“You should say, rather, that she dances like a morning-glory in the breeze!” Sesooā looked laughingly up into the face of the massive peacemaker who had separated the two little fighting foreigners; he had delivered them over to the tender mercies of the playground teacher who carried the dripping white water-ball in his arms, while he, the lame3 stranger whom Jessica opined was a sea-captain, withdrew to a better position for watching the dancing which brought him near to the group under the circular catalpa tree.
“An’ why should I say she dances like a ‘morning-glory,’ may I ask? I don’t know much about flowers, but I know a whole lot about foam4-chickens, Carey chickens—stormy petrels you’d call ’em, most likely: and they’re the lightest, most buoyant things on God’s earth! You should see them,” went on the stranger expressively5, “with their small wings spread, balancing on a wave-crest, little feet digging down into the foam, never sinking, disappearing into a watery7 hollow one minute, up again the next, crowing on the top of another foam-hill! I say she dances like that, the girl who’s footing it with the little creature in the broken old shoes and grey frock—as if the wave could never catch her!” There was a little genial8 mist, like light spray from the stormwater of which he spoke9, in the stranger’s eye now, as it followed Jessica and her dumb partner through the last gay stampede of the vineyard dance. “And here’s hoping that the storm-wave never will swallow her!” he added with an eye of such merry fatherly kindness that Sally, part of whose bringing-up it had been not to hold familiar converse10 with strangers, absolutely forgot to place him in that category and immediately gave her racy little tongue all the freedom it desired.
“That sounds awful-ly nice what you say about her,” she remarked. “And I’ll tell her you said it; she’ll be pleased to hear it because she has made up her mind that you’re a sea-captain and her great-grandfather was one, owned a big ship and sailed out of Newburyport.”
“Ha! The only Newburyport in the United States, with its plaguy sand-bar at the mouth of the Merrimac River, so that ships can sail out of that port, when they’re in ballast, but never put in there, when they’re loaded, after a long voyage!”
“Ye-es,” murmured Sally, not interested. “But fancy thinking so much about one’s great-grandfather! However, I’m going to set to work and look up mine now, my grandparents and great-grandparents an’ what they did—so’s to win a patriotic11 honor-bead for my Camp Fire Girl’s necklace! But it’s different with her”—volubly indicating the deaf-and-dumb child’s partner, who was now guiding her, with expressive6 pantomime, through the mazy windings12 of a ribbon dance—“she thinks so much of that old sea-captain ancestor because she’s got his miniature and because I don’t believe she has any living relatives to think about. Her father and mother are both dead. She’s staying with the Deerings who own that beautiful automobile13 but I don’t think she’s related to them, except through their elderly cousin”—nodding toward the bench under the catalpa tree—“who’s her cousin, too.”
“What is the girl’s name?” asked the grey-haired peacemaker.
“Jessica Dee Holley.”
“Ha! ‘Dee’ sounds like an old Newburyport name; leastways I’ve seen it in old entries.”
“That was her mother’s name. But she isn’t alone, although she has no near relatives, because she’s a Camp Fire Girl, and we ‘cleave to our Camp Fire Sisters whenever, wherever we find them!’” Sesooā threw back her head with the same loyal gesture as that wherewith she had faced the world after stopping the horse; the golden firefly in her eyes hovering14 directly over the Camp Fire flame in her heart.
From the ranks of the juvenile15 dancers came, now, the joyful16 lilt of another song.
“Two by two,
Two by two,
Here we go!
With merry hearts,
And a cheerful song,
As we march in the double row.”
Two by two, yes, Jessica and her little silent partner leading with a vim17, she singing for both!
Again Sally’s throat tickled18 and the firefly bore a little mist upon its wings as she noted19 the new spirit which had crept into the deaf-and-dumb child’s movements, into the clumsy, ill-shod feet, into the grey, stocky little figure, into the small, stubby fingers which no longer plucked wistfully at the gathers of her coarse frock, but brightly spread themselves in an inspired attempt to copy the waving gestures of the wonderful partner in shining lavender and white who had dropped from the clouds for her.
The sight was moving. The firefly in Sally’s eyes went in out of the rain.
“She’s going to be initiated20 as a Fire Maker2 at our next Council Fire gathering,” she murmured, nodding toward Jessica and hardly caring whether her impromptu21 companion understood her meaning or not. “But, oh”—blinking bright drops from her eyelids—“she ought to be a Torch Bearer! She’s a Torch Bearer already! Look at the light which she has brought into that little dumb girl’s eyes—she has lit a torch in her heart.”
“Well! I guess she has,” returned the big stranger in a moved voice, too.
“I don’t know whether you know much about Camp Fire Girls.”—Sesooā dashed the bright drops away and the firefly reappeared, hovering over a dimple—“but when a girl joins the society she takes a symbolic22 name, generally an Indian one, that signifies something she aims particularly to do or be. Jessica chose that of a climbing flower, the morning-glory—or its nearest Indian equivalent—for some little secret reason of her own; that’s what made it seem funny—incongruous—you know, when you said she danced like a stormy petrel, a Mother Carey chicken,” poutingly23.
“Ah-h!” The stranger drew his massive brows together ruminating24 for a minute, his eyes on the wavy25 ribbon dance. “Ah! but, maybe, the two aren’t so wide apart as you think.” He turned and nodded at her. “Take a stormy morning at sea, now. I’ve seen the dawn, the morning-glory to be, come up, just a little grey flutter in the sky—like a dove-grey chicken that the foam had hatched—the foam that was piled like a great, pale egg against the horizon! It’s a funny world, little girl,” with an all-comprehensive wink26 of the sea-blue eye. “Things an’ meanings of things are never such miles apart but that you can link ’em, somehow; an’ that’s true of more than foam and flower!”
“Why—Captain Andy!”
“Why-y! Miss Winter!”
Cousin Anne had risen suddenly from the bench under the catalpa tree, shocked at seeing one of the girls whom she was chaperoning holding free converse with a stranger. Now she was advancing with warmly outstretched hand.
“Why! Miss Winter, I never expected to meet you here.” The massive stranger, standing27 bareheaded in the sunshine, was as cordially shaking that proffered28 hand.
“It’s Captain Andy, my dears!” Miss Anne Winter beckoned29 to the two Deering girls, her relatives and special charges. “Olive! this is Captain Andrew Davis who saved your Cousin Marvin’s life, with that of several other young men—college chums—when they were wrecked30, while yachting a couple of years ago, off the Newfoundland Coast. You remember?” flutteringly.
“Oh! yes, indeed.” Olive extended a gracious, girlish hand; she was conscious of a little creepy thrill at meeting a real live hero, especially one who carried the heroism31 done up in such massive bulk, but she had heard her Cousin Marvin—before the rescue—speak of this Captain Andy Davis as being a sea-captain in no grand, mercantile way, as commanding no big barque, but only what Marvin—likewise before the rescue—dubbed a smelly fish-kettle, otherwise a New England fishing-schooner, little over a hundred feet in length from stem to taffrail.
Heroism had its noble uses, of course, especially when one had been stranded32 for hours as Marvin and those other college boys were upon sharp, naked rocks, seeing their yacht broken to pieces by the mountainous swell33 of an old sea after a storm, death staring them in the face, with no hope of rescue, until Captain Andy and his gallant34 “fish-kettle” hove in sight and bore down upon them—until Captain Andy, with a volunteer from his crew, launched a dory and succeeded in saving their lives at the extreme risk of his own.
Olive remembered hearing Marvin say that he did not believe there was another mariner35 upon the Massachusetts coast who could have “pulled off that rescue” with the sea as it was then. She thrilled again, looking up into the keen blue eye under the heavy lid, into the face which had made Jessica think of sheltering flame. At the same time, she could not help seeing a gulf36—a broad gulf with floating shapes of fishy37 decks, horny hands, scaly38 oilskins—intervene between her and her sister, daughters of the bi-millionaire owner of big machine works for the manufacture of textile machinery39, and this limping weather-beaten master mariner.
Sybil did not even take the trouble to be as friendly as she was.
Meanwhile Cousin Anne, Miss Anne Winter, was introducing Captain Andy Davis in proper form to Arline and Sally, mentioning the fact that the grateful Marvin had taken her to visit him when last she was in Gloucester.
“Oh, I must have felt it in my fingers—or in my tongue—that I knew you, or ought to know you, or that somebody here knew you, or I never would have talked to you so freely!” declared Sally in an orange flutter.
“And how do you come to be in Clevedon just now?” questioned Miss Anne, interrogating40 the weather-beaten face.
“My artist sent for me.” That florid visage bloomed all over with a boyish smile that gleamed somewhat shamefacedly through the thick, fair eyelashes, not yet turned grey. “She said she hadn’t got my ground colors right—gee! I didn’t know I had any, except when my vessel41 was grounded in the mud. ‘Carnation42 colors’ she called ’em—jiminy!”
His breezy bubble of laughter was caught and tossed further by Sally and Arline who eagerly hung upon the novelty of his speech.
“The artist is Miss Loretta Dewey, isn’t she?” So Miss Anne took him up. “She has taken you for the subject of her sea picture: ‘The Breaker King.’”
“Yes. I’m highly flattered. I had other business in this city, too, besides fixing my carnation colors,” with again that boyish laugh stirring the thick eyelashes. “I’ve been in correspondence with a lady here, a cousin of the artist’s, about renting one of my new camps at the mouth of the Exmouth River—tidal river, you know—for the summer.” (Sally caught her breath as if she were fishing for it, rose on tiptoe, stared at him breathlessly.) “The fact is, Miss Winter, I’m tired of being a hayseed,” the ex-mariner went on—“tried it for two years an’ couldn’t take to it.”
“What have you done with your little farm among the Essex woods?”
“Turned it over to my hired man. Oh! he’s a reformed character, he’ll run it all right; he’s got two anchors out now to leeward43 an’ win’ard, which means he was married a year ago an’ had a son born last month. Guess he had the baby baptized a Scout,” with a twinkle; “he said that ’twas watching the Boy Scouts44 an’ their manly45 doin’s that first started him to wanting to hit a man’s trail, at last—make a man of himself.”
But Miss Anne knew that it was Captain Andy who had followed up the unconscious work of the Scouts by taking that hired man, hopeless graduate of a reform school, and setting him on his feet again.
“You’re not thinking of going to sea any more?” she asked.
“No, my damaged spar kind o’ interferes46 with that.” The mariner looked down at his lame right leg where the sea left its mark on him in his last terrible fight with it. “But I’m gettin’ as near to the ocean as I can while staying ashore,” he volunteered. “I put in this past spring building three big, rambling47 wooden shanties—they ain’t much more—which I call camps, on the edge of some white sand-dunes49, wildest spot on the coast of Massachusetts, where the tidal river meets the bay, or sea.”
“Oh! it’s not the Sugarloaf sand-dunes?” squeaked50 Sesooā, her voice thin and wiry with excitement.
“Very place! The white Sugarloaf Peninsula! Just a hundred acres, or so, of tall, snowy sand-hills in that part o’ the dunes, and wild life a-plenty on dune48 an’ river—bird, fish, an’ mammal, or seal! I’ve rented two of the camps already”—went on the speaker, in the teeth of a now prevalent gust51 of excitement which, blowing toward him, threatened to sweep him off his feet—“one to a family, t’other to a flock; to a lady, right here in this city of Clevedon, who’s going to bring ten or twelve young girls with her, to camp out, some of ’em lately started upon a cruise of their ’teens, others about midway of the voyage,” with a deep gurgle of laughter like the briny52 bubble of the sea.
“Did she—did she say they were a Camp Fire Group?” Sesooā’s hands were clasped upon a flame of suspense53 so eager that it almost scorched54 them.
“Come to think of it, now, I guess she did! I’ve heard a lot about that tribe, in general, lately. Boy Scouts an’ Camp Fire Girls, they’re in the spot light just now.”
“They deserve to be. And was the Guardian’s—the lady’s—name Miss Dewey?”
“You’ve hit it. I’m to be watch-dog and life-guard to the flock—I’ll have a tent o’ my own near.”
“Then, it’s us! It’s us, Captain Andy!” cried the Rainbow and the Flame together. “It’s our Morning-Glory Camp Fire that has rented your camp for the remainder of this month of July and all the month of August—the Green Corn Moon. Oh, we’re so glad to have met you—that you’re going to be our camp guard and protector!”
“Land o’ Goshen! you ain’t got no corner on the gladness; that I tell you.” The old lifesaver beamed. “Is she coming, too?” pointing to the girlish figure in the flower-like Tam among the shifting playground sets. “Is she going to camp on the dunes, too, the one that dances like a foam-chicken or a foam-clot—the Morning-Glory one?”
“Of course she is.”
“I suppose, now, you’d call her a—what-d’ye-call-it—an?sthetic dancer, eh?” with an inquisitive55 twinkle.
“?sthetic,” corrected Olive, smiling a superior little smile. “An?sthetic is a thing that puts people to sleep when they’re in pain—a medicine.”
“Oh! aye, I put my foot in the medicine, did I?” gasped56 the squelched57 captain, his “carnation colors” deepening.
From the playground came the cooing words of yet another song, dramatic, disconnected, marking the close of the afternoon’s singing games and folk-dances:
“Bluebird, bluebird, through my window!”
“Oh, Jennie, I’m tired!”
At the two random58 lines, children’s heads were dropped each upon the other’s shoulder in mock fatigue59, resting there a moment in drowsy60 confidence.
“Turk, Armenian, Teuton, Slav, an’ almost every other race thrown in—Lord! if that ain’t a Peace Conference to beat the Hague,” muttered Captain Andy, his eyes watering as they scanned the faces of those foreign buds.
“I think he’s great—and I don’t mean it slangily either! He is Great,” said impulsive61 Sally in an aside to Olive. “Oh! why don’t Sybil and you join our Camp Fire tribe and camp with us, too, upon his Sugarloaf dunes. I feel like shouting when I think of the fun we’ll have, rowing and swimming, singing and dancing our Indian dances, the Leaf Dance and Duck Dance that Morning-Glory is going to teach us—she learned them from a professor who learned them from the Indians—among those crystal, sugary, sandy dunes.”
“Yes, and cooking your own meals, by turns, laundering62 your own blouses, washing camp dishes—glorifying work, as you call it! That wouldn’t suit me.” Olive shook her satin curl. “Sybil and I—with Cousin Anne, of course—are going to spend August at an hotel on the North Shore. We’ll have plenty of dancing, too; it’s a very fashionable, exclusive hotel and the most expensive teacher of up-to-date dances is coming from New York to give lessons to the guests, including Sybil and me; I teased Father until he said we might learn from him—otherwise, we shan’t have a study or a thing to do but to amuse ourselves all day long.”
The bright flame of Sally’s enthusiasm wavered and paled like a candle-flame in garish63 sunshine. Her face fell. To her versatile64, girlish fancy the picture which Olive painted of the coming August was richer in coloring, more dazzlingly gilded65 in frame—with the modern dancing thrown in—than any that the crystal Sugarloaf could offer, even when peopled with fringed and beaded Camp Fire Girls.
Crestfallen66, she looked at Captain Andy, partly to hide her chagrin67.
He was staring fixedly68 at the playground before him, where a dumb child unable to reach up and drop her head upon a seventeen-year-old girl’s lavender shoulder—as the other children were doing with their partners—laid it upon her breast.
“Bless her heart of gold, that girl!” he breathed, his strong face working. “Whether you call her ‘Morning-Glory’ or foam-chicken, I say bless her heart for calling the bluebird through a dumb child’s window when she can’t call it for herself.... I had a little sister, long ago, born deaf an’ dumb; she only lived to be four. I played with her until she died.... I take off my hat to that Camp Fire Girl.”
“Oh-h!” exploded Sesooā between a sob69 and a song which together cleared the horizon and righted her toppling enthusiasm; that in girlhood to which Captain Andy, hero of a hundred sea-fights, bared his head, as he reverently70 did, was best worth while; unwittingly he, a connoisseur71 in Life, had put his finger on that which was lacking in Olive’s picture, present in this: the seeking Beauty not for oneself alone, not in one’s own life only, but to see it blossom in dull, sad, silent corners of the human garden, the Camp Fire ideal.
Swept upon a tide of reaction Sally turned passionately72 to Cousin Anne. “Oh, Jessica is the dandiest girl,” she exclaimed, slangy with emotion. “Oh! Miss Anne, I do want to ask you a question; do you know, won’t you tell me, why she was bent73 on choosing Morning-Glory as her Camp Fire name and emblem74, why she was called ‘Glory’ as a pet name before?”
“It was because of a little incident in her childhood.”
“Yes, I know! And this playground, teeming75 with children, is the very place to hear it,” seconded Arline, chiming in.
“Well, I don’t think she would mind my telling you girls, it’s such a trifling76 little story, but because it’s so tenderly connected with her mother, who died a little more than two years ago, she doesn’t care to speak of it herself; her mother was my cousin.”
“Yes?” breathed the expectant girls.
“I used to visit them when Jessica was a little child; she loved flowers from the time she was a baby girl, and her mother invented a ‘flower game’ which she used to play with her at night after the child was in bed, so that she might fall asleep with a happy impression on her mind; the mother would begin, ‘I am your rose,’ to which the drowsy little voice would answer, ‘I am your violet,’ or something like that and so on through all the flowers they could name, until Jessica was asleep.
“Well! one night the game went on as usual: ‘I am your rose,’ ‘I am your vi’let;’ ‘I am your pansy,’ ‘I am your lily;’ ‘I am your dandelion,’ ‘I am your nasturt’um;’ ‘I am your lily of the valley,’ but to this there was no answer—the mother had the last word—Jessica was fast asleep.
“Early next morning, however, her mother was awakened77 by two little arms stealing round her neck, by a moist little mouth pressed to her cheek and a child’s voice saying softly into her ear: ‘Mamma! Mamma! I am your morning-glory!’
“Somehow, under cover of sleep, the seed of the flower game had lingered in her mind all night, to blossom in the morning.” Miss Anne gently blinked at such mysteries, looking before her at the dissolving playground sets.
“Oh-h, if that isn’t the sweetest child-story!” burst from Sally in subdued78 applause. “I’m so glad that you told it to us, satisfied our curiosity.”
“Yes, and we’ll have such a pretty little anecdote79 to relate, in turn, at our next Council Fire gathering—when we’re supposed to tell of some kind deed which we’ve seen done—about how the Morning-Glory danced with the dumb child, gave her such a good time this morning. I wish I could write it up in verse—even blank verse,” yearned80 Arline aspiringly. “You’ll be there, won’t you, Miss Anne?”
“Of course she will; it’s to be held outdoors, if the weather is fine, upon the lake shore at the foot of Wigwam Hill, where you can almost see the ghosts of Indians—who camped there in numbers, nearly two hundred years ago—moving about. Of course she’ll be there and Captain Andy, too, to see me light a fire without matches and watch us dance the Leaf Dance!” Sesooā whirled like an orange leaf in a gust of reinstated enthusiasm. “Hurrah81 for our Morning-Glory Camp Fire! Hurrah and hurrah again for Camp Morning-Glory—our camp that is to be—on the far-away Sugarloaf!” her mind’s eye exploring those white Sugarloaf dunes, amid which she would revel82, Puck-like, fairy-like, by the light of the Green Corn Moon.
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1
Neptune
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| n.海王星 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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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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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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expressively
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| ad.表示(某事物)地；表达地 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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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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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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vim
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| n.精力，活力 | |
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tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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impromptu
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symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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poutingly
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ruminating
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| v.沉思( ruminate的现在分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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wavy
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wink
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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swell
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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fishy
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scaly
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| adj.鱼鳞状的；干燥粗糙的 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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interrogating
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| n.询问技术v.询问( interrogate的现在分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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carnation
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| n.康乃馨（一种花） | |
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leeward
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| adj.背风的；下风的 | |
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scouts
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| 侦察员[机，舰]( scout的名词复数 )； 童子军； 搜索； 童子军成员 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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interferes
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| vi. 妨碍，冲突，干涉 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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dune
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| n.(由风吹积而成的)沙丘 | |
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dunes
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| 沙丘( dune的名词复数 ) | |
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squeaked
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的过去式和过去分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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briny
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| adj.盐水的；很咸的；n.海洋 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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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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squelched
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| v.发吧唧声，发扑哧声( squelch的过去式和过去分词 )；制止；压制；遏制 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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laundering
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| n.洗涤（衣等），洗烫（衣等）；洗（钱）v.洗（衣服等），洗烫（衣服等）( launder的现在分词 )；洗（黑钱）（把非法收入改头换面，变为貌似合法的收入） | |
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garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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versatile
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| adj.通用的，万用的；多才多艺的，多方面的 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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crestfallen
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| adj. 挫败的，失望的，沮丧的 | |
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chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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