lines far up beyond the clouds, which are just flushing red with the sunrise. The mountains are among and behind the clouds, and have not yet caught any of the light and color of the new day. They loom245 dimly among the growing cloud-splendors, cold and ashen246 and sombre, as befits their majestic247 outlines. These are the Drakenfels, snow-covered except in the hottest weather. I miss the serrated peaks of the Southern Alps and the grand confusion of the Himalayan range. These mountains are lofty, indeed rise far into cloudland, but except for a mighty248 crag or a huge notch249 here and there they represent a series of straight lines against the sky. This is evidently the peculiarity250 of the mountain-formation of South Africa. I noticed it first in Table Mountain at Cape251 Town: it is repeated in every little hill between D’Urban and Maritzburg, and now it is before me, carried out on a gigantic scale in this splendid range. My eye is not used to it, I suppose, for I hear better judges of outline and proportion than I am declare it is characteristic and soothing252, with all sorts of complimentary253 adjectives to which I listen in respectful silence, but with which I cannot agree in my secret heart. I like mountains to have peaks for summits, and not horizontal lines, no matter how lofty these lines may be. It was a beautiful scene, for from the Drakenfels down to where we stood there rolled a very ocean of green, billowy hills, softly folded over each other, with delicious purple shadows in their hollows and shining pale-green lights on their sunny slopes. We had left the Umgeni so far behind that it only showed like a broad silver ribbon here and there, while the many red roads stretching away into the background certainly derived254 enchantment255 from distance. The foreground was made lively by an encampment of wagons which were just going to “in-span” and start. The women fussed about the gypsy-like fires getting breakfast, the Kafirs shouted to the bullocks prudently grazing until the last moment, and last, not least, to the intense delight of G——, four perfectly tame ostriches256 were walking leisurely257 among the wagons eating food out of the children’s hands and looking about for “digesters” among the grass. I felt inclined to point out the boulders with which the road was strewn to their favorable notice. They had come from far in the interior, from the distant borders of the Transvaal, a weary way off. These ostriches were the family pets, and were going to be sold and sent to England. The travelers—“trekkers” is the correct word—expected to get at least thirty-five pounds each for these splendid male birds in full plumage, and they were probably worth much more. We made a fresh start from this, and the best of our way into Maritzburg before the sun became too overpowering.
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1
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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8
lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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9
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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imp
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| n.顽童 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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vapors
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| n.水汽，水蒸气，无实质之物( vapor的名词复数 )；自夸者；幻想 [药]吸入剂 [古]忧郁（症）v.自夸，（使）蒸发( vapor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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peals
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| n.（声音大而持续或重复的）洪亮的响声( peal的名词复数 )；隆隆声；洪亮的钟声；钟乐v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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22
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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23
swoops
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| 猛扑，突然下降( swoop的名词复数 ) | |
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billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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riddled
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| adj.布满的；充斥的；泛滥的v.解谜，出谜题(riddle的过去分词形式) | |
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trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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sieve
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| n.筛，滤器，漏勺 | |
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warping
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| n.翘面，扭曲，变形v.弄弯，变歪( warp的现在分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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broiling
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| adj.酷热的，炽热的，似烧的v.（用火）烤（焙、炙等）( broil的现在分词 )；使卷入争吵；使混乱；被烤（或炙） | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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fore
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| adv.在前面；adj.先前的；在前部的；n.前部 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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38
grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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39
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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40
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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41
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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42
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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43
natal
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| adj.出生的，先天的 | |
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meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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munch
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| v.用力嚼，大声咀嚼 | |
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46
buffeted
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| 反复敲打( buffet的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续猛击； 打来打去； 推来搡去 | |
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47
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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48
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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49
eddying
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| 涡流，涡流的形成 | |
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50
huddle
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| vi.挤作一团；蜷缩；vt.聚集；n.挤在一起的人 | |
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51
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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52
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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53
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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54
maelstrom
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| n.大乱动；大漩涡 | |
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55
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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56
Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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57
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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58
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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59
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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60
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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61
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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62
condensation
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| n.压缩，浓缩；凝结的水珠 | |
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63
trudging
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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64
tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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65
apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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66
waterproof
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| n.防水材料；adj.防水的；v.使...能防水 | |
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67
perishable
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| adj.（尤指食物）易腐的，易坏的 | |
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68
sopped
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| adj.湿透的，浸透的v.将（面包等）在液体中蘸或浸泡( sop的过去式和过去分词 )；用海绵、布等吸起（液体等） | |
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69
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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70
pelting
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| 微不足道的，无价值的，盛怒的 | |
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72
moored
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| adj. 系泊的 动词moor的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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73
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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74
skewers
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| n.串肉扦( skewer的名词复数 )；烤肉扦；棒v.（用串肉扦或类似物）串起，刺穿( skewer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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75
inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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77
pate
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| n.头顶；光顶 | |
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78
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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79
insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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80
pickle
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|
| n.腌汁，泡菜；v.腌，泡 | |
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81
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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82
avows
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| v.公开声明，承认( avow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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83
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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84
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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85
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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86
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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87
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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88
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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89
friable
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| adj.易碎的 | |
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90
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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91
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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92
grumbles
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| 抱怨( grumble的第三人称单数 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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93
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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94
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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95
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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96
strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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97
buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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98
backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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99
furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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100
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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101
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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102
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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103
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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104
scoops
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| n.小铲( scoop的名词复数 )；小勺；一勺[铲]之量；（抢先刊载、播出的）独家新闻v.抢先报道( scoop的第三人称单数 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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105
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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106
razed
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| v.彻底摧毁，将…夷为平地( raze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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108
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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109
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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110
crevasse
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| n. 裂缝，破口；v.使有裂缝 | |
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111
hoarding
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| n.贮藏；积蓄；临时围墙；囤积v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的现在分词 ) | |
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112
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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113
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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114
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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115
boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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116
boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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117
wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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118
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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119
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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120
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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121
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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122
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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123
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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124
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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125
margins
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| 边( margin的名词复数 )； 利润； 页边空白； 差数 | |
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126
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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127
furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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129
jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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130
poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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131
bemoaning
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| v.为（某人或某事）抱怨( bemoan的现在分词 )；悲悼；为…恸哭；哀叹 | |
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132
epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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133
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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134
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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135
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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136
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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137
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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138
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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139
wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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140
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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141
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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142
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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143
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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144
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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145
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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146
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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147
intervals
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| 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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148
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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149
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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150
pertinacious
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| adj.顽固的 | |
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151
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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152
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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153
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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154
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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155
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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156
condescends
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的第三人称单数 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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157
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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158
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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159
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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160
phonetic
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| adj.语言的，语言上的，表示语音的 | |
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161
precipitately
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| adv.猛进地 | |
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162
trek
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| vi.作长途艰辛的旅行；n.长途艰苦的旅行 | |
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163
trekking
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| v.艰苦跋涉，徒步旅行( trek的现在分词 )；（尤指在山中）远足，徒步旅行，游山玩水 | |
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164
toddle
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| v.（如小孩）蹒跚学步 | |
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165
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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166
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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167
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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168
dilate
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| vt.使膨胀，使扩大 | |
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169
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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170
annually
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| adv.一年一次，每年 | |
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171
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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172
quagmires
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| n.沼泽地，泥潭( quagmire的名词复数 ) | |
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173
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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174
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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175
bruising
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| adj.殊死的；十分激烈的v.擦伤(bruise的现在分词形式) | |
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176
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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177
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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178
cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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179
clefts
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| n.裂缝( cleft的名词复数 )；裂口；cleave的过去式和过去分词；进退维谷 | |
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180
marshy
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| adj.沼泽的 | |
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181
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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182
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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183
component
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| n.组成部分，成分，元件；adj.组成的，合成的 | |
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184
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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185
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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186
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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187
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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188
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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189
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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190
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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191
consolidation
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| n.合并,巩固 | |
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192
perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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193
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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194
tinges
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| n.细微的色彩，一丝痕迹( tinge的名词复数 ) | |
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195
murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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196
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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197
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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198
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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199
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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200
ineffably
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| adv.难以言喻地，因神圣而不容称呼地 | |
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201
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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202
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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203
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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204
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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205
antithesis
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| n.对立；相对 | |
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206
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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207
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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208
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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209
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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210
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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211
narratives
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| 记叙文( narrative的名词复数 )； 故事； 叙述； 叙述部分 | |
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212
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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213
buttresses
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| n.扶壁，扶垛( buttress的名词复数 )v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的第三人称单数 ) | |
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214
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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215
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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216
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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217
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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218
prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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219
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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220
yoked
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| 结合（yoke的过去式形式） | |
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221
promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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222
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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223
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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224
whoop
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| n.大叫，呐喊，喘息声；v.叫喊，喘息 | |
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225
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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226
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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227
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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228
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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229
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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230
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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231
shimmer
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| v./n.发微光，发闪光；微光 | |
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232
ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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233
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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234
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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235
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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236
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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237
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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238
pliable
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| adj.易受影响的；易弯的；柔顺的，易驾驭的 | |
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239
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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240
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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241
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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242
colonists
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| n.殖民地开拓者，移民，殖民地居民( colonist的名词复数 ) | |
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243
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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244
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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245
loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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246
ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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247
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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248
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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249
notch
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| n.(V字形)槽口，缺口，等级 | |
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250
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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251
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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252
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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253
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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254
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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255
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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256
ostriches
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| n.鸵鸟( ostrich的名词复数 )；逃避现实的人，不愿正视现实者 | |
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257
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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