It all hinged upon this, as Sally knew, that a black-maned, fifteen or sixteen hands high equine dancer, with a howling piano behind him, presents an infinitely6 more paralyzing spectacle to the maid, young or old, who has never come to close quarters with a horse in his stable than it would to one who had bridled7 and unbridled, harnessed and unharnessed him, fed, cared for and petted him intimately—even though the incentive8 to such laborious9 care might be partly a decorative10 one, the reward of another red honor-bead to string upon her Camp Fire Girl’s necklace.
There was one thing to which the orange-smocked maid had not become accustomed, however; that was to sterilizing11 the flame of her little tongue, lest it should materially hurt anybody, when hot fire was kindled13 within her from good cause.
“You ought to be shot,” she told the schoolboy driver who had deserted14 temporarily from the horse’s head; “you ought—ought to be shut up in jail for a month! What sort of stuff have you got in you”—breathlessly—“skedaddling off to a ball game, instead of looking after the cart and piano? Suppose he had killed her?” pointing to the shaken pianist who had sunk upon a bench beneath a beautiful, circular catalpa tree just bursting into flower.
“Oh, Kafoozalem! I didn’t think that old fire-horse would run even if there was a charging battery behind him; he’s as old as Methusaleh,” muttered the boy rather sulkily.
“What! did he once belong to the fire department?” Sesooā was stroking the black mane very gently just now.
“Yes, the city sold him to a livery stable when he got too old to hit the pace with the other horses when a fire alarm was turned in an’ when he was too worn-out to look spry in a hack15, the liveryman bargained him back on to the city; now he’s playing the fool carting round a piano for ‘Pop Goes the Weasel!’” The youthful driver snorted between laughter and commiseration16.
“Oh! the poor old fellow; perhaps he mistook the singing of the children—it was shrill17 enough to beat the band—and the popping music behind him for some new-fangled kind of alarm invented since his day; so he just bolted—and danced when he found he couldn’t make it—couldn’t climb the hill dragging the cart and piano, with the pianist playing still! There now! you old hero of a worn-out fire-horse, aren’t you glad you didn’t end your days in disgrace by killing18 somebody?” cooed the Camp Fire Girl to the aged19 rebel whose black nose was now nuzzling her waist in friendly fashion.
“Yes, I ought to have stopped playing directly he began to dance,” confessed the girl-musician, “but I simply lost presence of mind. It got on my nerves this morning driving round these poor parts of the city, perched up in front of the cart beside the driver, like an organ-grinder’s wife.”
“Well, you won’t have to do it after this week probably,” comforted the other schoolteacher who led the dances; “the supervisor20 of playgrounds says that he’s going to station a graphophone on every playground where there isn’t a piano in a schoolhouse close by. You see the playground system is only newly established here in Clevedon and they haven’t got it running very well yet. Hello! Jacob, so your ‘babee’ didn’t get hurt, eh; you’ll have to thank this lady for stopping the horse before he trampled21 the sand-pile where the tiny children were.” So she addressed the raven-haired small boy in a dingy22 little hanging blouse of red velvet23, whose foreign cries had topped the tumult24.
“How old are you, Jacob?” questioned the heroine of the moment, sparing the child and his broken English an attempt at compliance25.
Jacob Kominski, Polish Jew, struck a dramatic attitude and blinked at her solemnly.
“‘Old’!” he echoed. “Yes’day I be s-six; next day to-mow-wow I be seven,” speculatively26 leaning his head to one side; “som’day to-day I’s five—I is all de olds in de world!” passionately27.
“Somehow he looks it, doesn’t he?” broke in another girlish voice with a laugh in it and a tender note, too, tender as the dawn, a very morning-glory note, that came well from under the lavender Tam O’Shanter, as the girl in the silken smock frock, the subject of conversation earlier, linked her arm through Sally’s. “Come here, Jacob! Aren’t they ‘cunning,’ these playground children? We used to have such lots of fun with them last year—not here, of course! Oh, Sally, you’re the—bravest—thing!”
“Am I?” breathed Sally, nestling close to the lavender smock; the Glory-girl, as her Camp Fire Sisters had a trick of calling Jessica, was not only the oldest member of their organized circle, not only wore upon the little finger of her left hand the silver fagot ring, symbol of membership—as Sally did upon hers which had caught the horse’s reins—but she was on the verge29 of attaining30 higher rank in her society, of becoming a “Fire Maker”; in a word, she was regarded as the flower, not in name alone, of the Morning-Glory Camp Fire, the tribe that was her namesake, in a way.
“Oh! yes, indeed, you were very brave. However did you screw up courage to do it, to run beside the cart and catch the horse’s head? I’d have been afraid of being knocked down—trampled!”
“So would I! And I! Or of having the cart go over me!” Such was the duet of applause which followed on the heels of Jessica’s praise from still two other pairs of girlish lips; namely from the two girls in white who had been seated in the automobile31 against whom the little spitfire flame of Sally’s tongue had been launched, a little while ago, when she scathingly pronounced them “all fluff and stuff!”
The nobler flame which had burned in her during her late heroic act had altogether consumed petty jealousies34 and criticisms for the time being; she took their congratulations well and gratefully, while Arline, her dearest chum and Camp Fire Sister with whom she had exchanged memories under the Twins, fondled her upon the side that was not in possession of Jessica.
“The pianist is braver than I was, for, see there! she’s going to mount the cart and play again,” suggested Sesooā presently, growing a little tired of being “fussed over.” “She is gritty, if you like it!”
“So she is!” acquiesced35 the older of the two Deering girls who owned the luxurious36 motorcar in waiting upon the playground avenue; her name was Olive; to the unprejudiced eye she did not seem to be composed of super-light and “fluffy37” stuff; at sixteen and a half, nearly the same age as Jessica, she was already a beauty, from the glossy38, ringlet curl—as black as Jacob Kominski’s locks, but so silkily fine that it did not seem to belong to the same category of human hair—tucked behind her small ear, to the toe of her seven-dollar shoe. “And it must be so perfectly40 horrid41 driving round in front of that piano and cart!” added Olive of the blue-black curl, throwing a glance at the mounting pianist from her dark, girlishly dreamy, Southern eyes.
“You may be sure she doesn’t play organ-grinder for fun!” laughed Arline. “She’s a young school-teacher who has to support her mother, so the playground teacher who leads the dances says, and she adds to her salary by playing for the children’s singing games and folk-dances during the playground season. Now! if only one girl who’s a member of our Camp Fire were here—Ruth Marley, who aims at a musical career and plays for our Camp Fire songs and dances, how nicely she could help her out by mounting the cart and pounding away at ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ (I wonder if they’re going to begin that again?) instead of her.”
“Tooraloo! Somebody seems to be beginning something—stirring up a new fuss—over there!” suddenly suggested Sally, who was preening42 her orange and black plumage, anxiously smoothing it to make sure there was no mark where the penitent43 old fire-horse had caressed44 her. “Goody! what’s up now: a battle, an earthquake—or merely somebody drowning in that two-foot-and-a-half-deep bathing pool—or some other playground trifle?”
“It’s a—a fight, I think” quavered a new voice whose staid quality dripped sedately46 upon the laughing girlish sarcasm47.
“A fight! A fight between two boys—two small boys! Where is it? Over there—d’you see—at the foot of the giant stride—beyond those seesawing48 teeter-ladders!” All the five maidens49 in summer Tams and Panamas were breathlessly exclaiming together, now, directing their gaze across half-an-acre of playground at a piece of athletic50 apparatus51 glittering rather like a tall steel gibbet against the blue and white sky, up whose skeleton ladders juvenile52 athletes were one by one climbing to try their prowess at sliding or jumping down; at the foot of this “giant stride” a ring of boys, with even one or two men among them, had sprung up as mysteriously as the growth of corn on a hot night.
“Yes, I’m sure it’s a fight between some of the playground children,” said the sedate45 voice again, coming from the middle-aged53 woman who had sat in the automobile with the two Deering girls before the escapade of the horse, whom Olive and Sybil—yes, and Jessica Holley, too—called Cousin Anne.
“A quarrel between two little boys who are pommeling each other black and blue, I suppose,” she went on with tremulous anxiety. “Where—where’s the playground teacher?”
“The one who leads the dances is comforting the shaken pianist before she begins to play again—telling the driver to move the cart and piano to a shady spot. Her back’s turned,” gasped54 Arline.
“Never mind! If it’s a fight between two little boys, I guess I can stop it—these foreign children, some of them, are dreadful for quarreling—I’ve settled playground fights before,” broke in a sudden, quivering cry from Morning-Glory, whose Indian name was Welatáwesit.
“Now, maybe, she’ll be pommeled herself; they may rain blows on her if she gets between them!” wailed55 Olive in a tone which showed her fondness for Jessica.
“Yes, and it seems so—so low-down to mix all up in a squealing56 fight between two dirty little foreigners!” Sybil Deering, two years younger than her sister, and rather fluffy in appearance from her present, superficial pout57 to her loose, light hair and diaphanous58 frills, wrinkled up a pert little nose that was inclined to point toward Heaven.
“Well! what would you have her do?” challenged Sesooā rather savagely60; “let them fight on, until their eyes are all ‘bunged up’ and you could hardly tell their faces from a rubber ball, smeared61 with red paint, eh? There’s no fear of her!” Sally nodded toward the back of the lavender, flower-like figure making toward that mushroom ring of human applaudists which a fight, or the rumor62 of a fight, can collect quicker than anything else on this mortal earth. “You needn’t worry about her; she has received an honor for patriotism—a red, white, and blue honor-bead—for work she did on a public playground last year. I’m off to back her up!”
And Sesooā, again the orange-smocked flame, started in the wake of the lavender patriot63, Arline, too, asking questions as they sped over the grass of a seven-year-old American boy who was not quite so keen about the pugilistic display as his companions.
“It’s Polie an’ Lithuish,” he not very lucidly64 explained. “Lithuish he was trying to climb the steel ladder of the ‘stride,’” pointing toward that giant piece of the apparatus of play. “Polie he pulled him down, an’ trod on his toe an’ Lithuish went for him. I guess the Polander boy, he’s the strongest; he’s got ‘Lithie’ down once a’ready!”
He had thrown him again as the girlish patriot in the lavender smock saw, when she darted65 through the loose ring of older boys, swelled66 by a bored loafer or two, arrived at so-called man’s estate, who were enjoying the fight and telling them to “Go to it!”
Pole and Lithuanian, sprigs of neighboring foreign races, dwelling67 next to each other in Europe, they were fighting like small wild things, tooth and claw! Polie of the flashing dark eyes, red lips and round seal-brown head had the better of it; he had flung the taller, fair Lithuanian boy into a bed of flowering canna, where his bleeding nose sowed an extra crop of ruddy blossoms.
“Oh! stop it!” cried the Morning-Glory chokingly, laying hold on Polie’s uplifted arm—although the spectacle was much more savage59 than she had dreamt of—and hanging on bravely, even, while he launched a sturdy nine-year-old kick at her white skirt and lavender ankle. “Oh! you older boys ought to be ashamed of yourselves—egging them on! Can’t—can’t somebody—stop—it?” for the blue-eyed Lithuanian boy was on his feet again, gory39 but unconquered.
“Well! I guess somebody will, little lady,” boomed a great voice behind her. “I’d have bore down upon this ‘scrap’ sooner, but for a busted68 spar!”
The Morning-Glory turned and looked up into a massive face which—thought being very nimble in moments like these—she silently likened all in one gasping69 instant to two words from a Camp Fire song: “Sheltering Flame!” It was tanned, weathered, and reddened to the florid hue70 of a red sunset, showing a narrow sky-line of blue, radiating protection, that corresponded to an eye-line.
From that sea-blue eye the girl’s glance involuntarily darted downward to the “busted spar,” a lame12 pillar of a right leg whose limp was painfully visible even as the newcomer took three hasty strides forward and dropped a powerful hand upon a shoulder of each of the small boys, holding them wide apart in a grip that they might as well try to lift a lighthouse as to break.
The stranger caught her glance and smiled. “Oh! it’s mended now, that damaged spar,” he said, answering her look; “and ’tisn’t a recent injury, anyway. Here, now! You two hop-o’-my-thumb rascals”—shaking the belligerents—“you ease off there an’ don’t get fiery71 again or, by my word, you’ll both march off this playground to the taste o’ the stick—sore and strong—see?”
There was nothing for them to do but to “see”—see reason—held in that mighty72 grip. Under a few scathing33 words from this peacemaker, who was physically73, at any rate, a man of weight, for he must have tipped the scale at over two hundred pounds and was ruggedly74 tall, the ring of applauders melted away into the sunshine like an untimely frost.
“I wish I could ha’ got my hands on them at the same time and given ’em a shaking,” blurted out the flaming peacemaker. “Egging little chaps like these two on!” his gaze traveling back and forth75 between Polie’s swelling76 black eye and the nose of Lithuish. “Gosh! they did go at it hard, for young uns. But ’twas only a little sketch77 of a fight.”
“‘Sketch’? I should call it a—a sanguinary picture,” gasped the girl with a half-hysterical little laugh, pointing to the pug-nose of Lithuish.
“Good for you!” The stranger dropped a smiling look on her from under his bushy, gray eyebrows78, pleased at her ready wit. “Well! I guess you can go back to your own folks now with an easy mind,” he suggested. “I’ll keep these butting79 kids in order,” with a roving glance at the waiting automobile and the group under the fragrant80 catalpa tree.
“Here’s a playground teacher coming, too,” said Morning-Glory, as a brawny81 young man, in a dripping khaki shirt and trousers that rained diamonds, approached, hugging a great, wet, white ball. “He’s been away over there evidently teaching some of the children to play water-polo in that shallow bathing-pool.”
She pointed82 to a broad, artificial sheet of water fed by city hydrants, with a rainbowed fountain in the center.
“Gee whiz! they’d need a score o’ teachers here to direct all these children’s play—it’s a large an’ crowded playground,” remarked the captor of Polie and Lithuish, now interposing his massive body between them. “An’ great kingdom!”—looking around him with a gust83 of laughter—“there’s more foreign spice on this playground than ever old King Solomon collected in his ships from the four quarters of the earth.”
“You mean that these little foreigners have lots of hot ‘pep’ in them, eh?” flashed Sally, who had just come up, liking84 to air a little slang.
“Sure, that’s what I do mean!” The lame peacemaker lifted a nautical-looking cap from his grizzled hair in fatherly farewell to the girls as they moved off. “So long!” he said kindly85. “Maybe we’ll run across each other again.”
“Maybe we will!” Morning-Glory, otherwise Jessica, threw him a backward smile over her lavender shoulder. “I’m sure he’s a sea-captain—or was,” she said, retracing86 her way toward the catalpa tree between Sally and Arline. “I’m interested in sea-captains because my great-grandfather was one; I have a little old miniature of him painted on ivory which belonged to Mother; she—she left it to me,” with a catch of the breath. “He has brown hair an’ bluish eyes the color of mine; somewhere about seventy or eighty years ago he commanded a big ship and sailed out of Newburyport—the only Newburyport in the United States.... Oh, if only he could be alive now, then I’d really belong to somebody, not just be thrust on to people who aren’t any relatives at all, no matter how kind they are!” she added under her breath—so low that neither Sally nor Arline heard—with a passionate28 quiver of the lip and a glance at the Deering automobile flashing in gray and silver, with a faultless chauffeur87 on the front seat.
“Well! I’m a Camp Fire Girl, anyway.” So she silently caught herself up with a return of the morning-glory look, slightly bedewed. “And ‘Whoso standeth by that Fire, flame-fanned, shall never stand alone!’ What! that plucky88 pianist is really beginning on ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ again,” she exclaimed, as renewed strains from the elevated piano floated over the playground.
“Let us hope the weasel will pop to a finish this time!” laughed Arline, as they reached the catalpa tree and stood once more, grouped with Olive, Sybil, and their chaperoning cousin, under its fanning, heart-shaped leaves. “Now! I wonder to what nationality that little girl in the coarse gray frock belongs?” went on the Rainbow, sweeping89 with her glance the sets of skipping children again being marshaled for the folk-dance.
“Do you mean the one with the big, patient, purple eyes—eyes like a wood anemone90?” asked Jessica; she who had taken for her Camp Fire name a climbing flower loved flowers of all kinds, especially wild ones.
“Yes, and with a toe sticking out through her old shoe! And she can’t keep her mouth shut, although, apparently91, no words come from it. I do believe it was her queer croaking92 gasps93 that I heard with the foreign babel and the shrill ‘Oh’s’ and ‘Ah’s’ of all the other children, when I ran to stop the horse!” bleated94 Sally.
“I wonder if there’s anything wrong with her; whether she’s—what-d’you-call-it—defective in any way?” came in languid speculation95 from Olive.
“Girls!” Cousin Anne sadly settled the question. “I believe she’s deaf and dumb.”
“Deaf and dumb! That explains her. Oh, poor tot!” The Morning-Glory, whose dance-loving feet had been keeping time to the popping music, unrhythmically swung one of them off at a sharp angle, as if a rude pebble96 had struck her ankle in its silken stocking, hurting it more than Polie’s kick. “Deaf and dumb! Then she can’t hear the music. And she’s so awkward, moves so slowly and clumsily, that the other children don’t want to dance with her!.... Oh! she almost makes one cry.” Jessica brushed the blue-gray eyes that, according to her, resembled her ancestor’s in the old miniature. “See her standing97 still in the middle of the fun, plucking at the gathers of her gray frock, looking up at the other children, trying to find out what they’re going to do next!”
“Yes, and one of those other children will take her hand as a partner when the teacher insists, then drop it directly she looks the other way! They don’t want to dance with her silent tongue and old, broken shoes,” said Olive Deering.
“Then I’m going to dance with her, if the teacher will let me. We’ll form a set of our own, we two, if we can’t fit in anywhere! You don’t mind keeping the auto32 waiting a little longer, do you, Cousin Anne?”
The last words were flashed back over Jessica’s smocked shoulder, with a tremulous tilt98 of her upper lip that hung between a laugh and a sob99. Already she was mingling100 with the juvenile dancers, a tall purple and white Morning-Glory amid that garden of racial buds, of little children from every clime.
The dumb child’s hand was in hers, after a few low words to the playground teacher, who abstracted one odd child from the nearest set and installed the new couple in her place. Jessica’s foot in its patent-leather pump and lilac stocking was thrust forth side by side with the rusty101, out-at-toe footwear, the Morning-Glory swaying upon its inner tendril, the yearning102 tendril of Love, teaching the grey, cramped103 bud beside her to sway and step—to glide104 and pirouette—too.
The glide was only a clumsy shuffle105. But there grew a light in the dumb child’s eyes, those eyes of purple patience, so that those who watched its dawning flicker106 from under the catalpa tree felt their throats tickle107.
It did not go out with the final popping of the long-suffering weasel. For, now, the pianist, quite herself again, had struck up the gay, frolicking music of a Vineyard Dance. And side by side those mismatched partners, the seventeen-year-old Camp Fire Girl, the eight-year-old deaf-mute, were scampering108 through it, enacting109 all the vineyard drama of growth,—Jessica by dumb show instructing, after a fashion, the child at her side.
Hand in hand they knelt on one knee on the playground grass, making gay pretense110 of planting grape-seeds in the warm ground. Step by step—stamp, stamp, stamp!—they circled round, with arms uplifted, with groping fingers plucking counterfeit111 grapes of sunshine from imaginary vines, that violet light growing in the dumb child’s eyes, while she strove to ape each gesture and movement of her companion, as if—transfigured—she peeped through the gates ajar of fairy-land, had her first real glimpse of the joy of childhood.
Suddenly, her feet lagged; she dragged upon Jessica’s hand. She stood still. Her big eyes were uplifted to the white cloud-foam drifting across the blue sea of the July sky. Then they dropped wonderingly to her partner’s face.
“Look! Look! Look!” cried Arline with a frank, glad sob. “I verily believe she thinks Heaven is short an angel to-day, one having dropped down from the clouds, especially to dance with her!”
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1
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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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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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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bridled
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| 给…套龙头( bridle的过去式和过去分词 )； 控制； 昂首表示轻蔑（或怨忿等）； 动怒，生气 | |
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incentive
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| n.刺激；动力；鼓励；诱因；动机 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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11
sterilizing
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| v.消毒( sterilize的现在分词 )；使无菌；使失去生育能力；使绝育 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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supervisor
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| n.监督人，管理人，检查员，督学，主管，导师 | |
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trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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speculatively
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| adv.思考地，思索地；投机地 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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auto
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| n.(=automobile)(口语)汽车 | |
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scathing
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| adj.（言词、文章）严厉的，尖刻的；不留情的adv.严厉地，尖刻地v.伤害，损害（尤指使之枯萎）( scathe的现在分词) | |
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jealousies
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| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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37
fluffy
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| adj.有绒毛的，空洞的 | |
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38
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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39
gory
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| adj.流血的；残酷的 | |
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40
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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41
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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42
preening
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| v.（鸟）用嘴整理（羽毛）( preen的现在分词 ) | |
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43
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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44
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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46
sedately
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| adv.镇静地，安详地 | |
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47
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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48
seesawing
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| v.使上下（来回）摇动( seesaw的现在分词 )；玩跷跷板，上下（来回）摇动 | |
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49
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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50
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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51
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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52
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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54
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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55
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
squealing
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的现在分词 ) | |
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57
pout
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| v.撅嘴；绷脸；n.撅嘴；生气，不高兴 | |
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58
diaphanous
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| adj.(布)精致的，半透明的 | |
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59
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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61
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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62
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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63
patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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lucidly
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| adv.清透地，透明地 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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66
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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68
busted
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| adj. 破产了的，失败了的，被降级的，被逮捕的，被抓到的 动词bust的过去式和过去分词 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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73
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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ruggedly
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| 险峻地； 粗暴地； （面容）多皱纹地； 粗线条地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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77
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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79
butting
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| 用头撞人（犯规动作） | |
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80
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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83
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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84
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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85
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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retracing
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| v.折回( retrace的现在分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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87
chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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88
plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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89
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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90
anemone
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| n.海葵 | |
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91
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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92
croaking
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的现在分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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bleated
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| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的过去式和过去分词 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
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95
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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96
pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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97
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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98
tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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99
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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100
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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101
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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102
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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103
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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104
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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105
shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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106
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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107
tickle
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| v.搔痒，胳肢；使高兴；发痒；n.搔痒，发痒 | |
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108
scampering
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的现在分词 ) | |
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109
enacting
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的现在分词 ) | |
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110
pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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111
counterfeit
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| vt.伪造，仿造；adj.伪造的，假冒的 | |
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