“Hm! And why must we have the prettiest garden in Dunbridge?”
“Why shouldn’t we?”
Here was a deadlock—a thing quite shockingly out of place in a garden, and one’s own particular garden at that!
Olivia Page could make almost anything grow, as she had abundantly proved, but even her garden-craft could hardly suffice for the setting of a sun-dial on a pedestal of snow-white marble over there where the four triangular2 rose-beds converged3 to a circle, and where the south sun would play on it all day long.
For a year Olivia had dreamed of this, and, since she was not a churlishly reticent4 young person, it was not the first intimation 219 her father had received of her desire. Not until to-day, however, had she asked outright5 for what she wanted.
“I wish you would say something more,” she remarked, glancing sidewise at the professor’s deeply corrugated6 countenance7, which, for all their intimacy8, was sometimes difficult to decipher. She had heard of girls who could twist their parents round their fingers; she wondered how they did it.
The two were sitting on the white half-circle of a bench that stood at the west boundary of the old tennis-court, just where one end of the net used to be staked up. Excepting for that break, three sides of the garden were fenced in by the high wire screen originally designed to keep the tennis balls within bounds, and now doing duty as a trellis over which a luxuriant woodbine clambered, waving its reddening tendrils in the light September breeze. Wide flowerbeds bordered the entire court, the central turf being broken only by the cluster of rose-beds at the further end. From the 220 white bench one looked across the grass to a broad flight of veranda9 steps, flanked on the right by a mass of white boltonia, while on the left a superb growth of New England asters reared their sturdy heads.
The garden had been a great success this year, quite the admiration10 of the neighbourhood. Really, Papa must be proud of it, and it was all Olivia’s doing. Who would ever guess that it had had its modest beginnings in half a dozen tin cracker-boxes with holes bored in the bottoms, where, in March, two years ago, she had planted queer little brown seeds as hard as pebbles11, which Nature had straightway taken in hand, softening12 and expanding them down there in the dark, till they came alive, and began feeling their way up to meet the sun. Ah, the bliss13 of seeing those first tiny shoots turn into stems and leaflets, ready to play their part in the great spring awakening14! Would Olivia ever love any flowers quite as she had loved those first seedlings15, especially a certain pentstemon, which 221 blossomed “white with purple spots,” exactly as the seed-catalogue had promised?
Yes, the garden was a great success, and just now it was at one of its prettiest moments, gay with autumn colours; the rudbeckia in its glory, and the great pink blossoms of the hibiscus spreading their skirts for all the world like ladies in an old-time minuet, while over yonder the soldier spikes16 of the flame-flower threatened to set the woodbine afire. Olivia loved the Latin names, but somehow “tritonia” did not seem to express those spikes of burning colour. And the roses! How lovely those late hybrids17 were! Why, the way that Margaret Dickson drooped18 her head above the pansies, still blooming freely at her feet, was enough to melt the heart of a Salem gibraltar! A pity that the professor’s attention seemed for the moment to be riveted19 upon the toe of his boot!
“I wish you would say something more,” Olivia repeated.
“Something different, you mean,” and Doctor Page smiled, benignly20 and stubbornly. 222
“For instance, you might tell me why you are opposed to it.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“I might; you said, only the other day, that I sometimes displayed almost human intelligence!”
The professor liked to have his jokes remembered; but still he seemed inclined to temporise.
“I might say that we couldn’t afford it. It is generally conceded that Alma Mater is not a munificent21 provider.”
“Yes; and you might say that my great-grandfather was not an East India trader—only you don’t tell fibs.”
“Or that a sun-dial is an anachronism.”
“You are too good a Latin scholar for that.”
“So a subterfuge22 won’t do? Very well; then you’ll have to put up with a psychological proposition.”
“How interesting!”
The professor glanced at the expectant young face turned toward him, and he could not but admit that his estimate of its owner’s intelligence had been well within the truth. 223
“You think a sun-dial would make it the prettiest garden in Dunbridge?”
“I’m sure it would.”
“And that is what you are aiming at?”
“Yes.”
“Now, I have noticed that when you have got what you are aiming at you lose interest in it.”
“O Papa!”
“There was tennis,” he went on, marking off the list on a combative23 forefinger24, “and cookery; there was the Polyglot25 Club, and the Sketching26 Club, and––”
“But, Papa! They were every one of them good things, and I got a lot out of them; truly, I did.”
“No doubt; but as soon as you could play tennis, or sketch27 a pine tree, or toss an omelette a little better than the other girls, you had squeezed your orange dry.”
“But, Papa! I’ve stuck to gardening for more than two years!” Olivia’s tone seemed to give those years the dignity of centuries.
“True; but you haven’t got your sun-dial. You will consider that the finishing 224 touch, and then before we know it you will be wanting to turn the whole thing into a sand-garden for the little micks at the Corners.”
“Not such a bad idea,” Olivia admitted unguardedly.
“There you are! The mere28 mention of a new scheme is enough to set you agog29!”
But this was not their first fencing match, and Olivia had learned to parry.
“I thought you believed in people being open-minded,” she ventured demurely30.
“And so I do; but not so open-minded that for every new idea that comes in an old one goes out.”
“Oh, the sun-dial hasn’t got away yet,” she laughed, springing to her feet and going over to the court-end of the garden, where she placed herself in the exact centre of the converging31 rose-beds.
“There!” she cried; “don’t you see how my white gown lights up the whole place? It’s just the high light that it needs.”
And so it was: a fact of which no one 225 was better aware than the professor. As he, too, rose and sauntered toward the house he could not deny that Olivia’s ideas were usually good. The only trouble was that she had too many of them; and here was the kernel32 of truth that gave substance to his whimsical argument. The beauty of the garden was not lost upon him, nor yet the skill and industry of the young gardener. But more important than either was the advantage to the girl’s health. Olivia was sound as a nut; of course she was! There could be no doubt of that. But—so had her mother seemed, until that fatal winter ten years ago. He did not fear for Olivia; why should he? Only—well, this out-of-door life was a capital thing for anybody. No, he could not have her tire of her garden.
At the foot of the veranda steps Dr. Page paused and glanced again at his daughter. She had left the rose-beds and was already intent upon her work, pulling seeds from the hollyhocks over yonder. She made a pretty picture in her white 226 gown, standing33 shoulder-high among the brown stalks, her slender fingers deftly34 gleaning35 from such as showed no rust36. The child was really very persistent37 about her gardening; she had fairly earned an indulgence. Perhaps, after all, she might be trusted. He moved a few steps toward her.
“Olivia,” he said,—and the first word betrayed his relenting,—“Olivia, your sun-dial scheme is not such a bad idea. I should rather like that white-petticoat effect myself. Supposing we say that if between now and next June you don’t think of anything you want more, we’ll have it.”
“Oh, you blessèd angel! What could I want more?”
“Time will show,” the blessèd angel replied, retracing38 his steps toward the house—unaided by angelic wings!
“Yes,” Olivia called confidently. “It’s the sun-dial that time will show, and afterward—why, the sun-dial will show the time!”—and although he made no sign, she knew there were little puckers39 227 of amused approval about her father’s mouth.
As if she could ever want anything more than a sun-dial! she thought, while she passed along the borders, harvesting her little crop. She had finished with the hollyhocks, and now she was bending over a bed of withered41 columbines. And there were the foxglove seeds still clinging. Really, it was almost impossible to keep up. How brilliant the salvia was to-day, and what a brave second blossoming that was of the delphinium, its knightly42 spurs, metallic43 blue, gleaming in the sun!
“No,” she declared to herself, “there will never be anything so much worth while as the garden. Why, of course there won’t; because Nature is the best thing in the world—the very best.”
“Plase, ma’am, will ye gimme a bowkay?”
Olivia turned, startled by a voice so near at hand, for she had heard no footfall on the thick turf. There, in the centre of the grass-grown space, stood two comical little midgets, their smutty yet cherubic faces blooming brightly above garments highly coloured and earthy, too, as the autumn garden-beds.
“Please ma’am, will ye gimme a bowkay?”
228
“Dear me!” Olivia laughed, “how things do sprout44 in a garden! Did you come right up out of the ground?”
“Plase, ma’am, a bowkay! Me mudder’s sick an’ me fader’s goned away.”
The speaker, a boy of five, stood holding by the hand something in the way of a sister, about two sizes smaller. At Olivia’s little joke, which they did not in the least understand, they had both grinned sympathetically, showing rows of diminutive45 teeth as white and even as snow-berries.
“Bless your little hearts, of course you shall have a bouquet46! Come and choose one,”—and taking a hand of each Olivia led them slowly along the brilliant borders.
They were a bit shy at first, but they soon picked up their courage, and Patsy fell to accumulating a mass of incongruous blossoms whose colours fought each other tooth and nail. Little Biddy, more modest, as beseemed her inferior rank in 229 the scale of being, fixed47 her heart upon a single flame-flower which absolutely refused to reconcile itself with the ingenuous48 pink of her calico frock.
“How long has your mother been ill?” Olivia asked of the boy, who by this time was quite hidden behind a perfect forest of asters and larkspur and lobelia cardinalis.
“Me mudder’s always sick. She coughs an’ coughs, and den1 she lays on de bed long whiles.”
“And she likes flowers?”
“Yes, ma’am; me an’ Biddy picked a bowkay outen a ashba’l oncet, an’ me mudder sticked it in a tumbler an’ loved it. Come, Biddy, make de lady a bow!” Upon which the small Chesterfield stood off a few steps and gave an absurd little bob of a bow which Biddy gravely endeavoured to imitate.
“I think I’ll go with you,” said Olivia, open-minded as ever to a new interest; and hand in hand and chattering50 amicably51, the three moved across the turf and down the long gravel49 walk to the dusty street. Surprising how short the distance was between 230 the sweet seclusion52 of the old tennis-court and the squalid quarter where these little human blossoms grew!
Olivia was thinking of that as she stood on the veranda an hour later, looking down upon the flowery kingdom to which all her interest and ambition had been pledged. Yes, it was lovely, lovely in the long afternoon light, and it would have been lovelier still with the gleaming marble she had dreamed of. She really tried to keep her mind upon it, to forget the little drama over there in the stuffy53 tenement54. But no; she was too good a gardener for that. Was not a whole family broken and wilting55 for lack of means to transplant it?
The doctor had ordered Mrs. O’Trannon to Colorado, and Mike had dropped his work as “finisher”—whatever that might be—and had gone out to prepare the way for the others to follow. He had found no chance to work at his trade, but he had got a job on a ranch56, where the pay was small, but the living good. A fine place it would be for the invalid57 and the children, when once he could get together 231 the money to send for them. But meanwhile here they were, and the winter coming on.
As Olivia stood looking down upon her beloved garden, she could not seem to see anything but brown stalks and dead blossoms. All that lavish58 colour looked fictitious59 and transitory; she had somehow lost faith in it.
Mrs. O’Trannon had been pleased with the flowers; she had grown up on a farm, she said. Sure she never’d ha’ got sick at all if she’d ha’ stayed where she belonged. But then, where would Mike have been, and the babies? And where would Mike be, and the babies, Olivia thought with a pang,—where would they be if the mother wilted60 and died? She turned, suddenly, and passed in at the glass doors and on to her father’s study.
At sight of the kind, quizzical face lifted at her entrance, Olivia winced61 a bit. About an hour and a half it must be, since he said it, and he had given her a year! As if that made any difference! she told herself, with a little defiant62 movement of 232 the chin, as she crossed the room and seated herself at the opposite side of the big writing-table where she could face the music handsomely.
“Well, Olivia; changed your mind yet?” the professor inquired, struck, perhaps, by the resolution of her aspect.
“Yes,” she answered, in an impressive tone, “I’ve thought of something I should prefer to a sun-dial.”
Dr. Page took off his glasses and laid them upon his open book. He did not really imagine that she was serious—such a turn-about-face was too precipitate63 even for Olivia; but it pleased him to meet her on her own ground.
“And what is it this time? A sixty-inch telescope? Or a diamond tiara?”
“Well, no. Those are things I had not thought of—before! It’s a kind of gardening project—a little matter of transplanting.”
“Will it cost a hundred and fifty dollars?”
“About that, I should think, to do it properly and comfortably. And—it can’t 233 wait till June. It’s the kind of transplanting that has to be done in the autumn.”
Then, dropping the little fiction, and resting her chin upon her folded hands, the better to transfix her father’s mocking countenance,—“Papa,” she said, “there’s a poor family down at the Corners,—our neighbours, you know,—and the mother is dying for want of transplanting, just like the beautiful hydrangea—you remember?—that I didn’t understand about till it was too late. I never knew what too late meant, till I saw that splendid great bush lying stone-dead on the ground when we came home from the Adirondacks last year. A great healthy hydrangea dying just for lack of the right kind of soil! And now, here is this good human woman, that might live out her life and bring up her little family, and be happy and useful for years to come. Such a nice woman she must be to name her babies Patsy and Biddy, when she might have called them Algernon and Celestina, you know, and just spoiled it all!—and such a nice, kind husband to take care of her on a big ranch 234 where there’s good air, and lots to eat, and plenty of work and not too much, and—why Papa! they might have a garden out there! who knows? What a thing that would be for the prairie! A real New England garden!”
“With a sun-dial?” the professor interposed.
For an instant Olivia’s face fell, but only for an instant.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said, with a very convincing seriousness, “that perhaps a sun-dial is not so important, after all. At any rate it’s not so important as the mother of a family; now, is it, Papa?”
“That depends upon the point of view,” the professor opined. “As a high light among the rose-bushes I should be constrained64 to give my vote for the sun-dial.”
Olivia sprang to her feet.
“That means that you are coming straight over with me to see Mrs. O’Trannon,” she cried, “and that you are going to have the whole family packed off to Colorado quicker’n a wink65! Come along, 235 please! There’s plenty of time before dinner!”
“It’s just another of Nature’s miracles!” Olivia observed, as she and her father stood one morning in late October watching the workmen pack the sods about the beautiful pedestal, now securely planted upon its base of cement and broken stone. “It always makes me think of the wonderful things that came up in those tin cracker-boxes you used to make such fun of. There really doesn’t seem to be any place too unlikely for Nature to set things going in.”
The marble was but roughly hewn, in lines that held the suggestion of an hourglass. The top only was smoothly66 finished, while here and there on the curving sides the hint of a leaf, a blossom, a trailing vine, came and went with the point of view, like cloud-pictures or the pencillings of Jack67 Frost. It was as if a ’prentice-hand had tried to express the soul of an artist, too self-distrustful to work more boldly. 236
“Funny, how things come into your head,” Olivia went on. “Do you know, Papa, that day when I was helping68 Mrs. O’Trannon with her preposterous69 packing and suddenly came upon this miracle hidden away under an old bedquilt, the only thing I could think of was the way my first pentstemons came out, ‘white with purple spots,’ exactly as I had chosen them by the seed-catalogue. And to think that she had bought it for a dollar of that poor stone-cutter’s widow that was moving out—bought it to make pastry70 on because the top was smooth and cold! And then had never had time to make but one pie in the three years! I wish you could have heard her tell about it. ‘Faith, it cost me a dollar, me one pie did, an’ Mike says it’s lucky it was that I didn’t make a dozen whin they come so high! Silly b’y, that Mike!’ O Papa, isn’t it heavenly that they’re together again?”
“So you think there is nothing Nature can’t do?” Dr. Page mused40, with apparent irrelevance71. “How about the sun-dial itself?” 237
“Oh, Nature will attend to that, too.”
“She will, will she? And in what particular tin cracker-box should you look for it to come up?”
“It wouldn’t be polite to say,” Olivia declared, looking with unmistakable significance straight into her father’s face.
“Saucebox!” he chuckled72.
And when, in early June, the brass73 disk of the sun-dial had begun its record of happy hours, and still Olivia toiled74 with unabated zeal75 at her garden, the rose of health blooming ever brighter in her face, a great sense of satisfaction and approval took possession of her father’s mind. But he only remarked, in a casual manner, as they sat together on the white bench one fragrant76 sunset hour:
“After all, I’m not sure but Nature’s biggest miracle has been performed in the saucebox.”
And Olivia, smiling softly, answered: “I told you, you know, that there isn’t any place too unlikely for Nature to set things going in!”
Bagging a Grandfather
240
BAGGING A GRANDFATHER
“I’ll warrant that ’he, she, or it’ will come! Di usually bags her game!”
The speaker, Mr. Thomas Crosby, must have had implicit77 faith in his daughter’s prowess to venture such a confident assertion as that, for he was quite in the dark as to who “he, she, or it” might be.
It was a cozy78 November evening, when open fires and friendly drop-lights are in order, and the three grown-folks of the family were enjoying these luxuries. Mr. Crosby was supposed to be reading his paper, but he had a sociable79 way of letting fall an occasional item of interest, or of letting fall the paper itself, at the first hint of interest in the remarks of his wife and daughter.
Only within a very short time had there been three grown-folks in the family, 241 unless, indeed, we count Rollo, the Gordon setter, who had attained80 his majority years ago. Di, who was but just turned sixteen, really did not like to remember how very recently she had been sent to bed at eight o’clock!
Could Mr. Crosby have guessed the scheme which was occupying the active brain of the young person engaged in embroidering81 harmless bachelor’s buttons upon a linen82 centrepiece, he would have been very much astonished,—whether pleasurably or otherwise, events alone must show. And since events had been taken in hand by Di the revelation was not likely to be long delayed.
The incident which had elicited83 her father’s declaration of confidence was a request on Di’s part to be allowed the privilege of inviting84 a guest of her own choosing to the Thanksgiving dinner. The family party was to be materially reduced this year, for Mrs. Crosby’s mother and sister, their only available relatives, were at that moment sojourning in Rome, where, if they were sufficiently85 242 mindful of current maxims86 to do as the Romans do, they were very unlikely to meet with any satisfactory combination of turkey and plum-pudding. It was with that fact in view, that Di felt a fair degree of assurance in preferring her request. They all liked each other, of course, better than they liked anybody else, but, really, one must do something a little out of the common on Thanksgiving day.
“Certainly,” Di’s mother had agreed; “you shall invite any one you choose. I have been wishing we could think of some one to ask, but people all have their own family parties on Thanksgiving day. Is it to be one of your girl friends?”
“That is my secret,” Di had replied, sedately87; “but, whoever it is, he, she, or it is a very important personage, and will have to be treated with great consideration!”
“And how is that very unimportant personage, Di Crosby, going to get hold of so great a dignitary?” Mrs. Crosby had laughingly inquired. At which 243 juncture88 Mr. Crosby had expressed his belief that Di would bag her game.
That the prospective89 dinner should be incomplete was all the harder, considering the fact that the Crosbys were, by good rights, the possessors of that most desired ornament90 of such an occasion,—a bona fide grandfather. Not only was old Mr. Crosby living, and in excellent health, but his residence was not above a dozen blocks removed from his son’s house. And yet no grandfather had ever graced their Thanksgiving feast.
Family quarrels are an unpleasant subject at the best, and since Di herself had never learned the precise cause of the long estrangement91 between father and son, in which the old gentleman had decreed that his son’s wife and children should share, it is hardly worth while to recount it here. Suffice it to say, that it was a very old quarrel indeed, older than Di herself, and one to which Mr. and Mrs. Crosby never alluded92.
It was six years ago, when Di, the eldest93 of the children, was ten years of age, that 244 she had come home from school one day, breathless with excitement.
“Mamma!” she cried, bursting into the room where her mother was changing the baby’s frock: “Mamma! Have I got a grandfather?”
Mrs. Crosby glanced furtively94 at the round eyes of the baby, and took the precaution of smothering95 him in billows of white lawn before replying, rather softly: “Yes, dear; Papa’s father is living. Why do you ask?”
“I saw him to-day.”
“You saw him? Where?”
“On the street.”
“How did you know it was he?”
“Sallie Watson asked me why I didn’t bow to my grandfather.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said: ‘Never you mind!’ And then I ran home all the way, as tight as ever I could run! Mamma, why don’t we ever see him?”
The baby’s head was just emerging from temporary eclipse, and Mrs. Crosby’s voice dropped still lower, as she answered: 245
“Because, dear, he doesn’t wish it.”
There was something so gently conclusive96 in this answer that little Di was silenced. Yet the look in her mother’s face had not escaped her; a wistful, hurt look, such as the child had never seen there before. And in her own mind Di asked many questions.
What did it all mean? How did it happen that her grandfather did not wish it? Why was he so different from other girls’ grandfathers? There must be something very wrong somewhere, but where was it? Since it could not possibly be with her father or mother, it must be that her grandfather was himself at fault.
The object of Di’s perplexities, Mr. Horatio Crosby, lived all alone in a very good house, and was in the habit of driving about in a very pretty victoria; people bowed to him, people who were friends of Di’s father and mother, and must therefore be creditable acquaintances. All this she soon discovered, for, having once come to know her grandfather by sight, 246 she seemed to be constantly crossing his path.
Little by little, as she grew older, Di picked up certain stray bits of information, but she never tried to piece them together. She felt that she would a little rather not know any more. A quarrel there had certainly been, some time in the dark ages before she was born, and the old man had proved himself obstinate97 and implacable. Friendly overtures98 had been made from time to time, but he had set his face against all such advances, and now, for many, many years,—as many as three or four, little Di had gathered,—the friendly overtures had ceased.
One gets used to things, and Di got used to having a grandfather who did not know her by sight. She was sure he did not know her, because once, when she was twelve years old, he had stopped her on the street to tell her that she had dropped her pocket-handkerchief. It had been very polite of the old gentleman, and she had been glad not to lose her handkerchief. Yet, as she thanked him, she gave 247 him one searching look, and she told herself that he had a very cross expression, as well as a very harsh voice.
This uncomplimentary verdict was largely due to the fact that, at this period, Di had quite made up her mind that her grandfather was a hateful, unreasonable99 old despot, and that it served him right never to come to the family parties, nor to have any Christmas presents, nor to have seen the baby, which Mamma said was the prettiest of all her babies, and which Di considered the most enchanting100 object on the face of the earth.
But again many years had passed,—four, in this instance,—and there came a time, only a few weeks previous to the opening of our story, when Di found herself constrained to modify her view of her grandfather.
It happened that she had gone with her drawing teacher, Miss Downs, to an exhibition of paintings. Among the pictures was a very striking one entitled Le Grandpère. It represented an old French peasant, just stopping off work for the 248 day, with a flock of grandchildren clinging about his knees. Miss Downs called Di’s attention to the wonderful reach of upland meadow, and the exquisite101 effect of the sunset light on the face of the old man; but, to Di, the meadow and the sunset light were unimportant accessories to the central idea. It was the grandfather himself that commanded all her attention,—the look of blissful indulgence on the old man’s face; his attitude of protecting affection towards one young girl in particular, on whose head the toil-stained hand rested.
“Yes,” she said, after several minutes of rapt contemplation: “Yes; the sunset is very nice, and the fields; but, oh, the old man is such a darling!”
As she spoke102 she turned to see how her teacher took her remark, and found herself face to face, not with Miss Downs, but with her own grandfather! She gave a little gasp103 of surprise, which he appeared not to notice.
“So you think him a darling, do you?” he asked, and somehow his voice did not 249 sound quite as harsh as it had done four years ago.
Miss Downs had passed on, and there was no one standing near them, no one at all in the gallery who shared Di’s knowledge of the strange situation. She felt sure that the old man had no suspicion of her identity.
“Yes, I do,” she answered boldly.
“What makes a darling of him?” the old gentleman inquired.
Di felt that this was her opportunity, and that she was letting it slip. But she could not help herself, and she only answered rather lamely104:
“Oh, nothing, except that he is such a good grandfather!” Upon which she beat a hasty retreat, and fled to the protection of Miss Downs, whom she found in an adjoining room.
It was perhaps twenty minutes later that Di and her teacher passed the picture again, and, behold105, there was the old gentleman standing, lost in thought, exactly on the spot where she had left him. He did not seem to be looking at the 250 picture, but Di felt certain that he was thinking of it. And, suddenly, it passed through her mind like a flash that he was sorry.
“Yes; he’s sorry,” she said to herself. “He’s sorry, and he doesn’t know how to say so!”
The more she thought of it in the days that followed,—and she seemed to be thinking pretty much all the time of the old man and the look on his face as he stood before the picture,—the more convinced she became that he was sorry and did not know how to say so.
“And he ought not to have to say so,” she told herself. “He’s an old, old man, and he ought not to have to say that he is sorry.”
The old, old man—aged sixty-five—might have taken exception to that part of her proposition touching106 his extreme antiquity107, but we may be pretty sure that he would have cordially endorsed108 her opinion that the dignity of his years forbade his saying that he was sorry.
In those days Di used to walk often 251 past her grandfather’s house. It was a very big house for a single occupant. Even the stout109 footman, whom she had once seen at the door, did not seem stout enough, nor numerous enough to relieve the big house of its vacancy110. There were heavy woollen draperies in the parlor111 windows, but not a hint of the pretty white muslin which a woman would have had up in no time. Once she passed the house just at dusk, after the lights were lighted. Through the long windows she looked into the empty room. Not so much as a cat or a dog was awaiting the master. In the swift glance with which she swept the interior she noted112 that the fireplace was boarded in. That seemed to Di indescribably dreary113. Perhaps her grandfather did not sit here; perhaps he had a library somewhere, like their own. But, no; there was the portly footman entering with the evening paper, which he laid upon the table before coming to close the shutters114.
“He’s too old to say he is sorry,” Di said to herself, as she turned dejectedly 252 away; “a great deal too old—and lonely—and dreary!”
And it was on that very evening that she made her little petition to her mother, and that her father declared that Di was sure to bag her game.
Old Mr. Crosby, meanwhile, was too well-used to his empty house and to his boarded-in fireplace to mind them very much, too unaccustomed to muslin curtains to miss them. Yet he had not been on very good terms with himself for the past few weeks, and that was something which he did mind particularly.
The result of his long cogitation115 in front of the grandfather picture had been highly uncomplimentary to the artist. He pronounced the homespun subject unworthy of artistic116 treatment, and he told himself that it merited just that order of criticism which it had received at the hands of the young person with the rather pretty turn of countenance, who had regarded it with such enthusiasm. Nevertheless, he did not forget the picture,—nor yet the young person! 253
It was the afternoon of Thanksgiving day, and there was a light fall of snow outside. He remembered that in old times there used always to be a lot of snow on Thanksgiving day. Things were very different in old times. He wondered what would have been thought of a man fifty years ago,—or seventeen years ago, for the matter of that,—who was giving his servants a holiday and dining at the club. As if those foreign servants had any concern in the Yankee festival! But then, what concern had he, Horatio Crosby, in it nowadays? What had he to be thankful for? Whom had he to be thankful with? He was very lucky to have a club to go to! He might as well go now, though it was still two or three hours to dinner time. He would ring for his overcoat and snow-shoes.
His hand was on the bell-rope—for Mr. Horatio Crosby was old-fashioned, and had never yet admitted an electric button to his domain117.
At that moment the door opened softly—what was Burns thinking of, not to 254 knock?—and there stood, not Burns, not Nora, but a slender apparition118 in petticoats, with a dash of snow on hat and jacket, and a dash of daring in a pair of very bright eyes.
“Good afternoon, Grandfather,” was the apparition’s cheerful greeting, and involuntarily the old gentleman found himself replying with a “Good afternoon” of his own.
The apparition moved swiftly forward, and, before he knew what he was about, an unmistakable kiss had got itself applied119 to his countenance and—more amazing still—he was strongly of the impression that there had been—no robbery!
Greatly agitated120 by so unusual an experience, he only managed to say: “So you are––?”
“Yes; I am Di Crosby,—your granddaughter, you know, and—this is Thanksgiving day!”
“You don’t say so!” and the old man gazed down at her in growing trepidation121.
“Let’s sit down,” Di suggested, feeling that she gained every point that 255 her adversary122 lost. “This must be your chair. And I’ll sit here. There! Isn’t this cozy?”
“Oh, very!”
The master of the house had sufficiently recovered himself to put on his spectacles, the use of which was affording him much satisfaction. He really did not know that the young girl of the day was so pretty!
“I don’t suppose you smoke a pipe,” Di remarked, in a strictly123 conversational124 tone.
“Well, no; I can’t say I do. Why?”
“I only thought I should like to light one for you. You know,” she added, confidentially125, “girls always light their grandfathers’ pipes in books. And I’ve had so little practice in that sort of thing!”
“In pipes?”
“No—in grandfathers!”
There came a pause, occupied, on Di’s part, by a swift, not altogether approving survey of the stiff, high-studded room. This time it was the old gentleman who broke the silence.
“‘Good afternoon, Grandfather,’ was the apparition’s cheerful greeting.”
256
“I believe you are the young lady who admired that old clodhopper in the picture,” he remarked.
“Oh, yes; he was a great darling!”
“He wasn’t very handsome.”
“No, but—there is always something so dear about a grandfather!”
“Always?”
“Yes; always!” and suddenly Di left her seat, and, taking a few steps forward, she dropped on her knees before him.
“Grandfather,” she said, clasping her small gloved hands on his knee, “Grandfather!”
She was meaning to be very eloquent126 indeed,—that is, if it were to become necessary. She did not dream that that one word, so persuasively127 spoken, was more eloquent than a whole oration128.
“Well, Miss Di?”
“Grandfather, I’ve a great favour to ask of you, and I should like to have you say ‘yes’ beforehand!”
He looked down upon her with a heart rendered surprisingly soft by that first word,—and a mind much tickled129 by the audacity130 of the rest of it. 257
“And are you in the habit of getting favours granted in the dark?” he inquired.
“Papa says I usually bag my game!”
Now old Mr. Crosby had been a sportsman in his day, and he was mightily131 pleased with the little jest. But he only asked:
“And what’s your game in this instance, if you please?”
“You!”
“Oh, I! And you want to bag me? Bag me for what?”
“For dinner!”
“Oh, for dinner!”
“Yes! We are all by ourselves to-day, and you’ll just make the table even. There’s only Papa and Mamma, and Louise, and Beth, and Alice, and the baby.” Somehow the succession of sweet, soft names sounded very attractive to the crabbed132 old man.
“The baby is six years old,” Di continued, unconsciously adding another touch to the attractiveness of the picture.
“And what is her name?”
“His name is Horatio. I never liked it very well; it seemed too long for a 258 baby. But, do you know?—I think I shall like it better now.”
She was still kneeling before him, with her small gloved hands clasped on his knee. It was clear that she had not the faintest idea of being refused. Yet even had she been somewhat less confident, she might well have taken heart of hope, for, at this point, he gently laid his wrinkled hand upon hers.
“You will come to dinner?” she begged, apparently133 quite unconscious of the little caress134. “We dine at five on Thanksgiving day, and you and I can walk over together. They will all be so surprised,—and so happy!”
“Then they are not expecting me?” and the old man gave her a very piercing look, which did not seem to pierce at all.
“No; they didn’t know who it was to be. I only said it was a very important personage.”
“Coming in a bag!” he suggested.
“Oh, that’s only a sportsman’s expression!”
“Indeed! And is it customary nowadays 259 to go a-hunting for your Thanksgiving dinner?”
Di’s eyes danced. This was indeed a grandfather worth waiting for! But she only answered demurely:
“That depends upon your quarry135!”
Lucky Di, to have hit upon that pretty, old-fashioned word! She had, indeed, read her Sir Walter to good purpose.
Now, Mr. Horatio Crosby had held out stoutly136 against every appeal of natural affection, of reason, of conscience. He was not a quick-tempered man like his son; he was not, like his daughter-in-law, easily rebuffed; but there was about him a toughness of fibre which yielded neither to blows nor to pressure, and which, for many years, neither friend nor foe137 had penetrated138. And here was this young thing simply ignoring the hitherto impenetrable barrier! The clear young eyes looked straight through it, the fresh young voice made nothing of it, the playful fancies overleapt it. A quarry, indeed! Where had the child got hold of the word? 260
Of a sudden the old man bent139 forward and lightly touched the laughing face in token of surrender.
“It’s an old bird you’ve winged, little girl,” he said, as he rose to his feet and stepped once more to the bell-rope; and this time he really rang for his coat and overshoes.
“And so you’ve named this little chap Horatio?”
Dinner was over,—a very pleasant, natural kind of dinner, too, in spite of the difficulty some of the family had found in eating it,—and they were all gathered about a roaring woodfire, fortifying140 themselves, with the aid of coffee, cigars, and chocolate-drops,—each according to his kind,—for a game of blind-man’s-buff. The small scion141 of the house was seated on his grandfather’s knee, playing with his grandfather’s fob, after the immemorial habit of small scions142.
“Of course we named him Horatio!” It was Mrs. Crosby who answered, and, 261 as her father-in-law looked across at her face with the firelight playing upon it, he seemed to remember that he had always wished for a daughter.
“And what do you call him for short?”
“Just Horatio!” piped up little Alice, who was sitting on the rug at the old gentleman’s feet, gently pulling Rollo’s long-suffering ears.
“Yes,” said Mr. Thomas Crosby; “we have always been proud of the name.”
Then Di, perceiving a slight unsteadiness in the voice in which this was said, stepped behind her grandfather’s chair, and, dropping a small kiss on the top of his head, looked across at her father, and exclaimed:
“Oh, Papa! To think of our having bagged a grandfather!”
The End
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
den
|
|
| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
triangular
|
|
| adj.三角（形）的，三者间的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
converged
|
|
| v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的过去式 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
reticent
|
|
| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
outright
|
|
| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
corrugated
|
|
| adj.波纹的；缩成皱纹的；波纹面的；波纹状的v.（使某物）起皱褶(corrugate的过去式和过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
countenance
|
|
| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
intimacy
|
|
| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
veranda
|
|
| n.走廊；阳台 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
admiration
|
|
| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
pebbles
|
|
| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
softening
|
|
| 变软，软化 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
bliss
|
|
| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
awakening
|
|
| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
seedlings
|
|
| n.刚出芽的幼苗( seedling的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
spikes
|
|
| n.穗( spike的名词复数 )；跑鞋；（防滑）鞋钉；尖状物v.加烈酒于( spike的第三人称单数 )；偷偷地给某人的饮料加入（更多）酒精（ 或药物）；把尖状物钉入；打乱某人的计划 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
hybrids
|
|
| n.杂交生成的生物体( hybrid的名词复数 )；杂交植物（或动物）；杂种；（不同事物的）混合物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
drooped
|
|
| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
benignly
|
|
| adv.仁慈地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
munificent
|
|
| adj.慷慨的，大方的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
subterfuge
|
|
| n.诡计；藉口 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
combative
|
|
| adj.好战的；好斗的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
forefinger
|
|
| n.食指 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
polyglot
|
|
| adj.通晓数种语言的；n.通晓多种语言的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
sketching
|
|
| n.草图 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
sketch
|
|
| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
agog
|
|
| adj.兴奋的，有强烈兴趣的； adv.渴望地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
demurely
|
|
| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
converging
|
|
| adj.收敛[缩]的，会聚的，趋同的v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的现在分词 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
kernel
|
|
| n.(果实的)核，仁；(问题)的中心，核心 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
deftly
|
|
| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
gleaning
|
|
| n.拾落穗，拾遗，落穗v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的现在分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
rust
|
|
| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
persistent
|
|
| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
retracing
|
|
| v.折回( retrace的现在分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
puckers
|
|
| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
mused
|
|
| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
withered
|
|
| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
knightly
|
|
| adj. 骑士般的 adv. 骑士般地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
metallic
|
|
| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
sprout
|
|
| n.芽，萌芽；vt.使发芽，摘去芽；vi.长芽，抽条 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
diminutive
|
|
| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
bouquet
|
|
| n.花束，酒香 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
ingenuous
|
|
| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
gravel
|
|
| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
chattering
|
|
| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
amicably
|
|
| adv.友善地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
seclusion
|
|
| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
stuffy
|
|
| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
tenement
|
|
| n.公寓；房屋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
wilting
|
|
| 萎蔫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
ranch
|
|
| n.大牧场，大农场 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
invalid
|
|
| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
lavish
|
|
| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
fictitious
|
|
| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
wilted
|
|
| （使）凋谢，枯萎( wilt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
winced
|
|
| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
defiant
|
|
| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
precipitate
|
|
| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
constrained
|
|
| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
wink
|
|
| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
smoothly
|
|
| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
jack
|
|
| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
helping
|
|
| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
preposterous
|
|
| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
pastry
|
|
| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
irrelevance
|
|
| n.无关紧要；不相关；不相关的事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
chuckled
|
|
| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
brass
|
|
| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
toiled
|
|
| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
zeal
|
|
| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
fragrant
|
|
| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
implicit
|
|
| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
cozy
|
|
| adj.亲如手足的，密切的，暖和舒服的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
sociable
|
|
| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
attained
|
|
| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
embroidering
|
|
| v.（在织物上）绣花( embroider的现在分词 )；刺绣；对…加以渲染（或修饰）；给…添枝加叶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
linen
|
|
| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
elicited
|
|
| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
inviting
|
|
| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
sufficiently
|
|
| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
maxims
|
|
| n.格言，座右铭( maxim的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
sedately
|
|
| adv.镇静地，安详地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
juncture
|
|
| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
prospective
|
|
| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
ornament
|
|
| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
estrangement
|
|
| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
alluded
|
|
| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
eldest
|
|
| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
furtively
|
|
| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
smothering
|
|
| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的现在分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
conclusive
|
|
| adj.最后的，结论的；确凿的，消除怀疑的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
obstinate
|
|
| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
overtures
|
|
| n.主动的表示，提议；（向某人做出的）友好表示、姿态或提议( overture的名词复数 )；（歌剧、芭蕾舞、音乐剧等的）序曲，前奏曲 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
unreasonable
|
|
| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
enchanting
|
|
| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
exquisite
|
|
| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
gasp
|
|
| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
lamely
|
|
| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
behold
|
|
| v.看，注视，看到 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
touching
|
|
| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
antiquity
|
|
| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
endorsed
|
|
| vt.& vi.endorse的过去式或过去分词形式v.赞同( endorse的过去式和过去分词 )；在（尤指支票的）背面签字；在（文件的）背面写评论；在广告上说本人使用并赞同某产品 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
vacancy
|
|
| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
parlor
|
|
| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
noted
|
|
| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
dreary
|
|
| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
shutters
|
|
| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
cogitation
|
|
| n.仔细思考，计划，设计 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
artistic
|
|
| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
domain
|
|
| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
apparition
|
|
| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
applied
|
|
| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
agitated
|
|
| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
trepidation
|
|
| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
adversary
|
|
| adj.敌手，对手 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
strictly
|
|
| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
conversational
|
|
| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
confidentially
|
|
| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
eloquent
|
|
| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
persuasively
|
|
| adv.口才好地；令人信服地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
oration
|
|
| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
tickled
|
|
| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
audacity
|
|
| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
mightily
|
|
| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
crabbed
|
|
| adj.脾气坏的；易怒的；（指字迹）难辨认的；（字迹等）难辨认的v.捕蟹( crab的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
caress
|
|
| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
quarry
|
|
| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
stoutly
|
|
| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
foe
|
|
| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
penetrated
|
|
| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
139
bent
|
|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
140
fortifying
|
|
| 筑防御工事于( fortify的现在分词 )； 筑堡于； 增强； 强化（食品） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
141
scion
|
|
| n.嫩芽，子孙 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
142
scions
|
|
| n.接穗，幼枝( scion的名词复数 )；（尤指富家）子孙 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |