He took a firmer hold of the cork8 grips of his handlebars—the road being in a wretched condition after the recent hauling of the crop—and quickened his pace. He told himself that, no matter what the time was, he would not stop for luncheon9 at the ranch house, but would push on to Guadalajara and have a Spanish dinner at Solotari's, as he had originally planned.
There had not been much of a crop to haul that year. Half of the wheat on the Broderson ranch had failed entirely10, and Derrick himself had hardly raised more than enough to supply seed for the winter's sowing. But such little hauling as there had been had reduced the roads thereabouts to a lamentable11 condition, and, during the dry season of the past few months, the layer of dust had deepened and thickened to such an extent that more than once Presley was obliged to dismount and trudge12 along on foot, pushing his bicycle in front of him.
It was the last half of September, the very end of the dry season, and all Tulare County, all the vast reaches of the San Joaquin Valley—in fact all South Central California, was bone dry, parched13, and baked and crisped after four months of cloudless weather, when the day seemed always at noon, and the sun blazed white hot over the valley from the Coast Range in the west to the foothills of the Sierras in the east.
As Presley drew near to the point where what was known as the Lower Road struck off through the Rancho de Los Muertos, leading on to Guadalajara, he came upon one of the county watering-tanks, a great, iron-hooped tower of wood, straddling clumsily on its four uprights by the roadside. Since the day of its completion, the storekeepers and retailers15 of Bonneville had painted their advertisements upon it. It was a landmark16. In that reach of level fields, the white letters upon it could be read for miles. A watering-trough stood near by, and, as he was very thirsty, Presley resolved to stop for a moment to get a drink.
He drew abreast17 of the tank and halted there, leaning his bicycle against the fence. A couple of men in white overalls18 were repainting the surface of the tank, seated on swinging platforms that hung by hooks from the roof. They were painting a sign—an advertisement. It was all but finished and read, “S. Behrman, Real Estate, Mortgages, Main Street, Bonneville, Opposite the Post Office.” On the horse-trough that stood in the shadow of the tank was another freshly painted inscription19: “S. Behrman Has Something To Say To You.”
As Presley straightened up after drinking from the faucet20 at one end of the horse-trough, the watering-cart itself laboured into view around the turn of the Lower Road. Two mules21 and two horses, white with dust, strained leisurely23 in the traces, moving at a snail's pace, their limp ears marking the time; while perched high upon the seat, under a yellow cotton wagon24 umbrella, Presley recognised Hooven, one of Derrick's tenants25, a German, whom every one called “Bismarck,” an excitable little man with a perpetual grievance26 and an endless flow of broken English.
“Hello, Bismarck,” said Presley, as Hooven brought his team to a standstill by the tank, preparatory to refilling.
“Yoost der men I look for, Mist'r Praicely,” cried the other, twisting the reins27 around the brake. “Yoost one minute, you wait, hey? I wanta talk mit you.”
Presley was impatient to be on his way again. A little more time wasted, and the day would be lost. He had nothing to do with the management of the ranch, and if Hooven wanted any advice from him, it was so much breath wasted. These uncouth28 brutes30 of farmhands and petty ranchers, grimed with the soil they worked upon, were odious31 to him beyond words. Never could he feel in sympathy with them, nor with their lives, their ways, their marriages, deaths, bickerings, and all the monotonous32 round of their sordid33 existence.
“Well, you must be quick about it, Bismarck,” he answered sharply. “I'm late for dinner, as it is.”
“Soh, now. Two minuten, und I be mit you.” He drew down the overhanging spout34 of the tank to the vent35 in the circumference36 of the cart and pulled the chain that let out the water. Then he climbed down from the seat, jumping from the tire of the wheel, and taking Presley by the arm led him a few steps down the road.
“Say,” he began. “Say, I want to hef some converzations mit you. Yoost der men I want to see. Say, Caraher, he tole me dis morgen—say, he tole me Mist'r Derrick gowun to farm der whole demn rench hisseluf der next yahr. No more tenants. Say, Caraher, he tole me all der tenants get der sach; Mist'r Derrick gowun to work der whole demn rench hisseluf, hey? ME, I get der sach alzoh, hey? You hef hear about dose ting? Say, me, I hef on der ranch been sieben yahr—seven yahr. Do I alzoh——”
“You'll have to see Derrick himself or Harran about that, Bismarck,” interrupted Presley, trying to draw away. “That's something outside of me entirely.”
But Hooven was not to be put off. No doubt he had been meditating37 his speech all the morning, formulating38 his words, preparing his phrases.
“Say, no, no,” he continued. “Me, I wanta stay bei der place; seven yahr I hef stay. Mist'r Derrick, he doand want dot I should be ge-sacked. Who, den2, will der ditch ge-tend? Say, you tell 'um Bismarck hef gotta sure stay bei der place. Say, you hef der pull mit der Governor. You speak der gut39 word for me.”
“Harran is the man that has the pull with his father, Bismarck,” answered Presley. “You get Harran to speak for you, and you're all right.”
“Sieben yahr I hef stay,” protested Hooven, “and who will der ditch ge-tend, und alle dem cettles drive?”
“Well, Harran's your man,” answered Presley, preparing to mount his bicycle.
“Say, you hef hear about dose ting?”
“I don't hear about anything, Bismarck. I don't know the first thing about how the ranch is run.”
“UND DER PIPE-LINE GE-MEND,” Hooven burst out, suddenly remembering a forgotten argument. He waved an arm. “Ach, der pipe-line bei der Mission Greek, und der waater-hole for dose cettles. Say, he doand doo ut HIMSELLUF, berhaps, I doand tink.”
“Well, talk to Harran about it.”
“Say, he doand farm der whole demn rench bei hisseluf. Me, I gotta stay.”
But on a sudden the water in the cart gushed41 over the sides from the vent in the top with a smart sound of splashing. Hooven was forced to turn his attention to it. Presley got his wheel under way.
“I hef some converzations mit Herran,” Hooven called after him. “He doand doo ut bei hisseluf, den, Mist'r Derrick; ach, no. I stay bei der rench to drive dose cettles.”
He climbed back to his seat under the wagon umbrella, and, as he started his team again with great cracks of his long whip, turned to the painters still at work upon the sign and declared with some defiance42:
“Sieben yahr; yais, sir, seiben yahr I hef been on dis rench. Git oop, you mule22 you, hoop14!”
Meanwhile Presley had turned into the Lower Road. He was now on Derrick's land, division No. I, or, as it was called, the Home ranch, of the great Los Muertos Rancho. The road was better here, the dust laid after the passage of Hooven's watering-cart, and, in a few minutes, he had come to the ranch house itself, with its white picket44 fence, its few flower beds, and grove45 of eucalyptus46 trees. On the lawn at the side of the house, he saw Harran in the act of setting out the automatic sprinkler. In the shade of the house, by the porch, were two or three of the greyhounds, part of the pack that were used to hunt down jack-rabbits, and Godfrey, Harran's prize deerhound.
Presley wheeled up the driveway and met Harran by the horse-block. Harran was Magnus Derrick's youngest son, a very well-looking young fellow of twenty-three or twenty-five. He had the fine carriage that marked his father, and still further resembled him in that he had the Derrick nose—hawk-like and prominent, such as one sees in the later portraits of the Duke of Wellington. He was blond, and incessant47 exposure to the sun had, instead of tanning him brown, merely heightened the colour of his cheeks. His yellow hair had a tendency to curl in a forward direction, just in front of the ears.
Beside him, Presley made the sharpest of contrasts. Presley seemed to have come of a mixed origin; appeared to have a nature more composite, a temperament49 more complex. Unlike Harran Derrick, he seemed more of a character than a type. The sun had browned his face till it was almost swarthy. His eyes were a dark brown, and his forehead was the forehead of the intellectual, wide and high, with a certain unmistakable lift about it that argued education, not only of himself, but of his people before him. The impression conveyed by his mouth and chin was that of a delicate and highly sensitive nature, the lips thin and loosely shut together, the chin small and rather receding50. One guessed that Presley's refinement51 had been gained only by a certain loss of strength. One expected to find him nervous, introspective, to discover that his mental life was not at all the result of impressions and sensations that came to him from without, but rather of thoughts and reflections germinating52 from within. Though morbidly53 sensitive to changes in his physical surroundings, he would be slow to act upon such sensations, would not prove impulsive55, not because he was sluggish56, but because he was merely irresolute57. It could be foreseen that morally he was of that sort who avoid evil through good taste, lack of decision, and want of opportunity. His temperament was that of the poet; when he told himself he had been thinking, he deceived himself. He had, on such occasions, been only brooding.
Some eighteen months before this time, he had been threatened with consumption, and, taking advantage of a standing58 invitation on the part of Magnus Derrick, had come to stay in the dry, even climate of the San Joaquin for an indefinite length of time. He was thirty years old, and had graduated and post-graduated with high honours from an Eastern college, where he had devoted59 himself to a passionate60 study of literature, and, more especially, of poetry.
It was his insatiable ambition to write verse. But up to this time, his work had been fugitive62, ephemeral, a note here and there, heard, appreciated, and forgotten. He was in search of a subject; something magnificent, he did not know exactly what; some vast, tremendous theme, heroic, terrible, to be unrolled in all the thundering progression of hexameters.
But whatever he wrote, and in whatever fashion, Presley was determined63 that his poem should be of the West, that world's frontier of Romance, where a new race, a new people—hardy, brave, and passionate—were building an empire; where the tumultuous life ran like fire from dawn to dark, and from dark to dawn again, primitive64, brutal65, honest, and without fear. Something (to his idea not much) had been done to catch at that life in passing, but its poet had not yet arisen. The few sporadic66 attempts, thus he told himself, had only touched the keynote. He strove for the diapason, the great song that should embrace in itself a whole epoch67, a complete era, the voice of an entire people, wherein all people should be included—they and their legends, their folk lore68, their fightings, their loves and their lusts69, their blunt, grim humour, their stoicism under stress, their adventures, their treasures found in a day and gambled in a night, their direct, crude speech, their generosity70 and cruelty, their heroism71 and bestiality, their religion and profanity, their self-sacrifice and obscenity—a true and fearless setting forth72 of a passing phase of history, un-compromising, sincere; each group in its proper environment; the valley, the plain, and the mountain; the ranch, the range, and the mine—all this, all the traits and types of every community from the Dakotas to the Mexicos, from Winnipeg to Guadalupe, gathered together, swept together, welded and riven together in one single, mighty73 song, the Song of the West. That was what he dreamed, while things without names—thoughts for which no man had yet invented words, terrible formless shapes, vague figures, colossal74, monstrous75, distorted—whirled at a gallop76 through his imagination.
As Harran came up, Presley reached down into the pouches77 of the sun-bleached shooting coat he wore and drew out and handed him the packet of letters and papers.
“Here's the mail. I think I shall go on.”
“But dinner is ready,” said Harran; “we are just sitting down.”
Presley shook his head. “No, I'm in a hurry. Perhaps I shall have something to eat at Guadalajara. I shall be gone all day.”
He delayed a few moments longer, tightening78 a loose nut on his forward wheel, while Harran, recognising his father's handwriting on one of the envelopes, slit79 it open and cast his eye rapidly over its pages.
“The Governor is coming home,” he exclaimed, “to-morrow morning on the early train; wants me to meet him with the team at Guadalajara; AND,” he cried between his clenched80 teeth, as he continued to read, “we've lost the case.”
“What case? Oh, in the matter of rates?”
Harran nodded, his eyes flashing, his face growing suddenly scarlet81.
“Ulsteen gave his decision yesterday,” he continued, reading from his father's letter. “He holds, Ulsteen does, that 'grain rates as low as the new figure would amount to confiscation82 of property, and that, on such a basis, the railroad could not be operated at a legitimate83 profit. As he is powerless to legislate84 in the matter, he can only put the rates back at what they originally were before the commissioners85 made the cut, and it is so ordered.' That's our friend S. Behrman again,” added Harran, grinding his teeth. “He was up in the city the whole of the time the new schedule was being drawn86, and he and Ulsteen and the Railroad Commission were as thick as thieves. He has been up there all this last week, too, doing the railroad's dirty work, and backing Ulsteen up. 'Legitimate profit, legitimate profit,'” he broke out. “Can we raise wheat at a legitimate profit with a tariff87 of four dollars a ton for moving it two hundred miles to tide-water, with wheat at eighty-seven cents? Why not hold us up with a gun in our faces, and say, 'hands up,' and be done with it?”
He dug his boot-heel into the ground and turned away to the house abruptly88, cursing beneath his breath.
“By the way,” Presley called after him, “Hooven wants to see you. He asked me about this idea of the Governor's of getting along without the tenants this year. Hooven wants to stay to tend the ditch and look after the stock. I told him to see you.”
Harran, his mind full of other things, nodded to say he understood. Presley only waited till he had disappeared indoors, so that he might not seem too indifferent to his trouble; then, remounting, struck at once into a brisk pace, and, turning out from the carriage gate, held on swiftly down the Lower Road, going in the direction of Guadalajara. These matters, these eternal fierce bickerings between the farmers of the San Joaquin and the Pacific and Southwestern Railroad irritated him and wearied him. He cared for none of these things. They did not belong to his world. In the picture of that huge romantic West that he saw in his imagination, these dissensions made the one note of harsh colour that refused to enter into the great scheme of harmony. It was material, sordid, deadly commonplace. But, however he strove to shut his eyes to it or his ears to it, the thing persisted and persisted. The romance seemed complete up to that point. There it broke, there it failed, there it became realism, grim, unlovely, unyielding. To be true—and it was the first article of his creed89 to be unflinchingly true—he could not ignore it. All the noble poetry of the ranch—the valley—seemed in his mind to be marred90 and disfigured by the presence of certain immovable facts. Just what he wanted, Presley hardly knew. On one hand, it was his ambition to portray91 life as he saw it—directly, frankly92, and through no medium of personality or temperament. But, on the other hand, as well, he wished to see everything through a rose-coloured mist—a mist that dulled all harsh outlines, all crude and violent colours. He told himself that, as a part of the people, he loved the people and sympathised with their hopes and fears, and joys and griefs; and yet Hooven, grimy and perspiring93, with his perpetual grievance and his contracted horizon, only revolted him. He had set himself the task of giving true, absolutely true, poetical94 expression to the life of the ranch, and yet, again and again, he brought up against the railroad, that stubborn iron barrier against which his romance shattered itself to froth and disintegrated95, flying spume. His heart went out to the people, and his groping hand met that of a slovenly96 little Dutchman, whom it was impossible to consider seriously. He searched for the True Romance, and, in the end, found grain rates and unjust freight tariffs97.
“But the stuff is HERE,” he muttered, as he sent his wheel rumbling98 across the bridge over Broderson Creek100. “The romance, the real romance, is here somewhere. I'll get hold of it yet.”
He shot a glance about him as if in search of the inspiration. By now he was not quite half way across the northern and narrowest corner of Los Muertos, at this point some eight miles wide. He was still on the Home ranch. A few miles to the south he could just make out the line of wire fence that separated it from the third division; and to the north, seen faint and blue through the haze101 and shimmer102 of the noon sun, a long file of telegraph poles showed the line of the railroad and marked Derrick's northeast boundary. The road over which Presley was travelling ran almost diametrically straight. In front of him, but at a great distance, he could make out the giant live-oak and the red roof of Hooven's barn that stood near it.
All about him the country was flat. In all directions he could see for miles. The harvest was just over. Nothing but stubble remained on the ground. With the one exception of the live-oak by Hooven's place, there was nothing green in sight. The wheat stubble was of a dirty yellow; the ground, parched, cracked, and dry, of a cheerless brown. By the roadside the dust lay thick and grey, and, on either hand, stretching on toward the horizon, losing itself in a mere48 smudge in the distance, ran the illimitable parallels of the wire fence. And that was all; that and the burnt-out blue of the sky and the steady shimmer of the heat.
The silence was infinite. After the harvest, small though that harvest had been, the ranches103 seemed asleep. It was as though the earth, after its period of reproduction, its pains of labour, had been delivered of the fruit of its loins, and now slept the sleep of exhaustion104.
It was the period between seasons, when nothing was being done, when the natural forces seemed to hang suspended. There was no rain, there was no wind, there was no growth, no life; the very stubble had no force even to rot. The sun alone moved.
Toward two o'clock, Presley reached Hooven's place, two or three grimy frame buildings, infested105 with a swarm106 of dogs. A hog107 or two wandered aimlessly about. Under a shed by the barn, a broken-down seeder lay rusting108 to its ruin. But overhead, a mammoth109 live-oak, the largest tree in all the country-side, towered superb and magnificent. Grey bunches of mistletoe and festoons of trailing moss110 hung from its bark. From its lowest branch hung Hooven's meat-safe, a square box, faced with wire screens.
What gave a special interest to Hooven's was the fact that here was the intersection111 of the Lower Road and Derrick's main irrigating112 ditch, a vast trench113 not yet completed, which he and Annixter, who worked the Quien Sabe ranch, were jointly114 constructing. It ran directly across the road and at right angles to it, and lay a deep groove115 in the field between Hooven's and the town of Guadalajara, some three miles farther on. Besides this, the ditch was a natural boundary between two divisions of the Los Muertos ranch, the first and fourth.
Presley now had the choice of two routes. His objective point was the spring at the headwaters of Broderson Creek, in the hills on the eastern side of the Quien Sabe ranch. The trail afforded him a short cut thitherward. As he passed the house, Mrs. Hooven came to the door, her little daughter Hilda, dressed in a boy's overalls and clumsy boots, at her skirts. Minna, her oldest daughter, a very pretty girl, whose love affairs were continually the talk of all Los Muertos, was visible through a window of the house, busy at the week's washing. Mrs. Hooven was a faded, colourless woman, aged118" target="_blank">middle-aged117 and commonplace, and offering not the least characteristic that would distinguish her from a thousand other women of her class and kind. She nodded to Presley, watching him with a stolid119 gaze from under her arm, which she held across her forehead to shade her eyes.
But now Presley exerted himself in good earnest. His bicycle flew. He resolved that after all he would go to Guadalajara. He crossed the bridge over the irrigating ditch with a brusque spurt120 of hollow sound, and shot forward down the last stretch of the Lower Road that yet intervened between Hooven's and the town. He was on the fourth division of the ranch now, the only one whereon the wheat had been successful, no doubt because of the Little Mission Creek that ran through it. But he no longer occupied himself with the landscape. His only concern was to get on as fast as possible. He had looked forward to spending nearly the whole day on the crest121 of the wooded hills in the northern corner of the Quien Sabe ranch, reading, idling, smoking his pipe. But now he would do well if he arrived there by the middle of the afternoon. In a few moments he had reached the line fence that marked the limits of the ranch. Here were the railroad tracks, and just beyond—a huddled122 mass of roofs, with here and there an adobe123 house on its outskirts—the little town of Guadalajara. Nearer at hand, and directly in front of Presley, were the freight and passenger depots124 of the P. and S. W., painted in the grey and white, which seemed to be the official colours of all the buildings owned by the corporation. The station was deserted125. No trains passed at this hour. From the direction of the ticket window, Presley heard the unsteady chittering of the telegraph key. In the shadow of one of the baggage trucks upon the platform, the great yellow cat that belonged to the agent dozed126 complacently127, her paws tucked under her body. Three flat cars, loaded with bright-painted farming machines, were on the siding above the station, while, on the switch below, a huge freight engine that lacked its cow-catcher sat back upon its monstrous driving-wheels, motionless, solid, drawing long breaths that were punctuated128 by the subdued129 sound of its steam-pump clicking at exact intervals130.
But evidently it had been decreed that Presley should be stopped at every point of his ride that day, for, as he was pushing his bicycle across the tracks, he was surprised to hear his name called. “Hello, there, Mr. Presley. What's the good word?”
Presley looked up quickly, and saw Dyke131, the engineer, leaning on his folded arms from the cab window of the freight engine. But at the prospect132 of this further delay, Presley was less troubled. Dyke and he were well acquainted and the best of friends. The picturesqueness134 of the engineer's life was always attractive to Presley, and more than once he had ridden on Dyke's engine between Guadalajara and Bonneville. Once, even, he had made the entire run between the latter town and San Francisco in the cab.
Dyke's home was in Guadalajara. He lived in one of the remodelled135 'dobe cottages, where his mother kept house for him. His wife had died some five years before this time, leaving him a little daughter, Sidney, to bring up as best he could. Dyke himself was a heavy built, well-looking fellow, nearly twice the weight of Presley, with great shoulders and massive, hairy arms, and a tremendous, rumbling voice.
“Hello, old man,” answered Presley, coming up to the engine. “What are you doing about here at this time of day? I thought you were on the night service this month.”
“We've changed about a bit,” answered the other. “Come up here and sit down, and get out of the sun. They've held us here to wait orders,” he explained, as Presley, after leaning his bicycle against the tender, climbed to the fireman's seat of worn green leather. “They are changing the run of one of the crack passenger engines down below, and are sending her up to Fresno. There was a smash of some kind on the Bakersfield division, and she's to hell and gone behind her time. I suppose when she comes, she'll come a-humming. It will be stand clear and an open track all the way to Fresno. They have held me here to let her go by.”
He took his pipe, an old T. D. clay, but coloured to a beautiful shiny black, from the pocket of his jumper and filled and lit it.
“Well, I don't suppose you object to being held here,” observed Presley. “Gives you a chance to visit your mother and the little girl.”
“And precisely136 they choose this day to go up to Sacramento,” answered Dyke. “Just my luck. Went up to visit my brother's people. By the way, my brother may come down here—locate here, I mean—and go into the hop3-raising business. He's got an option on five hundred acres just back of the town here. He says there is going to be money in hops4. I don't know; may be I'll go in with him.”
“Why, what's the matter with railroading?”
Dyke drew a couple of puffs137 on his pipe, and fixed138 Presley with a glance.
“There's this the matter with it,” he said; “I'm fired.”
“Fired! You!” exclaimed Presley, turning abruptly toward him. “That's what I'm telling you,” returned Dyke grimly.
“You don't mean it. Why, what for, Dyke?”
“Now, YOU tell me what for,” growled139 the other savagely140. “Boy and man, I've worked for the P. and S. W. for over ten years, and never one yelp142 of a complaint did I ever hear from them. They know damn well they've not got a steadier man on the road. And more than that, more than that, I don't belong to the Brotherhood143. And when the strike came along, I stood by them—stood by the company. You know that. And you know, and they know, that at Sacramento that time, I ran my train according to schedule, with a gun in each hand, never knowing when I was going over a mined culvert, and there was talk of giving me a gold watch at the time. To hell with their gold watches! I want ordinary justice and fair treatment. And now, when hard times come along, and they are cutting wages, what do they do? Do they make any discrimination in my case? Do they remember the man that stood by them and risked his life in their service? No. They cut my pay down just as off-hand as they do the pay of any dirty little wiper in the yard. Cut me along with—listen to this—cut me along with men that they had BLACK-LISTED; strikers that they took back because they were short of hands.” He drew fiercely on his pipe. “I went to them, yes, I did; I went to the General Office, and ate dirt. I told them I was a family man, and that I didn't see how I was going to get along on the new scale, and I reminded them of my service during the strike. The swine told me that it wouldn't be fair to discriminate144 in favour of one man, and that the cut must apply to all their employees alike. Fair!” he shouted with laughter. “Fair! Hear the P. and S. W. talking about fairness and discrimination. That's good, that is. Well, I got furious. I was a fool, I suppose. I told them that, in justice to myself, I wouldn't do first-class work for third-class pay. And they said, 'Well, Mr. Dyke, you know what you can do.' Well, I did know. I said, 'I'll ask for my time, if you please,' and they gave it to me just as if they were glad to be shut of me. So there you are, Presley. That's the P. & S. W. Railroad Company of California. I am on my last run now.”
“Shameful145,” declared Presley, his sympathies all aroused, now that the trouble concerned a friend of his. “It's shameful, Dyke. But,” he added, an idea occurring to him, “that don't shut you out from work. There are other railroads in the State that are not controlled by the P. and S. W.”
Dyke smote146 his knee with his clenched fist.
“NAME ONE.”
Presley was silent. Dyke's challenge was unanswerable. There was a lapse147 in their talk, Presley drumming on the arm of the seat, meditating on this injustice148; Dyke looking off over the fields beyond the town, his frown lowering, his teeth rasping upon his pipestem. The station agent came to the door of the depot, stretching and yawning. On ahead of the engine, the empty rails of the track, reaching out toward the horizon, threw off visible layers of heat. The telegraph key clicked incessantly149.
“So I'm going to quit,” Dyke remarked after a while, his anger somewhat subsided150. “My brother and I will take up this hop ranch. I've saved a good deal in the last ten years, and there ought to be money in hops.”
Presley went on, remounting his bicycle, wheeling silently through the deserted streets of the decayed and dying Mexican town. It was the hour of the siesta151. Nobody was about. There was no business in the town. It was too close to Bonneville for that. Before the railroad came, and in the days when the raising of cattle was the great industry of the country, it had enjoyed a fierce and brilliant life. Now it was moribund152. The drug store, the two bar-rooms, the hotel at the corner of the old Plaza153, and the shops where Mexican “curios” were sold to those occasional Eastern tourists who came to visit the Mission of San Juan, sufficed for the town's activity.
At Solotari's, the restaurant on the Plaza, diagonally across from the hotel, Presley ate his long-deferred Mexican dinner—an omelette in Spanish-Mexican style, frijoles and tortillas, a salad, and a glass of white wine. In a corner of the room, during the whole course of his dinner, two young Mexicans (one of whom was astonishingly handsome, after the melodramatic fashion of his race) and an old fellow! the centenarian of the town, decrepit154 beyond belief, sang an interminable love-song to the accompaniment of a guitar and an accordion155.
These Spanish-Mexicans, decayed, picturesque133, vicious, and romantic, never failed to interest Presley. A few of them still remained in Guadalajara, drifting from the saloon to the restaurant, and from the restaurant to the Plaza, relics156 of a former generation, standing for a different order of things, absolutely idle, living God knew how, happy with their cigarette, their guitar, their glass of mescal, and their siesta. The centenarian remembered Fremont and Governor Alvarado, and the bandit Jesus Tejeda, and the days when Los Muertos was a Spanish grant, a veritable principality, leagues in extent, and when there was never a fence from Visalia to Fresno. Upon this occasion, Presley offered the old man a drink of mescal, and excited him to talk of the things he remembered. Their talk was in Spanish, a language with which Presley was familiar.
“De La Cuesta held the grant of Los Muertos in those days,” the centenarian said; “a grand man. He had the power of life and death over his people, and there was no law but his word. There was no thought of wheat then, you may believe. It was all cattle in those days, sheep, horses—steers, not so many—and if money was scarce, there was always plenty to eat, and clothes enough for all, and wine, ah, yes, by the vat157, and oil too; the Mission Fathers had that. Yes, and there was wheat as well, now that I come to think; but a very little—in the field north of the Mission where now it is the Seed ranch; wheat fields were there, and also a vineyard, all on Mission grounds. Wheat, olives, and the vine; the Fathers planted those, to provide the elements of the Holy Sacrament—bread, oil, and wine, you understand. It was like that, those industries began in California—from the Church; and now,” he put his chin in the air, “what would Father Ullivari have said to such a crop as Senor Derrick plants these days? Ten thousand acres of wheat! Nothing but wheat from the Sierra to the Coast Range. I remember when De La Cuesta was married. He had never seen the young lady, only her miniature portrait, painted”—he raised a shoulder—“I do not know by whom, small, a little thing to be held in the palm. But he fell in love with that, and marry her he would. The affair was arranged between him and the girl's parents. But when the time came that De La Cuesta was to go to Monterey to meet and marry the girl, behold158, Jesus Tejeda broke in upon the small rancheros near Terrabella. It was no time for De La Cuesta to be away, so he sent his brother Esteban to Monterey to marry the girl by proxy159 for him. I went with Esteban. We were a company, nearly a hundred men. And De La Cuesta sent a horse for the girl to ride, white, pure white; and the saddle was of red leather; the head-stall, the bit, and buckles160, all the metal work, of virgin161 silver. Well, there was a ceremony in the Monterey Mission, and Esteban, in the name of his brother, was married to the girl. On our way back, De La Cuesta rode out to meet us. His company met ours at Agatha dos Palos. Never will I forget De La Cuesta's face as his eyes fell upon the girl. It was a look, a glance, come and gone like THAT,” he snapped his fingers. “No one but I saw it, but I was close by. There was no mistaking that look. De La Cuesta was disappointed.”
“And the girl?” demanded Presley.
“She never knew. Ah, he was a grand gentleman, De La Cuesta. Always he treated her as a queen. Never was husband more devoted, more respectful, more chivalrous163. But love?” The old fellow put his chin in the air, shutting his eyes in a knowing fashion. “It was not there. I could tell. They were married over again at the Mission San Juan de Guadalajara—OUR Mission—and for a week all the town of Guadalajara was in fete. There were bull-fights in the Plaza—this very one—for five days, and to each of his tenants-in-chief, De La Cuesta gave a horse, a barrel of tallow, an ounce of silver, and half an ounce of gold dust. Ah, those were days. That was a gay life. This”—he made a comprehensive gesture with his left hand—“this is stupid.”
“You may well say that,” observed Presley moodily164, discouraged by the other's talk. All his doubts and uncertainty165 had returned to him. Never would he grasp the subject of his great poem. To-day, the life was colourless. Romance was dead. He had lived too late. To write of the past was not what he desired. Reality was what he longed for, things that he had seen. Yet how to make this compatible with romance. He rose, putting on his hat, offering the old man a cigarette. The centenarian accepted with the air of a grandee166, and extended his horn snuff-box. Presley shook his head.
“I was born too late for that,” he declared, “for that, and for many other things. Adios.”
“You are travelling to-day, senor?”
“A little turn through the country, to get the kinks out of the muscles,” Presley answered. “I go up into the Quien Sabe, into the high country beyond the Mission.”
“Ah, the Quien Sabe rancho. The sheep are grazing there this week.”
Solotari, the keeper of the restaurant, explained:
“Young Annixter sold his wheat stubble on the ground to the sheep raisers off yonder;” he motioned eastward167 toward the Sierra foothills. “Since Sunday the herd168 has been down. Very clever, that young Annixter. He gets a price for his stubble, which else he would have to burn, and also manures his land as the sheep move from place to place. A true Yankee, that Annixter, a good gringo.”
After his meal, Presley once more mounted his bicycle, and leaving the restaurant and the Plaza behind him, held on through the main street of the drowsing town—the street that farther on developed into the road which turned abruptly northward169 and led onward170 through the hop-fields and the Quien Sabe ranch toward the Mission of San Juan.
The Home ranch of the Quien Sabe was in the little triangle bounded on the south by the railroad, on the northwest by Broderson Creek, and on the east by the hop fields and the Mission lands. It was traversed in all directions, now by the trail from Hooven's, now by the irrigating ditch—the same which Presley had crossed earlier in the day—and again by the road upon which Presley then found himself. In its centre were Annixter's ranch house and barns, topped by the skeleton-like tower of the artesian well that was to feed the irrigating ditch. Farther on, the course of Broderson Creek was marked by a curved line of grey-green willows171, while on the low hills to the north, as Presley advanced, the ancient Mission of San Juan de Guadalajara, with its belfry tower and red-tiled roof, began to show itself over the crests172 of the venerable pear trees that clustered in its garden.
When Presley reached Annixter's ranch house, he found young Annixter himself stretched in his hammock behind the mosquito-bar on the front porch, reading “David Copperfield,” and gorging173 himself with dried prunes175.
Annixter—after the two had exchanged greetings—complained of terrific colics all the preceding night. His stomach was out of whack176, but you bet he knew how to take care of himself; the last spell, he had consulted a doctor at Bonneville, a gibbering busy-face who had filled him up to the neck with a dose of some hogwash stuff that had made him worse—a healthy lot the doctors knew, anyhow. HIS case was peculiar177. HE knew; prunes were what he needed, and by the pound.
Annixter, who worked the Quien Sabe ranch—some four thousand acres of rich clay and heavy loams—was a very young man, younger even than Presley, like him a college graduate. He looked never a year older than he was. He was smooth-shaven and lean built. But his youthful appearance was offset178 by a certain male cast of countenance179, the lower lip thrust out, the chin large and deeply cleft180. His university course had hardened rather than polished him. He still remained one of the people, rough almost to insolence181, direct in speech, intolerant in his opinions, relying upon absolutely no one but himself; yet, with all this, of an astonishing degree of intelligence, and possessed182 of an executive ability little short of positive genius. He was a ferocious183 worker, allowing himself no pleasures, and exacting184 the same degree of energy from all his subordinates. He was widely hated, and as widely trusted. Every one spoke185 of his crusty temper and bullying186 disposition187, invariably qualifying the statement with a commendation of his resources and capabilities188. The devil of a driver, a hard man to get along with, obstinate189, contrary, cantankerous190; but brains! No doubt of that; brains to his boots. One would like to see the man who could get ahead of him on a deal. Twice he had been shot at, once from ambush191 on Osterman's ranch, and once by one of his own men whom he had kicked from the sacking platform of his harvester for gross negligence192. At college, he had specialised on finance, political economy, and scientific agriculture. After his graduation (he stood almost at the very top of his class) he had returned and obtained the degree of civil engineer. Then suddenly he had taken a notion that a practical knowledge of law was indispensable to a modern farmer. In eight months he did the work of three years, studying for his bar examinations. His method of study was characteristic. He reduced all the material of his text-books to notes. Tearing out the leaves of these note-books, he pasted them upon the walls of his room; then, in his shirt-sleeves, a cheap cigar in his teeth, his hands in his pockets, he walked around and around the room, scowling194 fiercely at his notes, memorising, devouring195, digesting. At intervals, he drank great cupfuls of unsweetened, black coffee. When the bar examinations were held, he was admitted at the very head of all the applicants196, and was complimented by the judge. Immediately afterwards, he collapsed197 with nervous prostration199; his stomach “got out of whack,” and he all but died in a Sacramento boarding-house, obstinately200 refusing to have anything to do with doctors, whom he vituperated as a rabble201 of quacks202, dosing himself with a patent medicine and stuffing himself almost to bursting with liver pills and dried prunes.
He had taken a trip to Europe after this sickness to put himself completely to rights. He intended to be gone a year, but returned at the end of six weeks, fulminating abuse of European cooking. Nearly his entire time had been spent in Paris; but of this sojourn203 he had brought back but two souvenirs, an electro-plated bill-hook and an empty bird cage which had tickled204 his fancy immensely.
He was wealthy. Only a year previous to this his father—a widower205, who had amassed206 a fortune in land speculation—had died, and Annixter, the only son, had come into the inheritance.
For Presley, Annixter professed208 a great admiration209, holding in deep respect the man who could rhyme words, deferring210 to him whenever there was question of literature or works of fiction. No doubt, there was not much use in poetry, and as for novels, to his mind, there were only Dickens's works. Everything else was a lot of lies. But just the same, it took brains to grind out a poem. It wasn't every one who could rhyme “brave” and “glaive,” and make sense out of it. Sure not.
But Presley's case was a notable exception. On no occasion was Annixter prepared to accept another man's opinion without reserve. In conversation with him, it was almost impossible to make any direct statement, however trivial, that he would accept without either modification211 or open contradiction. He had a passion for violent discussion. He would argue upon every subject in the range of human knowledge, from astronomy to the tariff, from the doctrine212 of predestination to the height of a horse. Never would he admit himself to be mistaken; when cornered, he would intrench himself behind the remark, “Yes, that's all very well. In some ways, it is, and then, again, in some ways, it ISN'T.”
Singularly enough, he and Presley were the best of friends. More than once, Presley marvelled213 at this state of affairs, telling himself that he and Annixter had nothing in common. In all his circle of acquaintances, Presley was the one man with whom Annixter had never quarrelled. The two men were diametrically opposed in temperament. Presley was easy-going; Annixter, alert. Presley was a confirmed dreamer, irresolute, inactive, with a strong tendency to melancholy214; the young farmer was a man of affairs, decisive, combative215, whose only reflection upon his interior economy was a morbid54 concern in the vagaries216 of his stomach. Yet the two never met without a mutual217 pleasure, taking a genuine interest in each other's affairs, and often putting themselves to great inconvenience to be of trifling218 service to help one another.
As a last characteristic, Annixter pretended to be a woman-hater, for no other reason than that he was a very bull-calf of awkwardness in feminine surroundings. Feemales! Rot! There was a fine way for a man to waste his time and his good money, lally gagging with a lot of feemales. No, thank you; none of it in HIS, if you please. Once only he had an affair—a timid, little creature in a glove-cleaning establishment in Sacramento, whom he had picked up, Heaven knew how. After his return to his ranch, a correspondence had been maintained between the two, Annixter taking the precaution to typewrite his letters, and never affixing219 his signature, in an excess of prudence220. He furthermore made carbon copies of all his letters, filing them away in a compartment221 of his safe. Ah, it would be a clever feemale who would get him into a mess. Then, suddenly smitten222 with a panic terror that he had committed himself, that he was involving himself too deeply, he had abruptly sent the little woman about her business. It was his only love affair. After that, he kept himself free. No petticoats should ever have a hold on him. Sure not.
As Presley came up to the edge of the porch, pushing his bicycle in front of him, Annixter excused himself for not getting up, alleging223 that the cramps224 returned the moment he was off his back.
“What are you doing up this way?” he demanded.
“Oh, just having a look around,” answered Presley. “How's the ranch?”
“Say,” observed the other, ignoring his question, “what's this I hear about Derrick giving his tenants the bounce, and working Los Muertos himself—working ALL his land?”
Presley made a sharp movement of impatience225 with his free hand. “I've heard nothing else myself since morning. I suppose it must be so.”
“Huh!” grunted226 Annixter, spitting out a prune174 stone. “You give Magnus Derrick my compliments and tell him he's a fool.” “What do you mean?”
“I suppose Derrick thinks he's still running his mine, and that the same principles will apply to getting grain out of the earth as to getting gold. Oh, let him go on and see where he brings up. That's right, there's your Western farmer,” he exclaimed contemptuously. “Get the guts227 out of your land; work it to death; never give it a rest. Never alternate your crop, and then when your soil is exhausted228, sit down and roar about hard times.”
“I suppose Magnus thinks the land has had rest enough these last two dry seasons,” observed Presley. “He has raised no crop to speak of for two years. The land has had a good rest.”
“Ah, yes, that sounds well,” Annixter contradicted, unwilling229 to be convinced. “In a way, the land's been rested, and then, again, in a way, it hasn't.”
But Presley, scenting230 an argument, refrained from answering, and bethought himself of moving on.
“I'm going to leave my wheel here for a while, Buck,” he said, “if you don't mind. I'm going up to the spring, and the road is rough between here and there.”
“Stop in for dinner on your way back,” said Annixter. “There'll be a venison steak. One of the boys got a deer over in the foothills last week. Out of season, but never mind that. I can't eat it. This stomach of mine wouldn't digest sweet oil to-day. Get here about six.”
“Well, maybe I will, thank you,” said Presley, moving off. “By the way,” he added, “I see your barn is about done.”
“You bet,” answered Annixter. “In about a fortnight now she'll be all ready.”
“It's a big barn,” murmured Presley, glancing around the angle of the house toward where the great structure stood.
“Guess we'll have to have a dance there before we move the stock in,” observed Annixter. “That's the custom all around here.”
Presley took himself off, but at the gate Annixter called after him, his mouth full of prunes, “Say, take a look at that herd of sheep as you go up. They are right off here to the east of the road, about half a mile from here. I guess that's the biggest lot of sheep YOU ever saw. You might write a poem about 'em. Lamb—ram; sheep graze—sunny days. Catch on?”
Beyond Broderson Creek, as Presley advanced, tramping along on foot now, the land opened out again into the same vast spaces of dull brown earth, sprinkled with stubble, such as had been characteristic of Derrick's ranch. To the east the reach seemed infinite, flat, cheerless, heat-ridden, unrolling like a gigantic scroll232 toward the faint shimmer of the distant horizons, with here and there an isolated233 live-oak to break the sombre monotony. But bordering the road to the westward234, the surface roughened and raised, clambering up to the higher ground, on the crest of which the old Mission and its surrounding pear trees were now plainly visible.
Just beyond the Mission, the road bent235 abruptly eastward, striking off across the Seed ranch. But Presley left the road at this point, going on across the open fields. There was no longer any trail. It was toward three o'clock. The sun still spun236, a silent, blazing disc, high in the heavens, and tramping through the clods of uneven237, broken plough was fatiguing238 work. The slope of the lowest foothills begun, the surface of the country became rolling, and, suddenly, as he topped a higher ridge99, Presley came upon the sheep.
Already he had passed the larger part of the herd—an intervening rise of ground having hidden it from sight. Now, as he turned half way about, looking down into the shallow hollow between him and the curve of the creek, he saw them very plainly. The fringe of the herd was some two hundred yards distant, but its farther side, in that illusive239 shimmer of hot surface air, seemed miles away. The sheep were spread out roughly in the shape of a figure eight, two larger herds240 connected by a smaller, and were headed to the southward, moving slowly, grazing on the wheat stubble as they proceeded. But the number seemed incalculable. Hundreds upon hundreds upon hundreds of grey, rounded backs, all exactly alike, huddled, close-packed, alive, hid the earth from sight. It was no longer an aggregate241 of individuals. It was a mass—a compact, solid, slowly moving mass, huge, without form, like a thick-pressed growth of mushrooms, spreading out in all directions over the earth. From it there arose a vague murmur231, confused, inarticulate, like the sound of very distant surf, while all the air in the vicinity was heavy with the warm, ammoniacal odour of the thousands of crowding bodies.
All the colours of the scene were sombre—the brown of the earth, the faded yellow of the dead stubble, the grey of the myriad242 of undulating backs. Only on the far side of the herd, erect243, motionless—a single note of black, a speck244, a dot—the shepherd stood, leaning upon an empty water-trough, solitary245, grave, impressive.
For a few moments, Presley stood, watching. Then, as he started to move on, a curious thing occurred. At first, he thought he had heard some one call his name. He paused, listening; there was no sound but the vague noise of the moving sheep. Then, as this first impression passed, it seemed to him that he had been beckoned246 to. Yet nothing stirred; except for the lonely figure beyond the herd there was no one in sight. He started on again, and in half a dozen steps found himself looking over his shoulder. Without knowing why, he looked toward the shepherd; then halted and looked a second time and a third. Had the shepherd called to him? Presley knew that he had heard no voice. Brusquely, all his attention seemed riveted247 upon this distant figure. He put one forearm over his eyes, to keep off the sun, gazing across the intervening herd. Surely, the shepherd had called him. But at the next instant he started, uttering an exclamation248 under his breath. The far-away speck of black became animated249. Presley remarked a sweeping250 gesture. Though the man had not beckoned to him before, there was no doubt that he was beckoning251 now. Without any hesitation252, and singularly interested in the incident, Presley turned sharply aside and hurried on toward the shepherd, skirting the herd, wondering all the time that he should answer the call with so little question, so little hesitation.
But the shepherd came forward to meet Presley, followed by one of his dogs. As the two men approached each other, Presley, closely studying the other, began to wonder where he had seen him before. It must have been a very long time ago, upon one of his previous visits to the ranch. Certainly, however, there was something familiar in the shepherd's face and figure. When they came closer to each other, and Presley could see him more distinctly, this sense of a previous acquaintance was increased and sharpened.
The shepherd was a man of about thirty-five. He was very lean and spare. His brown canvas overalls were thrust into laced boots. A cartridge253 belt without any cartridges254 encircled his waist. A grey flannel255 shirt, open at the throat, showed his breast, tanned and ruddy. He wore no hat. His hair was very black and rather long. A pointed162 beard covered his chin, growing straight and fine from the hollow cheeks. The absence of any covering for his head was, no doubt, habitual256 with him, for his face was as brown as an Indian's—a ruddy brown quite different from Presley's dark olive. To Presley's morbidly keen observation, the general impression of the shepherd's face was intensely interesting. It was uncommon257 to an astonishing degree. Presley's vivid imagination chose to see in it the face of an ascetic258, of a recluse259, almost that of a young seer. So must have appeared the half-inspired shepherds of the Hebraic legends, the younger prophets of Israel, dwellers260 in the wilderness261, beholders of visions, having their existence in a continual dream, talkers with God, gifted with strange powers.
Suddenly, at some twenty paces distant from the approaching shepherd, Presley stopped short, his eyes riveted upon the other.
“Vanamee!” he exclaimed.
The shepherd smiled and came forward, holding out his hands, saying, “I thought it was you. When I saw you come over the hill, I called you.”
“But not with your voice,” returned Presley. “I knew that some one wanted me. I felt it. I should have remembered that you could do that kind of thing.”
“I have never known it to fail. It helps with the sheep.”
“With the sheep?”
“In a way. I can't tell exactly how. We don't understand these things yet. There are times when, if I close my eyes and dig my fists into my temples, I can hold the entire herd for perhaps a minute. Perhaps, though, it's imagination, who knows? But it's good to see you again. How long has it been since the last time? Two, three, nearly five years.”
It was more than that. It was six years since Presley and Vanamee had met, and then it had been for a short time only, during one of the shepherd's periodical brief returns to that part of the country. During a week he and Presley had been much together, for the two were devoted friends. Then, as abruptly, as mysteriously as he had come, Vanamee disappeared. Presley awoke one morning to find him gone. Thus, it had been with Vanamee for a period of sixteen years. He lived his life in the unknown, one could not tell where—in the desert, in the mountains, throughout all the vast and vague South-west, solitary, strange. Three, four, five years passed. The shepherd would be almost forgotten. Never the most trivial scrap262 of information as to his whereabouts reached Los Muertos. He had melted off into the surface-shimmer of the desert, into the mirage263; he sank below the horizons; he was swallowed up in the waste of sand and sage43. Then, without warning, he would reappear, coming in from the wilderness, emerging from the unknown. No one knew him well. In all that countryside he had but three friends, Presley, Magnus Derrick, and the priest at the Mission of San Juan de Guadalajara, Father Sarria. He remained always a mystery, living a life half-real, half-legendary264. In all those years he did not seem to have grown older by a single day. At this time, Presley knew him to be thirty-six years of age. But since the first day the two had met, the shepherd's face and bearing had, to his eyes, remained the same. At this moment, Presley was looking into the same face he had first seen many, many years ago. It was a face stamped with an unspeakable sadness, a deathless grief, the permanent imprint265 of a tragedy long past, but yet a living issue. Presley told himself that it was impossible to look long into Vanamee's eyes without knowing that here was a man whose whole being had been at one time shattered and riven to its lowest depths, whose life had suddenly stopped at a certain moment of its development.
The two friends sat down upon the ledge193 of the watering-trough, their eyes wandering incessantly toward the slow moving herd, grazing on the wheat stubble, moving southward as they grazed.
“Where have you come from this time?” Presley had asked. “Where have you kept yourself?”
The other swept the horizon to the south and east with a vague gesture.
“Off there, down to the south, very far off. So many places that I can't remember. I went the Long Trail this time; a long, long ways. Arizona, The Mexicos, and, then, afterwards, Utah and Nevada, following the horizon, travelling at hazard. Into Arizona first, going in by Monument Pass, and then on to the south, through the country of the Navajos, down by the Aga Thia Needle—a great blade of red rock jutting266 from out the desert, like a knife thrust. Then on and on through The Mexicos, all through the Southwest, then back again in a great circle by Chihuahua and Aldama to Laredo, to Torreon, and Albuquerque. From there across the Uncompahgre plateau into the Uintah country; then at last due west through Nevada to California and to the valley of the San Joaquin.” His voice lapsed198 to a monotone, his eyes becoming fixed; he continued to speak as though half awake, his thoughts elsewhere, seeing again in the eye of his mind the reach of desert and red hill, the purple mountain, the level stretch of alkali, leper white, all the savage141, gorgeous desolation of the Long Trail.
He ignored Presley for the moment, but, on the other hand, Presley himself gave him but half his attention. The return of Vanamee had stimulated267 the poet's memory. He recalled the incidents of Vanamee's life, reviewing again that terrible drama which had uprooted268 his soul, which had driven him forth a wanderer, a shunner of men, a sojourner269 in waste places. He was, strangely enough, a college graduate and a man of wide reading and great intelligence, but he had chosen to lead his own life, which was that of a recluse.
Of a temperament similar in many ways to Presley's, there were capabilities in Vanamee that were not ordinarily to be found in the rank and file of men. Living close to nature, a poet by instinct, where Presley was but a poet by training, there developed in him a great sensitiveness to beauty and an almost abnormal capacity for great happiness and great sorrow; he felt things intensely, deeply. He never forgot. It was when he was eighteen or nineteen, at the formative and most impressionable period of his life, that he had met Angele Varian. Presley barely remembered her as a girl of sixteen, beautiful almost beyond expression, who lived with an aged aunt on the Seed ranch back of the Mission. At this moment he was trying to recall how she looked, with her hair of gold hanging in two straight plaits on either side of her face, making three-cornered her round, white forehead; her wonderful eyes, violet blue, heavy lidded, with their astonishing upward slant270 toward the temples, the slant that gave a strange, oriental cast to her face, perplexing, enchanting271. He remembered the Egyptian fulness of the lips, the strange balancing movement of her head upon her slender neck, the same movement that one sees in a snake at poise272. Never had he seen a girl more radiantly beautiful, never a beauty so strange, so troublous, so out of all accepted standards. It was small wonder that Vanamee had loved her, and less wonder, still, that his love had been so intense, so passionate, so part of himself. Angele had loved him with a love no less than his own. It was one of those legendary passions that sometimes occur, idyllic273, untouched by civilisation274, spontaneous as the growth of trees, natural as dew-fall, strong as the firm-seated mountains.
At the time of his meeting with Angele, Vanamee was living on the Los Muertos ranch. It was there he had chosen to spend one of his college vacations. But he preferred to pass it in out-of-door work, sometimes herding275 cattle, sometimes pitching hay, sometimes working with pick and dynamite-stick on the ditches in the fourth division of the ranch, riding the range, mending breaks in the wire fences, making himself generally useful. College bred though he was, the life pleased him. He was, as he desired, close to nature, living the full measure of life, a worker among workers, taking enjoyment276 in simple pleasures, healthy in mind and body. He believed in an existence passed in this fashion in the country, working hard, eating full, drinking deep, sleeping dreamlessly.
But every night, after supper, he saddled his pony277 and rode over to the garden of the old Mission. The 'dobe dividing wall on that side, which once had separated the Mission garden and the Seed ranch, had long since crumbled278 away, and the boundary between the two pieces of ground was marked only by a line of venerable pear trees. Here, under these trees, he found Angele awaiting him, and there the two would sit through the hot, still evening, their arms about each other, watching the moon rise over the foothills, listening to the trickle279 of the water in the moss-encrusted fountain in the garden, and the steady croak280 of the great frogs that lived in the damp north corner of the enclosure. Through all one summer the enchantment281 of that new-found, wonderful love, pure and untainted, filled the lives of each of them with its sweetness. The summer passed, the harvest moon came and went. The nights were very dark. In the deep shade of the pear trees they could no longer see each other. When they met at the rendezvous282, Vanamee found her only with his groping hands. They did not speak, mere words were useless between them. Silently as his reaching hands touched her warm body, he took her in his arms, searching for her lips with his. Then one night the tragedy had suddenly leaped from out the shadow with the abruptness283 of an explosion.
It was impossible afterwards to reconstruct the manner of its occurrence. To Angele's mind—what there was left of it—the matter always remained a hideous284 blur285, a blot286, a vague, terrible confusion. No doubt they two had been watched; the plan succeeded too well for any other supposition. One moonless night, Angele, arriving under the black shadow of the pear trees a little earlier than usual, found the apparently287 familiar figure waiting for her. All unsuspecting she gave herself to the embrace of a strange pair of arms, and Vanamee arriving but a score of moments later, stumbled over her prostrate288 body, inert289 and unconscious, in the shadow of the overspiring trees.
Who was the Other? Angele was carried to her home on the Seed ranch, delirious290, all but raving291, and Vanamee, with knife and revolver ready, ranged the country-side like a wolf. He was not alone. The whole county rose, raging, horror-struck. Posse after posse was formed, sent out, and returned, without so much as a clue. Upon no one could even the shadow of suspicion be thrown. The Other had withdrawn292 into an impenetrable mystery. There he remained. He never was found; he never was so much as heard of. A legend arose about him, this prowler of the night, this strange, fearful figure, with an unseen face, swooping293 in there from out the darkness, come and gone in an instant, but leaving behind him a track of terror and death and rage and undying grief. Within the year, in giving birth to the child, Angele had died.
The little babe was taken by Angele's parents, and Angele was buried in the Mission garden near to the aged, grey sun dial. Vanamee stood by during the ceremony, but half conscious of what was going forward. At the last moment he had stepped forward, looked long into the dead face framed in its plaits of gold hair, the hair that made three-cornered the round, white forehead; looked again at the closed eyes, with their perplexing upward slant toward the temples, oriental, bizarre; at the lips with their Egyptian fulness; at the sweet, slender neck; the long, slim hands; then abruptly turned about. The last clods were filling the grave at a time when he was already far away, his horse's head turned toward the desert.
For two years no syllable294 was heard of him. It was believed that he had killed himself. But Vanamee had no thought of that. For two years he wandered through Arizona, living in the desert, in the wilderness, a recluse, a nomad295, an ascetic. But, doubtless, all his heart was in the little coffin296 in the Mission garden. Once in so often he must come back thither116. One day he was seen again in the San Joaquin. The priest, Father Sarria, returning from a visit to the sick at Bonneville, met him on the Upper Road. Eighteen years had passed since Angele had died, but the thread of Vanamee's life had been snapped. Nothing remained now but the tangled297 ends. He had never forgotten. The long, dull ache, the poignant298 grief had now become a part of him. Presley knew this to be so.
While Presley had been reflecting upon all this, Vanamee had continued to speak. Presley, however, had not been wholly inattentive. While his memory was busy reconstructing the details of the drama of the shepherd's life, another part of his brain had been swiftly registering picture after picture that Vanamee's monotonous flow of words struck off, as it were, upon a steadily300 moving scroll. The music of the unfamiliar301 names that occurred in his recital302 was a stimulant303 to the poet's imagination. Presley had the poet's passion for expressive304, sonorous305 names. As these came and went in Vanamee's monotonous undertones, like little notes of harmony in a musical progression, he listened, delighted with their resonance306.—Navajo, Quijotoa, Uintah, Sonora, Laredo, Uncompahgre—to him they were so many symbols. It was his West that passed, unrolling there before the eye of his mind: the open, heat-scourged round of desert; the mesa, like a vast altar, shimmering307 purple in the royal sunset; the still, gigantic mountains, heaving into the sky from out the canyons308; the strenuous310, fierce life of isolated towns, lost and forgotten, down there, far off, below the horizon. Abruptly his great poem, his Song of the West, leaped up again in his imagination. For the moment, he all but held it. It was there, close at hand. In another instant he would grasp it.
“Yes, yes,” he exclaimed, “I can see it all. The desert, the mountains, all wild, primordial311, untamed. How I should have loved to have been with you. Then, perhaps, I should have got hold of my idea.”
“Your idea?”
“The great poem of the West. It's that which I want to write. Oh, to put it all into hexameters; strike the great iron note; sing the vast, terrible song; the song of the People; the forerunners312 of empire!”
Vanamee understood him perfectly313. He nodded gravely.
“Yes, it is there. It is Life, the primitive, simple, direct Life, passionate, tumultuous. Yes, there is an epic314 there.”
Presley caught at the word. It had never before occurred to him.
“Epic, yes, that's it. It is the epic I'm searching for. And HOW I search for it. You don't know. It is sometimes almost an agony. Often and often I can feel it right there, there, at my finger-tips, but I never quite catch it. It always eludes315 me. I was born too late. Ah, to get back to that first clear-eyed view of things, to see as Homer saw, as Beowulf saw, as the Nibelungen poets saw. The life is here, the same as then; the Poem is here; my West is here; the primeval, epic life is here, here under our hands, in the desert, in the mountain, on the ranch, all over here, from Winnipeg to Guadalupe. It is the man who is lacking, the poet; we have been educated away from it all. We are out of touch. We are out of tune207.”
Vanamee heard him to the end, his grave, sad face thoughtful and attentive299. Then he rose.
“I am going over to the Mission,” he said, “to see Father Sarria. I have not seen him yet.”
“How about the sheep?”
“The dogs will keep them in hand, and I shall not be gone long. Besides that, I have a boy here to help. He is over yonder on the other side of the herd. We can't see him from here.”
Presley wondered at the heedlessness of leaving the sheep so slightly guarded, but made no comment, and the two started off across the field in the direction of the Mission church.
“Well, yes, it is there—your epic,” observed Vanamee, as they went along. “But why write? Why not LIVE in it? Steep oneself in the heat of the desert, the glory of the sunset, the blue haze of the mesa and the canyon309.”
“As you have done, for instance?”
Vanamee nodded.
“No, I could not do that,” declared Presley; “I want to go back, but not so far as you. I feel that I must compromise. I must find expression. I could not lose myself like that in your desert. When its vastness overwhelmed me, or its beauty dazzled me, or its loneliness weighed down upon me, I should have to record my impressions. Otherwise, I should suffocate316.”
“Each to his own life,” observed Vanamee.
The Mission of San Juan, built of brown 'dobe blocks, covered with yellow plaster, that at many points had dropped away from the walls, stood on the crest of a low rise of the ground, facing to the south. A covered colonnade317, paved with round, worn bricks, from whence opened the doors of the abandoned cells, once used by the monks318, adjoined it on the left. The roof was of tiled half-cylinders, split longitudinally, and laid in alternate rows, now concave, now convex. The main body of the church itself was at right angles to the colonnade, and at the point of intersection rose the belfry tower, an ancient campanile, where swung the three cracked bells, the gift of the King of Spain. Beyond the church was the Mission garden and the graveyard319 that overlooked the Seed ranch in a little hollow beyond.
Presley and Vanamee went down the long colonnade to the last door next the belfry tower, and Vanamee pulled the leather thong320 that hung from a hole in the door, setting a little bell jangling somewhere in the interior. The place, but for this noise, was shrouded321 in a Sunday stillness, an absolute repose322. Only at intervals, one heard the trickle of the unseen fountain, and the liquid cooing of doves in the garden.
Father Sarria opened the door. He was a small man, somewhat stout323, with a smooth and shiny face. He wore a frock coat that was rather dirty, slippers324, and an old yachting cap of blue cloth, with a broken leather vizor. He was smoking a cheap cigar, very fat and black.
But instantly he recognised Vanamee. His face went all alight with pleasure and astonishment325. It seemed as if he would never have finished shaking both his hands; and, as it was, he released but one of them, patting him affectionately on the shoulder with the other. He was voluble in his welcome, talking partly in Spanish, partly in English. So he had come back again, this great fellow, tanned as an Indian, lean as an Indian, with an Indian's long, black hair. But he had not changed, not in the very least. His beard had not grown an inch. Aha! The rascal326, never to give warning, to drop down, as it were, from out the sky. Such a hermit327! To live in the desert! A veritable Saint Jerome. Did a lion feed him down there in Arizona, or was it a raven328, like Elijah? The good God had not fattened329 him, at any rate, and, apropos330, he was just about to dine himself. He had made a salad from his own lettuce331. The two would dine with him, eh? For this, my son, that was lost is found again.
But Presley excused himself. Instinctively332, he felt that Sarria and Vanamee wanted to talk of things concerning which he was an outsider. It was not at all unlikely that Vanamee would spend half the night before the high altar in the church.
He took himself away, his mind still busy with Vanamee's extraordinary life and character. But, as he descended333 the hill, he was startled by a prolonged and raucous334 cry, discordant335, very harsh, thrice repeated at exact intervals, and, looking up, he saw one of Father Sarria's peacocks balancing himself upon the topmost wire of the fence, his long tail trailing, his neck outstretched, filling the air with his stupid outcry, for no reason than the desire to make a noise.
About an hour later, toward four in the afternoon, Presley reached the spring at the head of the little canyon in the northeast corner of the Quien Sabe ranch, the point toward which he had been travelling since early in the forenoon. The place was not without its charm. Innumerable live-oaks overhung the canyon, and Broderson Creek—there a mere rivulet336, running down from the spring—gave a certain coolness to the air. It was one of the few spots thereabouts that had survived the dry season of the last year. Nearly all the other springs had dried completely, while Mission Creek on Derrick's ranch was nothing better than a dusty cutting in the ground, filled with brittle337, concave flakes338 of dried and sun-cracked mud.
Presley climbed to the summit of one of the hills—the highest—that rose out of the canyon, from the crest of which he could see for thirty, fifty, sixty miles down the valley, and, filling his pipe, smoked lazily for upwards339 of an hour, his head empty of thought, allowing himself to succumb340 to a pleasant, gentle inanition, a little drowsy341 comfortable in his place, prone342 upon the ground, warmed just enough by such sunlight as filtered through the live-oaks, soothed343 by the good tobacco and the prolonged murmur of the spring and creek. By degrees, the sense of his own personality became blunted, the little wheels and cogs of thought moved slower and slower; consciousness dwindled344 to a point, the animal in him stretched itself, purring. A delightful345 numbness346 invaded his mind and his body. He was not asleep, he was not awake, stupefied merely, lapsing347 back to the state of the faun, the satyr.
After a while, rousing himself a little, he shifted his position and, drawing from the pocket of his shooting coat his little tree-calf edition of the Odyssey348, read far into the twenty-first book, where, after the failure of all the suitors to bend Ulysses's bow, it is finally put, with mockery, into his own hands. Abruptly the drama of the story roused him from all his languor349. In an instant he was the poet again, his nerves tingling350, alive to every sensation, responsive to every impression. The desire of creation, of composition, grew big within him. Hexameters of his own clamoured, tumultuous, in his brain. Not for a long time had he “felt his poem,” as he called this sensation, so poignantly351. For an instant he told himself that he actually held it.
It was, no doubt, Vanamee's talk that had stimulated him to this point. The story of the Long Trail, with its desert and mountain, its cliff-dwellers, its Aztec ruins, its colour, movement, and romance, filled his mind with picture after picture. The epic defiled352 before his vision like a pageant353. Once more, he shot a glance about him, as if in search of the inspiration, and this time he all but found it. He rose to his feet, looking out and off below him.
As from a pinnacle354, Presley, from where he now stood, dominated the entire country. The sun had begun to set, everything in the range of his vision was overlaid with a sheen of gold.
First, close at hand, it was the Seed ranch, carpeting the little hollow behind the Mission with a spread of greens, some dark, some vivid, some pale almost to yellowness. Beyond that was the Mission itself, its venerable campanile, in whose arches hung the Spanish King's bells, already glowing ruddy in the sunset. Farther on, he could make out Annixter's ranch house, marked by the skeleton-like tower of the artesian well, and, a little farther to the east, the huddled, tiled roofs of Guadalajara. Far to the west and north, he saw Bonneville very plain, and the dome355 of the courthouse, a purple silhouette356 against the glare of the sky. Other points detached themselves, swimming in a golden mist, projecting blue shadows far before them; the mammoth live-oak by Hooven's, towering superb and magnificent; the line of eucalyptus trees, behind which he knew was the Los Muertos ranch house—his home; the watering-tank, the great iron-hooped tower of wood that stood at the joining of the Lower Road and the County Road; the long wind-break of poplar trees and the white walls of Caraher's saloon on the County Road.
But all this seemed to be only foreground, a mere array of accessories—a mass of irrelevant357 details. Beyond Annixter's, beyond Guadalajara, beyond the Lower Road, beyond Broderson Creek, on to the south and west, infinite, illimitable, stretching out there under the sheen of the sunset forever and forever, flat, vast, unbroken, a huge scroll, unrolling between the horizons, spread the great stretches of the ranch of Los Muertos, bare of crops, shaved close in the recent harvest. Near at hand were hills, but on that far southern horizon only the curve of the great earth itself checked the view. Adjoining Los Muertos, and widening to the west, opened the Broderson ranch. The Osterman ranch to the northwest carried on the great sweep of landscape; ranch after ranch. Then, as the imagination itself expanded under the stimulus358 of that measureless range of vision, even those great ranches resolved themselves into mere foreground, mere accessories, irrelevant details. Beyond the fine line of the horizons, over the curve of the globe, the shoulder of the earth, were other ranches, equally vast, and beyond these, others, and beyond these, still others, the immensities multiplying, lengthening359 out vaster and vaster. The whole gigantic sweep of the San Joaquin expanded, Titanic360, before the eye of the mind, flagellated with heat, quivering and shimmering under the sun's red eye. At long intervals, a faint breath of wind out of the south passed slowly over the levels of the baked and empty earth, accentuating361 the silence, marking off the stillness. It seemed to exhale362 from the land itself, a prolonged sigh as of deep fatigue363. It was the season after the harvest, and the great earth, the mother, after its period of reproduction, its pains of labour, delivered of the fruit of its loins, slept the sleep of exhaustion, the infinite repose of the colossus, benignant, eternal, strong, the nourisher of nations, the feeder of an entire world. Ha! there it was, his epic, his inspiration, his West, his thundering progression of hexameters. A sudden uplift, a sense of exhilaration, of physical exaltation appeared abruptly to sweep Presley from his feet. As from a point high above the world, he seemed to dominate a universe, a whole order of things. He was dizzied, stunned364, stupefied, his morbid supersensitive mind reeling, drunk with the intoxication365 of mere immensity. Stupendous ideas for which there were no names drove headlong through his brain. Terrible, formless shapes, vague figures, gigantic, monstrous, distorted, whirled at a gallop through his imagination.
He started homeward, still in his dream, descending366 from the hill, emerging from the canyon, and took the short cut straight across the Quien Sabe ranch, leaving Guadalajara far to his left. He tramped steadily on through the wheat stubble, walking fast, his head in a whirl.
Never had he so nearly grasped his inspiration as at that moment on the hilltop. Even now, though the sunset was fading, though the wide reach of valley was shut from sight, it still kept him company. Now the details came thronging367 back—the component368 parts of his poem, the signs and symbols of the West. It was there, close at hand, he had been in touch with it all day. It was in the centenarian's vividly369 coloured reminiscences—De La Cuesta, holding his grant from the Spanish crown, with his power of life and death; the romance of his marriage; the white horse with its pillion of red leather and silver bridle370 mountings; the bull-fights in the Plaza; the gifts of gold dust, and horses and tallow. It was in Vanamee's strange history, the tragedy of his love; Angele Varian, with her marvellous loveliness; the Egyptian fulness of her lips, the perplexing upward slant of her violet eyes, bizarre, oriental; her white forehead made three cornered by her plaits of gold hair; the mystery of the Other; her death at the moment of her child's birth. It was in Vanamee's flight into the wilderness; the story of the Long Trail, the sunsets behind the altar-like mesas, the baking desolation of the deserts; the strenuous, fierce life of forgotten towns, down there, far off, lost below the horizons of the southwest; the sonorous music of unfamiliar names—Quijotoa, Uintah, Sonora, Laredo, Uncompahgre. It was in the Mission, with its cracked bells, its decaying walls, its venerable sun dial, its fountain and old garden, and in the Mission Fathers themselves, the priests, the padres, planting the first wheat and oil and wine to produce the elements of the Sacrament—a trinity of great industries, taking their rise in a religious rite61.
Abruptly, as if in confirmation371, Presley heard the sound of a bell from the direction of the Mission itself. It was the de Profundis, a note of the Old World; of the ancient regime, an echo from the hillsides of mediaeval Europe, sounding there in this new land, unfamiliar and strange at this end-of-the-century time.
By now, however, it was dark. Presley hurried forward. He came to the line fence of the Quien Sabe ranch. Everything was very still. The stars were all out. There was not a sound other than the de Profundis, still sounding from very far away. At long intervals the great earth sighed dreamily in its sleep. All about, the feeling of absolute peace and quiet and security and untroubled happiness and content seemed descending from the stars like a benediction372. The beauty of his poem, its idyl, came to him like a caress373; that alone had been lacking. It was that, perhaps, which had left it hitherto incomplete. At last he was to grasp his song in all its entity374. But suddenly there was an interruption. Presley had climbed the fence at the limit of the Quien Sabe ranch. Beyond was Los Muertos, but between the two ran the railroad. He had only time to jump back upon the embankment when, with a quivering of all the earth, a locomotive, single, unattached, shot by him with a roar, filling the air with the reek40 of hot oil, vomiting375 smoke and sparks; its enormous eye, cyclopean, red, throwing a glare far in advance, shooting by in a sudden crash of confused thunder; filling the night with the terrific clamour of its iron hoofs376.
Abruptly Presley remembered. This must be the crack passenger engine of which Dyke had told him, the one delayed by the accident on the Bakersfield division and for whose passage the track had been opened all the way to Fresno.
Before Presley could recover from the shock of the irruption, while the earth was still vibrating, the rails still humming, the engine was far away, flinging the echo of its frantic377 gallop over all the valley. For a brief instant it roared with a hollow diapason on the Long Trestle over Broderson Creek, then plunged378 into a cutting farther on, the quivering glare of its fires losing itself in the night, its thunder abruptly diminishing to a subdued and distant humming. All at once this ceased. The engine was gone.
But the moment the noise of the engine lapsed, Presley—about to start forward again—was conscious of a confusion of lamentable sounds that rose into the night from out the engine's wake. Prolonged cries of agony, sobbing379 wails380 of infinite pain, heart-rending, pitiful.
The noises came from a little distance. He ran down the track, crossing the culvert, over the irrigating ditch, and at the head of the long reach of track—between the culvert and the Long Trestle—paused abruptly, held immovable at the sight of the ground and rails all about him.
In some way, the herd of sheep—Vanamee's herd—had found a breach381 in the wire fence by the right of way and had wandered out upon the tracks. A band had been crossing just at the moment of the engine's passage. The pathos382 of it was beyond expression. It was a slaughter383, a massacre384 of innocents. The iron monster had charged full into the midst, merciless, inexorable. To the right and left, all the width of the right of way, the little bodies had been flung; backs were snapped against the fence posts; brains knocked out. Caught in the barbs385 of the wire, wedged in, the bodies hung suspended. Under foot it was terrible. The black blood, winking386 in the starlight, seeped387 down into the clinkers between the ties with a prolonged sucking murmur.
Presley turned away, horror-struck, sick at heart, overwhelmed with a quick burst of irresistible388 compassion389 for this brute29 agony he could not relieve. The sweetness was gone from the evening, the sense of peace, of security, and placid390 contentment was stricken from the landscape. The hideous ruin in the engine's path drove all thought of his poem from his mind. The inspiration vanished like a mist. The de Profundis had ceased to ring.
He hurried on across the Los Muertos ranch, almost running, even putting his hands over his ears till he was out of hearing distance of that all but human distress391. Not until he was beyond ear-shot did he pause, looking back, listening. The night had shut down again. For a moment the silence was profound, unbroken.
Then, faint and prolonged, across the levels of the ranch, he heard the engine whistling for Bonneville. Again and again, at rapid intervals in its flying course, it whistled for road crossings, for sharp curves, for trestles; ominous392 notes, hoarse393, bellowing394, ringing with the accents of menace and defiance; and abruptly Presley saw again, in his imagination, the galloping395 monster, the terror of steel and steam, with its single eye, cyclopean, red, shooting from horizon to horizon; but saw it now as the symbol of a vast power, huge, terrible, flinging the echo of its thunder over all the reaches of the valley, leaving blood and destruction in its path; the leviathan, with tentacles396 of steel clutching into the soil, the soulless Force, the iron-hearted Power, the monster, the Colossus, the Octopus397.
点击收听单词发音
1 ranch | |
n.大牧场,大农场 | |
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2 den | |
n.兽穴;秘密地方;安静的小房间,私室 | |
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3 hop | |
n.单脚跳,跳跃;vi.单脚跳,跳跃;着手做某事;vt.跳跃,跃过 | |
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4 hops | |
跳上[下]( hop的第三人称单数 ); 单足蹦跳; 齐足(或双足)跳行; 摘葎草花 | |
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5 depot | |
n.仓库,储藏处;公共汽车站;火车站 | |
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6 perplexed | |
adj.不知所措的 | |
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7 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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8 cork | |
n.软木,软木塞 | |
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9 luncheon | |
n.午宴,午餐,便宴 | |
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10 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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11 lamentable | |
adj.令人惋惜的,悔恨的 | |
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12 trudge | |
v.步履艰难地走;n.跋涉,费力艰难的步行 | |
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13 parched | |
adj.焦干的;极渴的;v.(使)焦干 | |
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14 hoop | |
n.(篮球)篮圈,篮 | |
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15 retailers | |
零售商,零售店( retailer的名词复数 ) | |
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16 landmark | |
n.陆标,划时代的事,地界标 | |
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17 abreast | |
adv.并排地;跟上(时代)的步伐,与…并进地 | |
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18 overalls | |
n.(复)工装裤;长罩衣 | |
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19 inscription | |
n.(尤指石块上的)刻印文字,铭文,碑文 | |
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20 faucet | |
n.水龙头 | |
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21 mules | |
骡( mule的名词复数 ); 拖鞋; 顽固的人; 越境运毒者 | |
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22 mule | |
n.骡子,杂种,执拗的人 | |
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23 leisurely | |
adj.悠闲的;从容的,慢慢的 | |
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24 wagon | |
n.四轮马车,手推车,面包车;无盖运货列车 | |
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25 tenants | |
n.房客( tenant的名词复数 );佃户;占用者;占有者 | |
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26 grievance | |
n.怨愤,气恼,委屈 | |
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27 reins | |
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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28 uncouth | |
adj.无教养的,粗鲁的 | |
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29 brute | |
n.野兽,兽性 | |
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30 brutes | |
兽( brute的名词复数 ); 畜生; 残酷无情的人; 兽性 | |
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31 odious | |
adj.可憎的,讨厌的 | |
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32 monotonous | |
adj.单调的,一成不变的,使人厌倦的 | |
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33 sordid | |
adj.肮脏的,不干净的,卑鄙的,暗淡的 | |
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34 spout | |
v.喷出,涌出;滔滔不绝地讲;n.喷管;水柱 | |
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35 vent | |
n.通风口,排放口;开衩;vt.表达,发泄 | |
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36 circumference | |
n.圆周,周长,圆周线 | |
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37 meditating | |
a.沉思的,冥想的 | |
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38 formulating | |
v.构想出( formulate的现在分词 );规划;确切地阐述;用公式表示 | |
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39 gut | |
n.[pl.]胆量;内脏;adj.本能的;vt.取出内脏 | |
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40 reek | |
v.发出臭气;n.恶臭 | |
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41 gushed | |
v.喷,涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 );滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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42 defiance | |
n.挑战,挑衅,蔑视,违抗 | |
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43 sage | |
n.圣人,哲人;adj.贤明的,明智的 | |
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44 picket | |
n.纠察队;警戒哨;v.设置纠察线;布置警卫 | |
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45 grove | |
n.林子,小树林,园林 | |
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46 eucalyptus | |
n.桉树,桉属植物 | |
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47 incessant | |
adj.不停的,连续的 | |
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48 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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49 temperament | |
n.气质,性格,性情 | |
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50 receding | |
v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 );向后倾斜;自原处后退或避开别人的注视;尤指问题 | |
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51 refinement | |
n.文雅;高尚;精美;精制;精炼 | |
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52 germinating | |
n.& adj.发芽(的)v.(使)发芽( germinate的现在分词 ) | |
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53 morbidly | |
adv.病态地 | |
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54 morbid | |
adj.病的;致病的;病态的;可怕的 | |
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55 impulsive | |
adj.冲动的,刺激的;有推动力的 | |
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56 sluggish | |
adj.懒惰的,迟钝的,无精打采的 | |
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57 irresolute | |
adj.无决断的,优柔寡断的,踌躇不定的 | |
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58 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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59 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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60 passionate | |
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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61 rite | |
n.典礼,惯例,习俗 | |
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62 fugitive | |
adj.逃亡的,易逝的;n.逃犯,逃亡者 | |
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63 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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64 primitive | |
adj.原始的;简单的;n.原(始)人,原始事物 | |
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65 brutal | |
adj.残忍的,野蛮的,不讲理的 | |
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66 sporadic | |
adj.偶尔发生的 [反]regular;分散的 | |
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67 epoch | |
n.(新)时代;历元 | |
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68 lore | |
n.传说;学问,经验,知识 | |
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69 lusts | |
贪求(lust的第三人称单数形式) | |
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70 generosity | |
n.大度,慷慨,慷慨的行为 | |
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71 heroism | |
n.大无畏精神,英勇 | |
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72 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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73 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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74 colossal | |
adj.异常的,庞大的 | |
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75 monstrous | |
adj.巨大的;恐怖的;可耻的,丢脸的 | |
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76 gallop | |
v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔;飞速发展 | |
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77 pouches | |
n.(放在衣袋里或连在腰带上的)小袋( pouch的名词复数 );(袋鼠等的)育儿袋;邮袋;(某些动物贮存食物的)颊袋 | |
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78 tightening | |
上紧,固定,紧密 | |
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79 slit | |
n.狭长的切口;裂缝;vt.切开,撕裂 | |
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80 clenched | |
v.紧握,抓紧,咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81 scarlet | |
n.深红色,绯红色,红衣;adj.绯红色的 | |
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82 confiscation | |
n. 没收, 充公, 征收 | |
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83 legitimate | |
adj.合法的,合理的,合乎逻辑的;v.使合法 | |
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84 legislate | |
vt.制定法律;n.法规,律例;立法 | |
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85 commissioners | |
n.专员( commissioner的名词复数 );长官;委员;政府部门的长官 | |
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86 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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87 tariff | |
n.关税,税率;(旅馆、饭店等)价目表,收费表 | |
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88 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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89 creed | |
n.信条;信念,纲领 | |
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90 marred | |
adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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91 portray | |
v.描写,描述;画(人物、景象等) | |
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92 frankly | |
adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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93 perspiring | |
v.出汗,流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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94 poetical | |
adj.似诗人的;诗一般的;韵文的;富有诗意的 | |
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95 disintegrated | |
v.(使)破裂[分裂,粉碎],(使)崩溃( disintegrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96 slovenly | |
adj.懒散的,不整齐的,邋遢的 | |
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97 tariffs | |
关税制度; 关税( tariff的名词复数 ); 关税表; (旅馆或饭店等的)收费表; 量刑标准 | |
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98 rumbling | |
n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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99 ridge | |
n.山脊;鼻梁;分水岭 | |
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100 creek | |
n.小溪,小河,小湾 | |
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101 haze | |
n.霾,烟雾;懵懂,迷糊;vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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102 shimmer | |
v./n.发微光,发闪光;微光 | |
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103 ranches | |
大农场, (兼种果树,养鸡等的)大牧场( ranch的名词复数 ) | |
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104 exhaustion | |
n.耗尽枯竭,疲惫,筋疲力尽,竭尽,详尽无遗的论述 | |
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105 infested | |
adj.为患的,大批滋生的(常与with搭配)v.害虫、野兽大批出没于( infest的过去式和过去分词 );遍布于 | |
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106 swarm | |
n.(昆虫)等一大群;vi.成群飞舞;蜂拥而入 | |
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107 hog | |
n.猪;馋嘴贪吃的人;vt.把…占为己有,独占 | |
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108 rusting | |
n.生锈v.(使)生锈( rust的现在分词 ) | |
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109 mammoth | |
n.长毛象;adj.长毛象似的,巨大的 | |
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110 moss | |
n.苔,藓,地衣 | |
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111 intersection | |
n.交集,十字路口,交叉点;[计算机] 交集 | |
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112 irrigating | |
灌溉( irrigate的现在分词 ); 冲洗(伤口) | |
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113 trench | |
n./v.(挖)沟,(挖)战壕 | |
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114 jointly | |
ad.联合地,共同地 | |
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115 groove | |
n.沟,槽;凹线,(刻出的)线条,习惯 | |
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116 thither | |
adv.向那里;adj.在那边的,对岸的 | |
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117 middle-aged | |
adj.中年的 | |
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118 aged | |
adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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119 stolid | |
adj.无动于衷的,感情麻木的 | |
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120 spurt | |
v.喷出;突然进发;突然兴隆 | |
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121 crest | |
n.顶点;饰章;羽冠;vt.达到顶点;vi.形成浪尖 | |
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122 huddled | |
挤在一起(huddle的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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123 adobe | |
n.泥砖,土坯,美国Adobe公司 | |
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124 depots | |
仓库( depot的名词复数 ); 火车站; 车库; 军需库 | |
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125 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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126 dozed | |
v.打盹儿,打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127 complacently | |
adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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128 punctuated | |
v.(在文字中)加标点符号,加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 );不时打断某事物 | |
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129 subdued | |
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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130 intervals | |
n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 );间隔时间;[数学]区间;(戏剧、电影或音乐会的)幕间休息 | |
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131 dyke | |
n.堤,水坝,排水沟 | |
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132 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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133 picturesque | |
adj.美丽如画的,(语言)生动的,绘声绘色的 | |
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134 picturesqueness | |
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135 remodelled | |
v.改变…的结构[形状]( remodel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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137 puffs | |
n.吸( puff的名词复数 );(烟斗或香烟的)一吸;一缕(烟、蒸汽等);(呼吸或风的)呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 );喷着汽(或烟)移动;吹嘘;吹捧 | |
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138 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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139 growled | |
v.(动物)发狺狺声, (雷)作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 );低声咆哮着说 | |
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140 savagely | |
adv. 野蛮地,残酷地 | |
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141 savage | |
adj.野蛮的;凶恶的,残暴的;n.未开化的人 | |
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142 yelp | |
vi.狗吠 | |
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143 brotherhood | |
n.兄弟般的关系,手中情谊 | |
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144 discriminate | |
v.区别,辨别,区分;有区别地对待 | |
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145 shameful | |
adj.可耻的,不道德的 | |
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146 smote | |
v.猛打,重击,打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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147 lapse | |
n.过失,流逝,失效,抛弃信仰,间隔;vi.堕落,停止,失效,流逝;vt.使失效 | |
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148 injustice | |
n.非正义,不公正,不公平,侵犯(别人的)权利 | |
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149 incessantly | |
ad.不停地 | |
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150 subsided | |
v.(土地)下陷(因在地下采矿)( subside的过去式和过去分词 );减弱;下降至较低或正常水平;一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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151 siesta | |
n.午睡 | |
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152 moribund | |
adj.即将结束的,垂死的 | |
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153 plaza | |
n.广场,市场 | |
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154 decrepit | |
adj.衰老的,破旧的 | |
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155 accordion | |
n.手风琴;adj.可折叠的 | |
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156 relics | |
[pl.]n.遗物,遗迹,遗产;遗体,尸骸 | |
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157 vat | |
n.(=value added tax)增值税,大桶 | |
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158 behold | |
v.看,注视,看到 | |
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159 proxy | |
n.代理权,代表权;(对代理人的)委托书;代理人 | |
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160 buckles | |
搭扣,扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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161 virgin | |
n.处女,未婚女子;adj.未经使用的;未经开发的 | |
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162 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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163 chivalrous | |
adj.武士精神的;对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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164 moodily | |
adv.喜怒无常地;情绪多变地;心情不稳地;易生气地 | |
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165 uncertainty | |
n.易变,靠不住,不确知,不确定的事物 | |
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166 grandee | |
n.贵族;大公 | |
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167 eastward | |
adv.向东;adj.向东的;n.东方,东部 | |
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168 herd | |
n.兽群,牧群;vt.使集中,把…赶在一起 | |
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169 northward | |
adv.向北;n.北方的地区 | |
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170 onward | |
adj.向前的,前进的;adv.向前,前进,在先 | |
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171 willows | |
n.柳树( willow的名词复数 );柳木 | |
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172 crests | |
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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173 gorging | |
v.(用食物把自己)塞饱,填饱( gorge的现在分词 );作呕 | |
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174 prune | |
n.酶干;vt.修剪,砍掉,削减;vi.删除 | |
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175 prunes | |
n.西梅脯,西梅干( prune的名词复数 )v.修剪(树木等)( prune的第三人称单数 );精简某事物,除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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176 whack | |
v.敲击,重打,瓜分;n.重击,重打,尝试,一份 | |
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177 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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178 offset | |
n.分支,补偿;v.抵消,补偿 | |
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179 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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180 cleft | |
n.裂缝;adj.裂开的 | |
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181 insolence | |
n.傲慢;无礼;厚颜;傲慢的态度 | |
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182 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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183 ferocious | |
adj.凶猛的,残暴的,极度的,十分强烈的 | |
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184 exacting | |
adj.苛求的,要求严格的 | |
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185 spoke | |
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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186 bullying | |
v.恐吓,威逼( bully的现在分词 );豪;跋扈 | |
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187 disposition | |
n.性情,性格;意向,倾向;排列,部署 | |
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188 capabilities | |
n.能力( capability的名词复数 );可能;容量;[复数]潜在能力 | |
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189 obstinate | |
adj.顽固的,倔强的,不易屈服的,较难治愈的 | |
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190 cantankerous | |
adj.爱争吵的,脾气不好的 | |
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191 ambush | |
n.埋伏(地点);伏兵;v.埋伏;伏击 | |
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192 negligence | |
n.疏忽,玩忽,粗心大意 | |
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193 ledge | |
n.壁架,架状突出物;岩架,岩礁 | |
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194 scowling | |
怒视,生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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195 devouring | |
吞没( devour的现在分词 ); 耗尽; 津津有味地看; 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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196 applicants | |
申请人,求职人( applicant的名词复数 ) | |
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197 collapsed | |
adj.倒塌的 | |
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198 lapsed | |
adj.流失的,堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 );陷入;倒退;丧失 | |
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199 prostration | |
n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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200 obstinately | |
ad.固执地,顽固地 | |
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201 rabble | |
n.乌合之众,暴民;下等人 | |
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202 quacks | |
abbr.quacksalvers 庸医,骗子(16世纪习惯用水银或汞治疗梅毒的人)n.江湖医生( quack的名词复数 );江湖郎中;(鸭子的)呱呱声v.(鸭子)发出嘎嘎声( quack的第三人称单数 ) | |
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203 sojourn | |
v./n.旅居,寄居;逗留 | |
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204 tickled | |
(使)发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 ); (使)愉快,逗乐 | |
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205 widower | |
n.鳏夫 | |
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206 amassed | |
v.积累,积聚( amass的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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207 tune | |
n.调子;和谐,协调;v.调音,调节,调整 | |
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208 professed | |
公开声称的,伪称的,已立誓信教的 | |
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209 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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210 deferring | |
v.拖延,延缓,推迟( defer的现在分词 );服从某人的意愿,遵从 | |
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211 modification | |
n.修改,改进,缓和,减轻 | |
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212 doctrine | |
n.教义;主义;学说 | |
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213 marvelled | |
v.惊奇,对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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214 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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215 combative | |
adj.好战的;好斗的 | |
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216 vagaries | |
n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 );异想天开;异常行为;难以预测的情况 | |
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217 mutual | |
adj.相互的,彼此的;共同的,共有的 | |
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218 trifling | |
adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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219 affixing | |
v.附加( affix的现在分词 );粘贴;加以;盖(印章) | |
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220 prudence | |
n.谨慎,精明,节俭 | |
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221 compartment | |
n.卧车包房,隔间;分隔的空间 | |
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222 smitten | |
猛打,重击,打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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223 alleging | |
断言,宣称,辩解( allege的现在分词 ) | |
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224 cramps | |
n. 抽筋, 腹部绞痛, 铁箍 adj. 狭窄的, 难解的 v. 使...抽筋, 以铁箍扣紧, 束缚 | |
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225 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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226 grunted | |
(猪等)作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 ); (指人)发出类似的哼声; 咕哝着说 | |
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227 guts | |
v.狼吞虎咽,贪婪地吃,飞碟游戏(比赛双方每组5人,相距15码,互相掷接飞碟);毁坏(建筑物等)的内部( gut的第三人称单数 );取出…的内脏n.勇气( gut的名词复数 );内脏;消化道的下段;肠 | |
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228 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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229 unwilling | |
adj.不情愿的 | |
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230 scenting | |
vt.闻到(scent的现在分词形式) | |
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231 murmur | |
n.低语,低声的怨言;v.低语,低声而言 | |
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232 scroll | |
n.卷轴,纸卷;(石刻上的)漩涡 | |
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233 isolated | |
adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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234 westward | |
n.西方,西部;adj.西方的,向西的;adv.向西 | |
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235 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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236 spun | |
v.纺,杜撰,急转身 | |
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237 uneven | |
adj.不平坦的,不规则的,不均匀的 | |
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238 fatiguing | |
a.使人劳累的 | |
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239 illusive | |
adj.迷惑人的,错觉的 | |
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240 herds | |
兽群( herd的名词复数 ); 牧群; 人群; 群众 | |
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241 aggregate | |
adj.总计的,集合的;n.总数;v.合计;集合 | |
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242 myriad | |
adj.无数的;n.无数,极大数量 | |
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243 erect | |
n./v.树立,建立,使竖立;adj.直立的,垂直的 | |
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244 speck | |
n.微粒,小污点,小斑点 | |
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245 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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246 beckoned | |
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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247 riveted | |
铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 ); 把…固定住; 吸引; 引起某人的注意 | |
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248 exclamation | |
n.感叹号,惊呼,惊叹词 | |
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249 animated | |
adj.生气勃勃的,活跃的,愉快的 | |
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250 sweeping | |
adj.范围广大的,一扫无遗的 | |
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251 beckoning | |
adj.引诱人的,令人心动的v.(用头或手的动作)示意,召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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252 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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253 cartridge | |
n.弹壳,弹药筒;(装磁带等的)盒子 | |
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254 cartridges | |
子弹( cartridge的名词复数 ); (打印机的)墨盒; 录音带盒; (唱机的)唱头 | |
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255 flannel | |
n.法兰绒;法兰绒衣服 | |
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256 habitual | |
adj.习惯性的;通常的,惯常的 | |
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257 uncommon | |
adj.罕见的,非凡的,不平常的 | |
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258 ascetic | |
adj.禁欲的;严肃的 | |
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259 recluse | |
n.隐居者 | |
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260 dwellers | |
n.居民,居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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261 wilderness | |
n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等,荒漠 | |
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262 scrap | |
n.碎片;废料;v.废弃,报废 | |
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263 mirage | |
n.海市蜃楼,幻景 | |
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264 legendary | |
adj.传奇(中)的,闻名遐迩的;n.传奇(文学) | |
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265 imprint | |
n.印痕,痕迹;深刻的印象;vt.压印,牢记 | |
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266 jutting | |
v.(使)突出( jut的现在分词 );伸出;(从…)突出;高出 | |
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267 stimulated | |
a.刺激的 | |
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268 uprooted | |
v.把(某物)连根拔起( uproot的过去式和过去分词 );根除;赶走;把…赶出家园 | |
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269 sojourner | |
n.旅居者,寄居者 | |
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270 slant | |
v.倾斜,倾向性地编写或报道;n.斜面,倾向 | |
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271 enchanting | |
a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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272 poise | |
vt./vi. 平衡,保持平衡;n.泰然自若,自信 | |
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273 idyllic | |
adj.质朴宜人的,田园风光的 | |
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274 civilisation | |
n.文明,文化,开化,教化 | |
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275 herding | |
中畜群 | |
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276 enjoyment | |
n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
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277 pony | |
adj.小型的;n.小马 | |
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278 crumbled | |
(把…)弄碎, (使)碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 ); 衰落; 坍塌; 损坏 | |
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279 trickle | |
vi.淌,滴,流出,慢慢移动,逐渐消散 | |
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280 croak | |
vi.嘎嘎叫,发牢骚 | |
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281 enchantment | |
n.迷惑,妖术,魅力 | |
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282 rendezvous | |
n.约会,约会地点,汇合点;vi.汇合,集合;vt.使汇合,使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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283 abruptness | |
n. 突然,唐突 | |
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284 hideous | |
adj.丑陋的,可憎的,可怕的,恐怖的 | |
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285 blur | |
n.模糊不清的事物;vt.使模糊,使看不清楚 | |
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286 blot | |
vt.弄脏(用吸墨纸)吸干;n.污点,污渍 | |
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287 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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288 prostrate | |
v.拜倒,平卧,衰竭;adj.拜倒的,平卧的,衰竭的 | |
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289 inert | |
adj.无活动能力的,惰性的;迟钝的 | |
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290 delirious | |
adj.不省人事的,神智昏迷的 | |
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291 raving | |
adj.说胡话的;疯狂的,怒吼的;非常漂亮的;令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话;疯话adv.胡言乱语地;疯狂地 | |
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292 withdrawn | |
vt.收回;使退出;vi.撤退,退出 | |
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293 swooping | |
俯冲,猛冲( swoop的现在分词 ) | |
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294 syllable | |
n.音节;vt.分音节 | |
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295 nomad | |
n.游牧部落的人,流浪者,游牧民 | |
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296 coffin | |
n.棺材,灵柩 | |
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297 tangled | |
adj. 纠缠的,紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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298 poignant | |
adj.令人痛苦的,辛酸的,惨痛的 | |
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299 attentive | |
adj.注意的,专心的;关心(别人)的,殷勤的 | |
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300 steadily | |
adv.稳定地;不变地;持续地 | |
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301 unfamiliar | |
adj.陌生的,不熟悉的 | |
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302 recital | |
n.朗诵,独奏会,独唱会 | |
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303 stimulant | |
n.刺激物,兴奋剂 | |
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304 expressive | |
adj.表现的,表达…的,富于表情的 | |
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305 sonorous | |
adj.响亮的,回响的;adv.圆润低沉地;感人地;n.感人,堂皇 | |
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306 resonance | |
n.洪亮;共鸣;共振 | |
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307 shimmering | |
v.闪闪发光,发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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308 canyons | |
n.峡谷( canyon的名词复数 ) | |
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309 canyon | |
n.峡谷,溪谷 | |
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310 strenuous | |
adj.奋发的,使劲的;紧张的;热烈的,狂热的 | |
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311 primordial | |
adj.原始的;最初的 | |
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312 forerunners | |
n.先驱( forerunner的名词复数 );开路人;先兆;前兆 | |
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313 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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314 epic | |
n.史诗,叙事诗;adj.史诗般的,壮丽的 | |
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315 eludes | |
v.(尤指机敏地)避开( elude的第三人称单数 );逃避;躲避;使达不到 | |
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316 suffocate | |
vt.使窒息,使缺氧,阻碍;vi.窒息,窒息而亡,阻碍发展 | |
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317 colonnade | |
n.柱廊 | |
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318 monks | |
n.修道士,僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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319 graveyard | |
n.坟场 | |
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320 thong | |
n.皮带;皮鞭;v.装皮带 | |
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321 shrouded | |
v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 );保密 | |
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322 repose | |
v.(使)休息;n.安息 | |
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324 slippers | |
n. 拖鞋 | |
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325 astonishment | |
n.惊奇,惊异 | |
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326 rascal | |
n.流氓;不诚实的人 | |
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327 hermit | |
n.隐士,修道者;隐居 | |
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328 raven | |
n.渡鸟,乌鸦;adj.乌亮的 | |
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329 fattened | |
v.喂肥( fatten的过去式和过去分词 );养肥(牲畜);使(钱)增多;使(公司)升值 | |
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330 apropos | |
adv.恰好地;adj.恰当的;关于 | |
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331 lettuce | |
n.莴苣;生菜 | |
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332 instinctively | |
adv.本能地 | |
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333 descended | |
a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
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334 raucous | |
adj.(声音)沙哑的,粗糙的 | |
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335 discordant | |
adj.不调和的 | |
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336 rivulet | |
n.小溪,小河 | |
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337 brittle | |
adj.易碎的;脆弱的;冷淡的;(声音)尖利的 | |
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338 flakes | |
小薄片( flake的名词复数 ); (尤指)碎片; 雪花; 古怪的人 | |
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339 upwards | |
adv.向上,在更高处...以上 | |
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340 succumb | |
v.屈服,屈从;死 | |
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341 drowsy | |
adj.昏昏欲睡的,令人发困的 | |
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342 prone | |
adj.(to)易于…的,很可能…的;俯卧的 | |
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343 soothed | |
v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 );抚慰;使舒服;减轻痛苦 | |
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344 dwindled | |
v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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345 delightful | |
adj.令人高兴的,使人快乐的 | |
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346 numbness | |
n.无感觉,麻木,惊呆 | |
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347 lapsing | |
v.退步( lapse的现在分词 );陷入;倒退;丧失 | |
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348 odyssey | |
n.长途冒险旅行;一连串的冒险 | |
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349 languor | |
n.无精力,倦怠 | |
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350 tingling | |
v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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351 poignantly | |
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352 defiled | |
v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 );污染;弄脏;纵列行进 | |
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353 pageant | |
n.壮观的游行;露天历史剧 | |
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354 pinnacle | |
n.尖塔,尖顶,山峰;(喻)顶峰 | |
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355 dome | |
n.圆屋顶,拱顶 | |
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356 silhouette | |
n.黑色半身侧面影,影子,轮廓;v.描绘成侧面影,照出影子来,仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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357 irrelevant | |
adj.不恰当的,无关系的,不相干的 | |
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358 stimulus | |
n.刺激,刺激物,促进因素,引起兴奋的事物 | |
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359 lengthening | |
(时间或空间)延长,伸长( lengthen的现在分词 ); 加长 | |
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360 titanic | |
adj.巨人的,庞大的,强大的 | |
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361 accentuating | |
v.重读( accentuate的现在分词 );使突出;使恶化;加重音符号于 | |
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362 exhale | |
v.呼气,散出,吐出,蒸发 | |
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363 fatigue | |
n.疲劳,劳累 | |
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364 stunned | |
adj. 震惊的,惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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365 intoxication | |
n.wild excitement;drunkenness;poisoning | |
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366 descending | |
n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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367 thronging | |
v.成群,挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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368 component | |
n.组成部分,成分,元件;adj.组成的,合成的 | |
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369 vividly | |
adv.清楚地,鲜明地,生动地 | |
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370 bridle | |
n.笼头,束缚;vt.抑制,约束;动怒 | |
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371 confirmation | |
n.证实,确认,批准 | |
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372 benediction | |
n.祝福;恩赐 | |
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373 caress | |
vt./n.爱抚,抚摸 | |
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374 entity | |
n.实体,独立存在体,实际存在物 | |
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375 vomiting | |
吐 | |
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376 hoofs | |
n.(兽的)蹄,马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.(兽的)蹄,马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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377 frantic | |
adj.狂乱的,错乱的,激昂的 | |
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378 plunged | |
v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
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379 sobbing | |
<主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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380 wails | |
痛哭,哭声( wail的名词复数 ) | |
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381 breach | |
n.违反,不履行;破裂;vt.冲破,攻破 | |
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382 pathos | |
n.哀婉,悲怆 | |
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383 slaughter | |
n.屠杀,屠宰;vt.屠杀,宰杀 | |
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384 massacre | |
n.残杀,大屠杀;v.残杀,集体屠杀 | |
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385 barbs | |
n.(箭头、鱼钩等的)倒钩( barb的名词复数 );带刺的话;毕露的锋芒;钩状毛 | |
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386 winking | |
n.瞬眼,目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 );递眼色(表示友好或高兴等);(指光)闪烁;闪亮 | |
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387 seeped | |
v.(液体)渗( seep的过去式和过去分词 );渗透;渗出;漏出 | |
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388 irresistible | |
adj.非常诱人的,无法拒绝的,无法抗拒的 | |
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389 compassion | |
n.同情,怜悯 | |
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390 placid | |
adj.安静的,平和的 | |
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391 distress | |
n.苦恼,痛苦,不舒适;不幸;vt.使悲痛 | |
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392 ominous | |
adj.不祥的,不吉的,预兆的,预示的 | |
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393 hoarse | |
adj.嘶哑的,沙哑的 | |
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394 bellowing | |
v.发出吼叫声,咆哮(尤指因痛苦)( bellow的现在分词 );(愤怒地)说出(某事),大叫 | |
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395 galloping | |
adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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396 tentacles | |
n.触手( tentacle的名词复数 );触角;触须;触毛 | |
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397 octopus | |
n.章鱼 | |
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