The brief winter season seems already ended and over, so far as the crisp, bracing1 atmosphere is concerned. For many days past it has been not only very hot in the sun, but a light hot air has brooded over everything. Not strong enough to be called a hot wind, it is yet like the quivering haze3 out of a furnace-mouth. I pity the poor trees: it is hard upon them. Not a drop of rain has fallen for three months to refresh their dried-up leaves and thirsting roots, and now the sun beats down with a fiercer fire than ever, and draws up the drop of moisture which haply may linger low down in the cool earth. Cool earth, did I say? I fear that is a figure of speech. It almost burns one’s feet through the soles of thin boots, and each particle of dust is like a tiny cinder4. I think regretfully of the pleasant, sharp, frosty mornings and evenings, even though the days are lengthening5, and one may now count by weeks the time before the rain will come, and fruits and vegetables, milk and butter, be once more obtainable with comparative ease. What I most long for, however, is a good pelting6 shower, a down-pour which will fill the tanks and make water plentiful7. I am always rushing out in the sun to see that the horses and the fowls8 and all the animals have enough water to drink. In spite of all my care, they all seem in a chronic9 state of thirst, for the Kafirs are too lazy and careless to think that it matters if tubs get empty or if a horse comes home too late to be led down to the river with the rest. The water that I drink myself—and I drink nothing else—would give a sanitary10 inspector12 a fit to look at, even after it has passed through two filters. But it goes through many vicissitudes13 before it reaches this comparatively clean stage. It is brought from the river (which is barely able to move sluggishly14 over its ironstone bed) through clouds of dust. If the Kafir rests his pails for a moment outside before pouring their contents into the first large filter, the pony15, who is always on the lookout16 for a chance, plunges17 his muzzle18 in among the green boughs19 with snorts of satisfaction; the pigeons fly in circles round the man’s head, trying to take advantage of the first favorable moment for a bath; and not only dogs, but even cats, press up for a drop. This is because it is cool, and not so dusty as that in pans outside. There is not a leaf anywhere yet large enough to give shade, and the water outside soon becomes loathsomely20 hot. Of course it is an exceptionally dry season. All the weather and all the seasons I have ever met with in the course of my life always have been quite out of the ordinary routine. Doubtless, it is kindly21 meant on the part of the inhabitants, and is probably intended as a consolation22 to the new-comer. But I am too well used to it to be comforted. Even when one comes back to dear old England after three or four years’ absence, and arrives, say, early in May, everybody professes23 to be amazed that there should be a keen east wind blowing, and apologizes for the black hard buds on the lilac trees and the iron-bound earth and sky by assurances that “There have been such east winds this year!” Just as if there are not “such” east winds every year!
After these last few amiable24 lines it will hardly surprise any one to hear that this is the irritating hot wind which is blowing so lightly. You must know we have hot winds from nearly opposite quarters. There is one from the north-east, which comes down from Delagoa Bay and all the fever-haunted region thereabouts, which is more unhealthy than this. That furnace-breath makes you languid and depressed25: exertion26 is almost an impossibility, thought is an effort. But this light air represents the healthy hot wind, a nice rasping zephyr27—a wind which dries you up like a Normandy pippin, and puts you and keeps you in the most peevish28, discontented frame of mind. It has swept over the burning deserts of the interior, and comes from the north-west, and I can only say there is aggravation29 in every puff30 of it. The only person toward whom I feel at all kindly disposed when this wind is blowing is Jim. Jim is a new Kafir-lad, Tom’s successor, for Tom’s battles with Charlie became rather too frequent to be borne in a quiet household. Jim is such a nice boy, and Jim’s English is delightful31. He began by impressing upon me through Maria that he had “no Inglis,” but added immediately, “Jim no sheeky.” Certainly he is not cheeky, but, on the contrary, the sweetest-tempered creature you could meet with anywhere. He must be about sixteen years old, but he is over six feet high, and as straight as a willow32 wand. To see Jim stride along by the side of my little carriage is to be reminded of the illustrations to the Seven-League-Boots story. At first, Jim tried to coil and fold and double his long legs into the small perch33 at the back of the pony-carriage, but he always tumbled out at a rut in the road, and kept me in perpetual terror of his snapping himself in two. Not that there are many ruts now in my road, I would have you know. It is all solid dust, about three feet deep everywhere. A road-party worked at it in their own peculiar34 way for many weeks this fall, and the old Dutch overseer used to assure me with much pride every time I passed that he “vas making my ladyships a boofler road mit grabels.” Of course it was the queen’s highway at which he and his Kafirs dug, but it pleased him to regard it as my private path, and this gave him greater courage to throw out “schnapps” as a suggestion worthy35 of my attention.
Will you believe me when I declare that in spite of all these weary weeks of drought, in spite of this intense blaze of burning sunshine all through the thirsty day, the long stretches of the blackened country are showing tender green shoots round the stumps36 of the old rank grass burned away long ago? It seems little short of a miracle when one sees the baked earth, hard as a granite37 cliff, dry as a last year’s bone, and through its parched38, pulverized39 surface little clumps40 of trefoil are springing everywhere, and young blades of grass. On the mulberry trees, too, the buttons have burst into tufts of dainty leaves, which assert themselves more and more every day, and herald41 that wealth of freshest greenery in which Natal42 was clad over hill and dale when first I saw her last November. Then I could not take in that the smiling emerald downs which stretched around me could ever be the arid43 desolate44 wasteland they now appear; and now I can scarcely summon up faith enough to believe in the miracle of the spring resurrection close at hand, of which these few lonely leaves and blades are the sign and token.
Yes, Jim’s English is very droll—all the more so for his anxiety to practice it, in spite of his protestations to the contrary. Jim is a great meteorologist, unlike the majority of Kafirs, from whom you can extract no opinion whatever. They say the rain-doctor is the proper person to determine whether it is going to be fair or foul45 weather. I have asked Charlie whether it was going to rain when the heavy clouds have been almost over our heads, just to hear what he would say; and Charlie has answered with Turkish fatalism, “Oh, ma’, I doan know: if it like to rain, it will, but if it don’t, it won’t.” Now, Jim does proffer46 an opinion, expressed by a good deal of pantomime, and Jim is quite as often right as most weather-prophets. Jim studies the skies on account of getting and keeping his wood-heap dry, and prides himself on neat stacks of chopped-up fuel. I gave Jim an orange the other day, and he took it in the graceful47 Kafir fashion with both hands, and burst forth48 into all his English at once: “Oh, danks, ma’: inkosa-casa vezy kind new face, vezy. Jim no sheeky: oh yaas, all lite!” His meaning can only dimly be guessed at, especially about the new face. I wish with all my heart I could get a new face, for this one is much the worse for the South African sun and my inveterate49 habit of loitering about out of doors whenever I can, and spending most of my waking hours in the verandah.
August 4.
Since I last wrote there has not been much loitering out of doors, nor has any one who could possibly avoid doing so even put his nose outside. The hot zephyr I alluded50 to three days ago suddenly changed to a furious hot gale51, the worst I have ever seen—hotter than a New Zealand nor’-wester, and as heavy as a hurricane. The clouds of dust baffle description. The direction, too, from whence it came must also have changed, for a sort of epidemic52 of low fever is hanging about, and the influenza53 would be ludicrous from the number of its victims if it were not so disagreeable and so dangerous. All the washermen and washerwomen in the whole place are ill, the entire body of Kafir police is on the sick list, all one’s servants are laid up—Charlie says pathetically, “Too moch plenty cough inside, ma’”—and everybody looks wretched. The “inkos” which one hears in passing are either a hoarse54 growl55 or a wheezy whisper. When you consider how absolutely dry the atmosphere must be, it is difficult to imagine how people catch such constant and severe colds as they do here. I am bound to say, however, that except with this influenza a cold does not last so long as it does in England, but I think you catch cold oftener; and the reason is not far to seek. In these hot winds, or out of the broiling56 midday sun, some visitor rides up from town, and arrives here or elsewhere very hot indeed. Then he comes into a little drawing-room with its thick stone walls and closed, darkened windows, and exclaims, “How delightfully57 cool you are here!” but in five minutes he is shivering; and the next thing I hear is that he has cold or fever. Yet what is one to do? I have to keep in-doors all day: I must have a cool room to sit in; and as long as one has not been taking exercise out of doors, it does no harm.
The gale of hot wind seemed to set the whole place on fire. I should not have thought a tussock had been left anywhere, but every night lately has been made bright as day by the glare of blazing hillsides. Then I leave my readers to imagine the state of a house into which all these fine particles of soot58 filter through ill-fitting doors and windows, driven by a furious hurricane. The other morning poor little G—— ’s plate of porridge set aside to cool in the dining-room, with every door and window closed, had a layer of black burnt grass on the top in five minutes; and the state of the tablecloth59, milk, etc. baffles description. Indeed, one’s life is a life of dusting and scrubbing and cleaning generally, if a house is to be kept even tolerably tidy in these parts.
I forget if I have ever told you of the spiders here. They are another sorrow to the careful housewife, spinning webs in every corner, across doorways60, filling up spaces beneath tables, flinging their a?rial bridges from chair to chair—all in a single night—and regarding glass and china ornaments62 merely as a nucleus64 or starting-point for a filmy labyrinth65.
August 10.
Every now and then, when I give way to temper and a hot wind combined, and write crossly about the climate, my conscience reproaches me severely66 with a want of fairness when the weather changes, as it generally does directly, and we have some exquisite67 days and nights. For instance, directly after I last wrote our first spring showers fell—very coyly, it is true, and almost as if the clouds had forgotten how to dissolve into rain. Still, the very smell of the moist earth was delicious, and ever since that wet night the whole country has been
Growing glorious
Quietly, day by day;
and except in the very last-burnt patches a faint and hesitating tinge68 of palest green is stealing over all the bleak69 hillsides. My poor bamboos are still mere63 shriveled ghosts of the fair green plumes70 which used to rustle71 and wave all through the drenching72 summer weather, but everything else is pushing a leaf here and a shoot there wherever it can, and, joy of joys! there has been no dust for a day or two. All looks washed and refreshed: parched-up Nature accepts this shower as the first installment73 of the deluge74 which is coming presently. In the mean time, the air is delicious, and even the poor influenza victims are creeping about in the sunshine. The Kafirs have suffered most, and it is really quite sad to see how weak they are, and how grateful for a little nourishing food, which they absolutely require at present.
I took advantage of the first of these new spring days, with their cool air, to make a little expedition I have long had on my mind. From my verandah I can see on the opposite hills, at about my own lofty elevation75 of fifty feet or so, the white tents beyond the dark walls of Fort Napier. Now, this little spot represents the only shelter and safety in all the country-side in case of a “difficulty” with our swarming76 dusky neighbors. Here and there in other townships there are “laagers,” or loopholed enclosures, within which wagons77 can be dragged and a stand made against a sudden Kafir raid; but here, at the seat of government, there is a battalion79 of an English regiment80, a thousand strong, and a regular, orthodox fortified81 place, with some heavy pieces of ordnance82. But you know of old how terribly candid83 I am, so I must confess at once that it was not with the smallest idea of ascertaining84 for myself the military strength and capability85 of Fort Napier that I paid it a visit that fine spring morning. No: my object was of the purest domestic character, and indeed was only to see with my own eyes what these new Kafir huts were like, with a view to borrowing the idea for a spare room here. Could anything be more peaceful than such a project? I felt like the old wife in Jean Ingelow’s Brides of Enderby as I drove slowly up the steep hill, at the brow of which I could already see the pacing sentries87 and the grim cannon-mouth—
And why should this thing be?
What danger lowers by land or sea?
I might have answered as she did,
For storms be none, and pyrates flee;
for, although there are skirmishes beyond our borders, we ourselves, thank God! dwell in peace and safety within them. Nothing could be more picturesque88 than the gleaming white points now standing89 sharply out in snowy vandykes against a cobalt sky, or else toned harmoniously90 down against a soft gray cloud; now glistening91 on a background of green hillside, or nestling dimly in a dusty hollow. There is only barrack-room for half the regiment, and the other half, under canvas, takes a good many tents and covers a good deal of ground. Although the soldiers have got through the winter very well, it would not be prudent92 to trust them to the shelter of a tent during the coming summer months of alternate flood and sunshine. So Kafirs have been busy building nearly a hundred of their huts on an improved plan all this dry weather, and these little dwellings93 are now just ready for their complement95 of five men apiece. They are a great step in advance of the original Kafir hut, and it was for this reason I came to see them, lured96 also by hearing that they only cost four pounds apiece. We are so terribly cramped97 for room here. I have only ventured on one tiny addition—a dressing-room about as big as the cabin of a ship, which cost nearly eighty pounds to build of stone like the rest of the house. So I have had it on my mind for some time that it would be a very fine thing to build one of these glorified98 Kafir huts close to the house for a spare room. The real Kafir hut is exactly like a beehive, without door or window, and only a small hole to creep in and out at. These new military huts have circular walls, five feet high and about a dozen feet in diameter, made of closely-woven wattles, and covered within and without with clay. I stood watching the Kafirs working at one for some time. It certainly looked a rude and simple process. Some four or five stalwart Kafirs were squatting99 on the ground hard by, “snuffing” and conversing100 with much gesticulation and merriment. They were the off-gang, I imagine. Three or four more were tranquilly101 and in a leisurely103 fashion trampling104 the wet clay and daubing it on with their hands inside and out. They had not the ghost of a tool of any sort, and yet the result was wonderfully good. I wondered why finely-chopped grass was not mixed with the clay, as I have seen the New Zealand shepherds do in preparing the “cob” for their mud walls; but I was told that the Kafir would greatly object to anything so uncomfortable for his bare legs and feet. Of course, the shepherd works up the ugly mass with a spade, whilst here these men slowly trample105 it to the right consistency106. The plastering is really a triumph of (literally107) handiwork, though the process is exasperatingly108 slow. At first the mud comes out all over thumb-marks, and dries so, but in a day or two buckets of water are dashed over it, so as to remoisten it, and then it is once more patiently smoothed all over with the palm of the hand until an absolutely smooth surface is obtained, as flat and flawless as though the best of trowels had been used. A neatly-fitting door and window have meantime been made in the regimental workshop, and hung in the spaces left for them in the wattled walls. More wattles, closely woven together, are put on in the shape of a very irregular dome86, and this is thatched nearly a foot deep with long rank grass tied securely down by endless ropes of finely-plaited grass. The result is a spacious111, cool, and most comfortable circular room, and those which are finished and fitted up with shelves and camp furniture look as nice as possible. A little tuft of straw at the apex112 of each dome is at once a lightning-conductor and a finish to the quaint113 little building. The plastered walls of some huts are whitewashed114, but the most popular idea seems to be to tar11 them and make them still more weather-proof. A crooked115 stick or two, being merely the rough branch of a tree, stands in the centre and acts as a musket-rack and tent-pole to the little dwelling94. The Kafirs get only one pound ten shillings for each hut, and the wooden fittings are calculated to cost about two pounds ten shillings more; but I hear that they grumble116 a good deal on account of the distance from which they have to bring the grass, all in the neighborhood having been burnt. They also regard it as women’s work, for all the kraals are built by women.
On the whole, I am more than ever taken with the idea of a Kafir spare room, and quite hope to carry it out some day, the huts look so cool and healthy and clean. The thatch110 and mud walls will keep off the sun in the hot weather before us; and as all the huts stand on a gentle slope, there is no fear of their being damp. It is wonderful how well the soldiers have managed hitherto under canvas, and how healthy they have been; but I can quite understand that it is not well to presume upon such good luck during another wet season. As we were up in camp, we looked at all the soldiers’ arrangements—the canteen, where mustard and pickles117 seemed to be the most popular articles of food; the schoolhouse, a wee brick building, in which both the children and the recruits have to learn, and which is also used as a chapel118 on Sunday. Everything was the pink of neatness and cleanliness, as is always the case where soldiers or sailors live, and I was much struck by the absolute silence and repose119 of so small an enclosure with a thousand men inside it. I wondered whether a thousand women could have kept so quiet? Of course I peeped into the kitchen, and instantly coveted120 the beautiful brick oven out of which sundry121 smoking platters were being drawn122. But curry123 and rice was the chief dish in the bill of fare for that day, and I can only say the smell was excellent and exceedingly appetizing. The view all round, too, was charming. Just at our feet lay the hollow where the men’s gardens are. Such potatoes and pumpkins124! such cabbages and onions! The men delight in cultivating the willing soil in which all vegetables grow so luxuriantly and easily; and it is so managed that it shall be a profit as well as a pleasure to them. In many ways this encouragement of a taste for gardening is good: there is the first consideration of the advantage to themselves, and it is indirectly125 a boon126 to us, for if a thousand men were added to the consumers of the few potatoes and vegetables which daily find their way into the Maritzburg market, I know not what would become of us. Our last stroll was to the brow of another down close by, also crowned with white tents. Beneath it lay the military graveyard127, and I have seldom seen anything more poetic128 and touching129 than the effect of this lovely garden—for so it looked, a spot of purest green, tenderly cared for—amid the bare winter coloring of all the country-side. The hills folded it softly, as if it were a precious place, the sun lay brightly on it, and the quiet sleeping-ground was made orderly and tranquil102 by many a sheltering tree and blooming shrub130. I promised myself to come in summer and look down on it again when all the wealth of roses and geraniums are out, and when these brown hillsides are green and glorious with their tropic pasture.
You will think I have indeed taken a sudden mania131 for soldiers and camps when I tell you that a very few days after my visit to Fort Napier I joyfully132 accepted the offer of a friend to take me to see the annual joint133 encampment of the Natal Carbineers and D’Urban Mounted Rifles out on Botha’s Flat, rather more than halfway134 between this and D’Urban. Not only was I delighted at the chance of seeing that lovely bit of country more at my leisure than dashing through it in the post-cart, but I have always so much admired the pluck and spirit of this handful of volunteers, who keep up the discipline and prestige of their little corps135 in the teeth of all sorts of difficulties and discouragements, that I was glad to avail myself of the opportunity of paying them a visit when they were out in camp. For many years past these smart light-horse have struggled on in spite of obstacles to attending drill, want of money, lack of public attention and interest, and a thousand other lets and hinderances. Living as we do in such a chronically136 precarious137 position—a position in which five minutes’ official ill-temper or ever so trifling138 an injudicious action might set the whole Kafir population in a blaze of discontent, and even revolt—too much importance cannot, in my poor judgment139, be attached to the volunteer movement; and it seems to me worthy in the highest degree of every encouragement and token of appreciation140 which it is in our power to give. Of either pence or praise these Natal mounted volunteers (for they would be very little use on foot over such an extent of railway-less country) have hitherto had a very small share, and yet I found the pretty little camp as full of military enthusiasm, as orderly, as severely simple in its internal economy, as though the eyes of all Europe were upon it. Each man there in sacrificing a week of his time was giving up a good deal more than most volunteers give up, and it would make too long a story if I were to enter into particulars of the actual pecuniary141 loss which in this country attends the lawyer leaving his office, the clerk his desk, the merchant his counting-house, and each providing himself with horses, etc. to come out here twice a year and drill pretty nearly from morning till night. The real difficulty, I fancy, lies in subordinates being able to obtain leave. Every sugar-estate, every office, every warehouse142, has so few white men employed in it, exists in such a chronic state of short-handedness, that it is the greatest inconvenience to the masters to let their clerks go out. Both corps are therefore stronger on paper than in the field, but from no lack of willingness to serve on the part of the volunteers themselves.
I don’t want to be spiteful or invidious, but I have seen volunteer camps nearer the heart of civilization, where there were flower-gardens round the tents and lovely “fixings” inside, portable couches and chairs, albums, and clocks, besides a French cook and iced champagne143 flowing like a river. Dismiss from your mind all ideas of that sort if you come with me next year to Botha’s Flat. I can promise you scrupulous144 and exquisite neatness and cleanliness, but in every other respect you might as well be in a real camp on active service. Even the Kafir servants are left behind, the men—some of them very fine gentlemen indeed—cleaning their own horses and accoutrements, pitching their own tents, cooking their own food, and in fact acting145 precisely146 as though they had really taken the field in an enemy’s country. The actual drill, therefore—though more than half the hours of daylight are spent in the saddle under the instruction of one of the most enthusiastic and competent drill-instructors you could find anywhere—is by no means all that is practiced in these brief, hardly-won camp-days. The men learn to rely solely147 on their own resources. Their commissariat is arranged by themselves, one single small wagon78 to each corps conveying tents, forage148, stores, firewood—all that is needed for man and horse—for ten days or so. They have no “base of operations”—nothing and nobody to depend upon but themselves. It is literally a “flying camp,” and all the more interesting for being so evidently what we shall most need in case of any native difficulty. I don’t suppose they ever dream of visitors, for in this languid land few people would journey thirty miles to look at anything, especially in a hot wind. Nor am I sure the volunteers want visitors. It is real, earnest, practical hard work with them, done with their utmost diligence, and without expecting the smallest reward, even in fair words. It strikes me as very remarkable149 and characteristic of the lack of general interest in public subjects how little one hears of the very men on whom we may at any moment be only too glad to rely. However, I never can attempt to fathom150 causes: rather let me describe effects for you as best I may.
And a very pretty effect the camp has as we dash round the shoulder of a steep hill with the brake hard down, the leaders plunging151 wildly along with slack traces, and a general appearance of an impending152 upset over everything. It has been a lovely drive, though rather hot, but the roads are ever so much better than they were in the summer, and I have never seen the country looking more beautiful, as it seems to grow greener with every mile out of Maritzburg. When the hills open out suddenly and show the great fertile cleft153 of undulating downs, green ravines with trickling154 silver threads down them, and purple mountains in the distance stretching away to the coast, which is known as the Inanda Location, one feels as if one were looking at the Happy Valley.
O mortal man, who livest here by toil155,
Do not complain of this, thy hard estate,
for neither the imaginary kingdom of Amhara nor any other kingdom in all the fair earth can show a more poetical156 or suggestive glimpse of scenic157 beauty. Yet when a few miles more of rushing and galloping158 through the soft air brings us to the top of the pass of the Inchanga, I make up my mind that that is the most beautiful stretch of country my eyes have ever beheld159. It is too grand to describe, too complete to break up into fragments by words. Far down among the sylvan160 slopes of the park-like foreground the Umgeni winds, with the sunshine glinting here and there on its waters: beyond are bold, level mountains with rich deep indigo161 shadows and lofty crests162 cut off straight against the dappled sky, according to the South African formation. But we soon climb the lofty saddle, and put the brake hard down again for the worst descent on the road. If good driving and skill and care can save us, we need not be nervous, for we have all these; but the state of the harness fills me with apprehension163, and it is little short of a miracle why it does not all give way at once and tumble off the horses’ backs. Luckily, there is very little of it to begin with, and the original leather is largely supplemented by reins164 or strips of dried bullock hide, so we hold together until the vehicle draws up at the door of a neat little wayside inn, where we get out and begin at once to rub our elbows tenderly, for they are all black and blue. There is the camp, however, on yonder green down, and here are two of the officers from it waiting for us, and wanting to know all about hours and plans and so forth. A little rest and luncheon165 are first on the programme, and a good deal of soap and water also for us travelers, and then, the afternoon being still young, we mount our horses and canter up the rising ground to where the flagstaff stands. The men are just falling in for their third and last drill, which will last till sundown, so there is time to go round the pretty little spot and admire the precision and neatness, the serviceable, business-like air, of everything. There is the path the sentries tread, already worn perfectly166 bare, but straight as though it had been ruled: yonder is the bit of sod-fencing thrown up as a shelter to the kettles and frying-pans. The kitchen range consists of half a dozen forked sticks to leeward167 of this rude shelter, and each troop contributes a volunteer cook and commissariat officer. The picket-ropes for the horses run down the centre of the little camp, and we must look at the neat pile of blankets and nose-bags marked with separate initials. The officers’ tents are at one end, and the guard tents at the other, and those for the privates, holding five men each, are between. It is all as sweet and clean and neat as possible, and one can easily understand what is stated almost as a joke—that the first night in camp no one could sleep for his own and his neighbor’s cough, and now there is not such a sound to be heard.
We are coming back into camp presently, for I am invited to dine at the officers’ mess to-night, so we must make the most of the daylight. It is a gray evening, and the hot wind has died away, allowing the freshness from the hills to steal down to this green spur, which is yet high enough to be out of the cold mists of the valley. The drill is not very amusing for a lady this afternoon, because it is real hard work—patiently doing the same thing over and over again until each little point is perfect—until the horses are steady and the men move with the ease and precision of a machine. But it is just because there is little else to distract one’s attention that I can notice what fine stalwart young fellows they all are, and how thoroughly168 in earnest. Their uniforms and accoutrements are simple, but natty169, and clean as a new pin, the horses especially being ever so much better groomed171 and turned out by their masters’ hands than if each had been saddled by his usual Kafir groom170. So, after a short while of watching the little squadron patiently wheel and trot172 and advance by those mysterious “fours,” man?uvre across a swamp, charge down a hill, skirmish up that burnt slope over there, and so forth, we leave them hard at work, and canter over some ridges61 to see what lies beyond. But there is nothing much to reward us, and the only effect of our long evening ride is to make us all ravenously173 hungry and anxious for six o’clock and dinner. Long before that hour the dusk has crept down, and by the time we have returned, and I have exchanged my riding-habit for a splendid dinner-costume of ticking, it is cold enough and dark enough to make us glad of all the extra wraps we can find, and of the light and shelter of the snug174 little tent. Here, again, it is real camp fare. I am given the great luxury of the encampment—to sit upon a delicious karosse, or rug of dressed goat skins. It is snowy white, and soft and flexible as a glove on the wrong side, and on the right it is covered with long, wavy175 cream-colored hair with black patches at each corner. The ground is strewn with grass, dry and sweet as hay, and carriage candles are tied by wire to a cross stick fastened on a tent-pole: the tablecloth is a piece of canvas, the dishes are billies, but the food is excellent, and, above all, we have tea as the sole beverage176 for everybody. We are all provided with the best of sauces, and I assure you we very soon find ourselves at our dessert of oranges in a basket-lid. Never have any of us enjoyed a meal more, and certainly everybody except myself has earned it. Then there is a little tinkling177 and tuning178 up outside, and the band turns out to play to us. By this time the wind has got up again from another point, and is so bitterly bleak and cold that the musicians cannot possibly stand still, but have to keep marching round and round the little tent, playing away lustily and singing with a good courage. Every now and then a stumble over a tent-peg jerks out a laugh instead of a note, but still there is plenty of “go” and verve in the music, and half the camp turns out to join in the chorus of “Sherman’s March through Georgia.” We all declare loudly that we are going to carry “the flag that makes us free” through all sorts of places, especially from “Atlanta to the sea,” and I am quite sure that Sherman’s own “dashing Yankee boys” could not possibly have made more noise themselves. This is followed by the softest and sweetest of sentimental179 songs, given in a beautiful falsetto which would be a treasure to a chorister; but it is really too cold for sentiment, so we have one more song, and then the band sings “Auld Lang Syne” with great spirit, and as the wind is now rising to a hurricane, the musical performances are wound up somewhat hurriedly by “God Save the Queen!” For this the whole camp turns out of their own accord. The cooks leave their fires, the fatigue-party their scrubbing and the lazy ones their pipes. Under the clear starlight, with the Southern Cross sloping up from the edge of yonder dusky hill, with the keen wind sweeping180 round the camp of this little handful of Englishmen in a strange and distant country, the words of the most beautiful tune181 in the world come ringing as though straight from each man’s heart. Of course we all come out of our tent to stand bareheaded too, and I assure you it is a very impressive and beautiful moment. One feels as one stands here amid the flower of the young colonists182, each man holding his cap aloft in his strong right hand, each man putting all the fervor183 and passion of his loyal love and reverence184 for his queen into every tone of his voice, that it is well worth coming down for this one moment alone. It is very delightful to see the English people, whether in units or tens of thousands, greet their sovereign face to face, but there is something even more heart-stirring, more inexpressibly pathetic, in such outbursts as this, evoked185 by none of the glamour186 and glitter of a royal pageant187, but called into being merely by a name, a tune, a sentiment. I often think if I were a queen I should be more really gratified and touched by the ardent188 and loyal love of such handfuls of my subjects in out-of-the-way corners of my empire, where the sentiment has nothing from outside to fan it, than with the acclamations of a shouting multitude as my splendor189 is passing them by. At all events, I have never seen soldiers or sailors, regulars or volunteers, more enthusiastic over our own anthem190. It is followed by cheer upon cheer, blessing191 upon blessing on the beloved and royal name, until everybody is perfectly hoarse from shouting in such a high wind, and we all retreat into the tiny tents for a cup of coffee and—what do you think? Stories. I am worse than any child in my love of stories, and we have one or two really good raconteurs192 in the little knot of hosts.
Of course one of the first inquiries193 I make is whether any snakes have been found in the tents, and I hear, much to my disappointment—because the bare fact will not at all lend itself to a story for G—— when I get home—that only one little one had crept beneath a folded great-coat (which is the camp pillow, it seems), and been found in the morning curled up, torpidly194 dozing195 in the woolen196 warmth. No, it is not a story G—— will ever care about, for the poor little snake had not even been killed: it was too small and too insignificant197, they say, and it merely got kicked out of its comfortable bed. To console me for this bald and incomplete adventure, I am told some more snake-stories, which, at all events, ought to have been true, so good are they. Here are two for you, one of which especially delights me.
Hard by this very camp a keen sportsman was lately pursuing a buck109. He had no dogs except a pet Skye terrier to help him in the chase—nothing but his rifle and a trusty Kafir. Yet the hard-pressed buck had to dash into a small, solitary198 patch of thorny199 scrub for shelter and a moment’s rest. In an instant the hunter was off his pony, and had sent the Kafir into the bush to drive out the buck, that he might have a shot at it the moment it emerged from the cover. Instead of the expected buck, however—I must tell you the story never states what became of him—came loud cries in Kafir from the scrub of, “Oh, my mother! oh, my friends and relations! I die! I die!” The master, much astonished, peeped as well as he could into the little patch of tangled200 briers and bushes, and there he saw his crouching201 Kafir stooping, motionless, beneath a low branch round which was coiled a large and venomous snake. The creature had struck at the man’s head as he crept beneath, and its forked tongue had got firmly imbedded in the Kafir’s woolly pate202. The wretched beater dared not stir an inch: he dared not even put up his hands to free himself; but there he remained motionless and despairing, uttering these loud shrieks203. His master bade him stay perfectly still, and taking close aim at the snake’s body, fired and blew it in two. He then with a dexterous204 jerk disentangled the barbed tongue, and flung the quivering head and neck outside the bushes. Here comes the only marvelous part of the story. “How did he know it was a poisonous snake?” I ask. “Oh, well: the little dog ran up to play with the head, and the snake—or rather the half snake—struck out at it and bit it in the paw, and it died in ten minutes.”
But the following is my favorite Munchausen: There was once a certain valiant205 man of many adventures whose Kafir title was “the prince of—fibs,” and he used to relate the following experience: One day—so long ago that breech-loading guns were unknown, and the process of reloading was a five-minute affair—he came upon a large and deadly snake making as fast as it could for its hole hard by. Of course, such a thing as escape could not be permitted, and as there was no other weapon at hand, the huntsman determined206 to shoot the huge reptile207. But first the gun must be loaded, and whilst this was being done, lo! the snake’s head had already disappeared in the hole: in another instant the whole body would have followed. A sudden grasp at the tail, a rapid, bold jerk, flung the creature a yard or two off. Did it attempt to show fight? Oh no: it glided208 swiftly as ever toward the same shelter from which it had been so rudely plucked. The ramrod was rapidly plied209, the charge driven home, but there was yet the percussion-cap to be adjusted. Once more the tail was grasped, the snake pulled out and flung still farther away. Again did the wily creature approach the hole. In another instant the cap would be on and the gun cocked, but everything depended on that instant. The sportsman kept his eye fixed210 on his artful foe211 even whilst his fingers deftly212 found and fixed the percussion-cap. What, then, was his horror and dismay to find that he had, for once, met his match, and that the snake, recognizing the desperate nature of the position, and keeping a wary213 eye on the hunter’s movements, instead of going into his hole for the third time in the usual method, had turned round and was backing in tail first! Is it not delightful?
As soon as we had finished laughing at this and similar stories it was high time to break up the little party, although it was only about the hour at which one sits down to dinner in London. Still, there were early parades and drills and goodness knows what, and I was very tired and sleepy with my jolting214 journey and afternoon on horseback. So we all went the “grand rounds,” lantern in hand, and with a deep feeling of admiration215 and pity for the poor sentries pacing up and down on the bleak hillside, walked down to the little inn, where a tiny room, exactly like a wooden box, had been secured for me, the rest of the party climbing heroically up the hill again to sleep on the ground with their saddles for a pillow. This was playing at soldiers with a vengeance216, was it not? However, they all looked as smart and well as possible next morning, when they came to fetch me up to breakfast in the camp. Then more drill—very pretty this time—a sham217 attack and defence, and then another delightful long ride over a different range of hills. It was a perfect morning for exploring, gray and cool and cloudy—so different from the hot wind and scorching218 sun of yesterday. We could not go fast, not only from the steep up-and-down hill, but from the way the ground was turned up by the ant-bears. Every few yards was a deep burrow219, often only a few hours’ old; and unless you had seen it with your own eyes I can never make you believe or understand the extraordinarily220 vivid color of this newly-turned earth. During yesterday’s journey I had noticed that the only wild-flower yet out was a curious lily growing on a fat bulb more than half out of the ground, and sometimes of a deep-orange or of a brilliant-scarlet221 color. With the recollection of these blossoms fresh in my mind, I noticed a patch of bright scarlet on the face of an opposite down, and thought it must, of course, be made by lilies. As I was very anxious to get some bulbs for my garden, I proposed that we should ride across the ravine and dig some up. “We can come if you like,” said the kindest and pleasantest of guides, “but I assure you it is only a freshly-dug ant-bear’s hole.” Never did I find belief so difficult, and, like all incredulous people, I was on the point of backing up my hasty opinion by half a dozen pairs of gloves when the same friendly guide laughingly pointed222 to a hole close by, bidding me look well at it before risking my gloves. There was nothing more to be said. The freshly scratched-out earth was exactly like vermilion, moist and brilliant in color—“a ferruginous soil,” some learned person said; but, however that may be, I had never before seen earth of such a bright color, for it was quite different from the red-clay soil one has seen here and in other places.
The line of country we followed that morning was extraordinarily pretty and characteristic. The distant purple hills rolled down to the gently-undulating ground over which we rode. Here and there—would that it had been oftener!—a pretty homestead with its sheltering trees and surrounding patches of pale-green forage clung to the steep hillside before us. Then, as we rode on, one of the ravines fell away at our feet to a deep gully, through which ran a streamlet among clustering scrub and bushes. In one spot the naked rock stood out straight and bare and bold for fifty yards or so, as though it were the walls of a citadel223, with a wealth of creeping greenery at its foot, and over its face a tiny waterfall, racing2 from the hill behind, leapt down to join the brook224 in the gully. We saw plenty of game, too—partridges, buck, two varieties of the bald-headed ibis, secretary-birds, and, most esteemed225 of all, a couple of paauw (I wonder how it is spelt?), a fine kind of bustard, which is quite as good eating as a turkey, but daily becoming more and more scarce. There were lots of plover226, too, busy among the feathery ashes on the newly-burned ground, and smaller birds chirruped sweetly every now and then. It was all exceedingly delightful, and I enjoyed it all the more for the absence of the blazing sunshine, which, however it may light up and glorify227 the landscape, beats too fiercely on one’s head to be pleasant. If only we women could bring ourselves to wear pith helmets, it would not be so bad; but with the present fashion of hats, which are neither shade nor shelter, a ride in the sun is pretty nearly certain to end in a bad headache. At all events, this ride had no worse consequence than making us very hungry for our last camp-meal, a solid luncheon, and then there was just time to rush down the hill and clamber into the post-cart for four hours of galloping and jolting through the cold spring evening air. My last look was at the white tents of the pretty camp, the smoke of its fires and the smart lines of carbineers and mounted rifles assembling to the bugle-call for another long afternoon of steady drill down in the valley, or “flat,” as it is called—a picturesque and pretty glimpse, recalling the memory of some very pleasant hours, the prettiest imaginable welcome, and a great deal of hearty228 and genuine hospitality.
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1
bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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cinder
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| n.余烬，矿渣 | |
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lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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pelting
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| 微不足道的，无价值的，盛怒的 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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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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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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sanitary
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| adj.卫生方面的，卫生的，清洁的，卫生的 | |
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tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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sluggishly
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| adv.懒惰地；缓慢地 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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lookout
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| n.注意，前途，瞭望台 | |
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plunges
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| n.跳进，投入vt.使投入，使插入，使陷入vi.投入，跳进，陷入v.颠簸( plunge的第三人称单数 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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muzzle
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| n.鼻口部；口套；枪(炮)口；vt.使缄默 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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loathsomely
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| adv.令人讨厌地，可厌地 | |
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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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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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professes
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| 声称( profess的第三人称单数 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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zephyr
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| n.和风，微风 | |
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peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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aggravation
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| n.烦恼，恼火 | |
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puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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pulverized
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| adj.[医]雾化的，粉末状的v.将…弄碎( pulverize的过去式和过去分词 )；将…弄成粉末或尘埃；摧毁；粉碎 | |
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clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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41
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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natal
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| adj.出生的，先天的 | |
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arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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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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45
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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proffer
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| v.献出，赠送；n.提议，建议 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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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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influenza
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| n.流行性感冒，流感 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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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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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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soot
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| n.煤烟，烟尘；vt.熏以煤烟 | |
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tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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nucleus
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| n.核，核心，原子核 | |
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labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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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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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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drenching
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| n.湿透v.使湿透( drench的现在分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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installment
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| n.(instalment)分期付款；(连载的)一期 | |
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deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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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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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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79
battalion
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| n.营；部队；大队(的人) | |
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80
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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81
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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82
ordnance
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| n.大炮，军械 | |
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83
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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84
ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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85
capability
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| n.能力；才能；(pl)可发展的能力或特性等 | |
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86
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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87
sentries
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| 哨兵，步兵( sentry的名词复数 ) | |
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88
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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89
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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90
harmoniously
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| 和谐地，调和地 | |
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91
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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92
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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93
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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94
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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95
complement
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| n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足 | |
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96
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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97
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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98
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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99
squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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100
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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101
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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102
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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103
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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104
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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105
trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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106
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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107
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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108
exasperatingly
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109
buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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110
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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111
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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112
apex
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| n.顶点，最高点 | |
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113
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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114
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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116
grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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117
pickles
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| n.腌菜( pickle的名词复数 )；处于困境；遇到麻烦；菜酱 | |
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118
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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119
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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120
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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121
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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122
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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123
curry
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| n.咖哩粉，咖哩饭菜；v.用咖哩粉调味，用马栉梳，制革 | |
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124
pumpkins
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| n.南瓜( pumpkin的名词复数 )；南瓜的果肉，南瓜囊 | |
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125
indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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126
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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127
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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128
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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129
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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130
shrub
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| n.灌木，灌木丛 | |
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131
mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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132
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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133
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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134
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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135
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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136
chronically
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| ad.长期地 | |
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137
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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138
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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139
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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140
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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141
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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142
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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143
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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144
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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145
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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146
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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147
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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148
forage
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| n.(牛马的)饲料，粮草；v.搜寻，翻寻 | |
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149
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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150
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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151
plunging
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|
| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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152
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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153
cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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154
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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155
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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156
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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157
scenic
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| adj.自然景色的，景色优美的 | |
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158
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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159
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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160
sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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161
indigo
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| n.靛青，靛蓝 | |
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162
crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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163
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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164
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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165
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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166
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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167
leeward
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| adj.背风的；下风的 | |
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168
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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169
natty
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| adj.整洁的，漂亮的 | |
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170
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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171
groomed
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| v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的过去式和过去分词 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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172
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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173
ravenously
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| adv.大嚼地，饥饿地 | |
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174
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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175
wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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176
beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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177
tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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178
tuning
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| n.调谐，调整，调音v.调音( tune的现在分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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179
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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180
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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181
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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182
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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183
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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184
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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185
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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186
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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187
pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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188
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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189
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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190
anthem
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| n.圣歌，赞美诗，颂歌 | |
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191
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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192
raconteurs
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| n.善于讲轶事的人( raconteur的名词复数 ) | |
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193
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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194
torpidly
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| adv.迟钝地，有气无力的 | |
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195
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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196
woolen
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| adj.羊毛(制)的；毛纺的 | |
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197
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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198
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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199
thorny
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| adj.多刺的，棘手的 | |
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200
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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201
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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202
pate
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| n.头顶；光顶 | |
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203
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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204
dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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205
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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reptile
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| n.爬行动物；两栖动物 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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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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foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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burrow
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| vt.挖掘(洞穴)；钻进；vi.挖洞；翻寻；n.地洞 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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plover
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| n.珩，珩科鸟，千鸟 | |
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glorify
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| vt.颂扬，赞美，使增光，美化 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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