The still incompleted work is even now being ministered to with the strong, skilled hands of hundreds of men. All the same, the inspecting overseer is a necessary personage in the interests of the State. He it is who descries6 'a bit of slumming,' however minute; who arrests progress, lest bolts be driven instead of screwed; who compels 'packing' and other minute but important details upon which the safety of the travelling public depends.
How efficiently7 is man aided by his humbler fellow-creatures, whom, for all that, he does by no means adequately respect or pity. See those two noble horses on their way to be hooked-on to a line of trucks! They are grand specimens9 of the Australian Clydesdale—immense creatures, highly fed, well groomed10, and, it would appear, well trained.
They have no blinkers, and from the easy way in which, unled, they step along the edge of the embankment, where 431there is but a foot-wide path, lounging through the navvies without pausing or knocking against anybody, they seem fully11 to comprehend the peculiarities13 of railway life. They are attached by chains hooked to the axles of two of the six trucks, weighing some fifty or sixty tons, which require to be moved. Once in motion, of course, the draught14 is light, but the incline is against them, and the dead pull required to start the great weight is no joke. At the word they go into their collars with a will, the near horse, a magnificent dark bay, almost on his knees, and making the earth and metal fly at the side of the rails in his tremendous struggle to move the load. He strains every muscle in his powerful frame gallantly17, unflinchingly, as if his life depended upon the task being performed and all at a word; he is neither touched nor guided.
He knew his duty a dead sure thing,
And went for it then and there.
His comrade lacks apparently the same high tone of feeling, for his efforts are stimulated18 by an unjustifiable expression on the part of the driver, and a bang on the ribs19 with a stout20 wattle. The line of trucks moves, however; then glides21 easily along the rails. When the end of the 'tip' is reached both horses stop, are released, walk forward a few paces, and stand ready for the next feat22 of strength and handiness. This happens to be pay-day on the line, which agreeable performance takes place monthly. The manner of personal remuneration I observe to be this: the paymaster and his assistant, with portentous23, ruled pay-sheets, take their seats in a trench24. The executive official carries a black leather bag, out of which he produces a number of sealed envelopes variously endorsed26.
Different sections are visited, and the men are called up one by one. Small delay is there in handing over the indispensable cash. 91. William Jones, ￡9: 12s.; 90. Thomas Robinson, ￡9: 4s., one day; 89. John Smith, ￡8: 16s., two days. Smith acquiesces28 with a nod, signifying that he is aware that the two days during which he was, let us say, indisposed after the last pay-day have been recorded against him, and the wage deducted29. There is no question apparently as to accuracy of account. The envelopes are stuffed into 432trouser-pockets, mostly without being opened. A few only inspect their contents, and gaze for a second upon the crisp bank-notes and handful of silver. Some of the sums thus paid are not small—gangers and other minor30 officials receiving as much as twelve and thirteen shillings a day; the ordinary pick and shovel31 men, eight. Overtime32 is paid for extra, which swells33 the amount received. One payment for fencing subcontractors exceeded eighty pounds. Sixteen hundred pounds, all in cash, came out of the superintendent's wallet that day.
I noticed the men for the most part to be under thirty, many of them almost boyish in appearance. They were cleanly in person, well dressed and neat for the work they have to do, well fed, and not uncomfortably lodged34 considering the mildness of the climate. One and all they show grand 'condition,' as is evidenced by the spread of shoulder, the development of muscle, with the lightness of flank observable in all. As to nationality they are pretty evenly divided; the majority are British, but an increasing proportion of native-born Australians is observable, I am told. With regard to pre-eminence in strength and staying power the home-bred English navvy chiefly bears the palm, though I also hear that the 'ringer' in the pick and shovel brigade is a Hawkesbury man, of Cornish parents, a total abstainer35, and an exemplary workman.
With such a monthly outflow of hard cash over a restricted area, it may be imagined what a trade is driven by boarding-house keepers and owners of small stores. The single men take their meals at these rude restaurants, paying from 18s. to ￡1 per week. The married men live in tents or roughly-constructed huts in the 'camps' nearest to their work.
I fear me that on the day following pay-day, and perhaps some others, there is gambling36 and often hard drinking. The money earned by strenuous37 labour and strict self-denial during the month is often dissipated in forty-eight hours. The boarding-house keepers are popularly accused, rightly or wrongly, of illegally selling spirits. Doubtless in many instances they do so, to the injury of public morals and the impoverishment38 of the families of those who are unable to resist the temptation. A heavy penalty is always enforced when proof is afforded to the satisfaction of justice; but reliable evidence of this peculiar12 infraction39 of the law is 433difficult to obtain, the men generally combining to shield the culprits and outswear the informer.
A few miles rearward is the terminus of this iron road that is stretching so swiftly across the 'lone40 Chorasmian waste.' Here converge41 caravans42 from the inmost deserts. Hence depart waggon43-trains bearing merchandise in many different directions. What a medley45 of all the necessaries, luxuries, and superfluities of that unresting, insatiable toiler46, man! They lie strewed47 upon the platform, or heaped in huge mounds48 and pyramids under the lofty goods sheds. Tea and sugar, flour and grain, hay and corn, chaff49 and bran, machines of a dark and doubtful character connected with dam-making and well-sinking; coils of wire, cans of nails, hogsheads of spirits, casks of wine, tar15, paint, oil, clothing, books, rope, tools, windlasses, drums of winding50 gear, waggons51, carts, and buggies all new and redolent of paint and varnish52; also timber and woolpacks, and, as the auctioneer says, hundreds of articles too numerous to mention. What a good customer Mr. Squatter53 is, to be sure, while there is even the hope of grass, for to him are most of these miscellaneous values consigned55, and by him or through him will they be paid for.
We are now outside of agriculture. The farmer, as such, has no abiding-place here. That broad, dusty trail leads, among other destinations, to the 'Never Never' country, where ploughs are not, and the husbandman is as impossible as the dodo.
Perhaps we are a little hasty in assuming that everything we see at the compendious56 dep?t is pastorally requisitioned. That waggon that creaks wailingly57 as it slowly approaches, with ten horses, heavy laden58 though apparently empty, proclaims yet another important industry. Look into the bottom and you will see it covered with dark red bricks, a little different in shape from the ordinary article. On a closer view they have a metallic59 tinge60. They are ingots of copper61, of which some hundreds of tons come weekly from the three mines which send their output here. As for pastoral products, the line of high-piled, wool-loaded waggons is almost continuous. As they arrive they are swiftly unloaded into trucks, and sent along a special side-line reserved for their use. Flocks of fat sheep and droves of beeves, wildly staring 434and paralysed by the first blast of the steam-whistle, arrive, weary and wayworn. At break of day they are beguiled62 into trucks, and within six-and-thirty hours have their first (and last) sight of the metropolis63.
In the meantime herds64 of team-horses, bell-adorned, make ceaseless, not inharmonious jangling; sunburnt, bearded teamsters, drovers, shepherds, mingled65 with navvies, travellers, trim officials, tradesfolk, and the usual horde66 of camp-followers, male and female, give one the idea of an annual fair held upon the border of an ancient kingdom before civilisation67 had rubbed the edges from humanity's coinage, and obliterated68 so much that was characteristic in the process.
I stood on the spot an hour before daybreak on the following morn. Hushed and voiceless was the great industrial host. Around and afar stretched the waste, broadly open to the moonbeams, which softened69 the harsh outline of forest thicket70 and arid71 plain. The stars, that mysterious array of the greater and the lesser72 lights of heaven, burned in the cloudless azure73—each planet flashing and scintillating74, each tiny point of light 'a patine of pure gold.' The low croon of the wild-fowl, as they swam and splashed in the river-reach, was the only sound that caught the ear. Glimmering75 watch-fires illumined the scattered76 encampment. For the moment one felt regretful that the grandeur78 of Night and Silence should be invaded by the vulgar turmoil79 of the coming day.
One of the aids to picturesque80 effect, though not generally regarded as artistic81 treatment, is the clearing and formation of roads through a highland82 district. Such a region is occasionally reached by me, and never traversed without admiration84. The ways are surrounded by wooded hills, some of considerable altitude, on the sides and summits of which are high piled
rocks, confusedly hurled85,
The fragments of an earlier world.
But here the road-clearing, rarely supplemented by engineering disfigurement, produces the effect of a winding, thickly-grown avenue. On either side stand in close order the frenelas, casuarinas, and eucalypts of the forest primeval, with an occasional kurrajong or a red-foliaged, drought-slain87 callitris, 'like to a copper beech88 among the greens.' The floor 435of this forest-way is greenly carpeted with the thick-growing spring verdure, a stray tiny streamlet perhaps crossing at intervals89, while leaflets of the severed90 saplings are bursting through in pink or dark-red bunches. In the far distance rises a dark-blue range, towering over the dim green ocean of forest, and marking the contrast sharply between the land of hill and dale and the monotonous91 levels of the lower country.
With all the capriciousness of Australian seasons the springtime of this year has shown a disposition92 to linger—waving back with grateful showers and dew-cooled nights and mornings the too impatient summer. Still is the grass brightly green of hue93, the flower unfaded. The plague of dust has been stayed again and again by the welcome rainfall. There has never been more than one day when the winds have risen to a wintry bleakness94. But who recks of so trifling95 a discomfort96 from such a cause, and will not King Sol be avenged97 upon us ere Christmastide be passed—ere the short, breezeless nights of January are ended?
What contrasts and discrepancies98 Dame99 Nature sanctions hereabouts in the formation of her feathered families! That soaring eagle, so far above us heavenward, in the blue empyrean, how true a monarch100 among birds is he! Now he stoops, circling lower and yet lower still, with moveless outstretched pinion101 and searching gaze that blenches102 not before the sun's fiercest rays. The tiny blue-throated wren103 perches104 fearlessly near, and hops106 with delicate feet from stone to stone amid the sheltering ferns. That downy white-breasted diver, a ball of feathers in the clear pool of the mountain streamlet, now with a ripple107 become invisible—the devoted108 pelican109, with sword-like beak110 and pouch111 of portentous dimensions. Lo! there sits he with his fellows by the edge of a shallowing anabranch, or revels113 with them in the evil days of drought upon the dying fish which in hundreds are cast upon the shore. As I tread the homeward path, the skylark springs upward from the waving grass; trilling his simple lay, he mounts higher and yet higher, no unworthy congener, though inferior as a songster to his British namesake. In the adjacent leafless trees is a flight of gaunt, dark-hued, sickle-beaked birds. Travellers and pilgrims they, relatives of earth's oldest, most sacred bird races. Behold114 a company of the ibis from far far wilds. Their presence here is ominous115 and boding116. 436They are popularly supposed to migrate coastwards only when the great lakes of the interior begin to fail. This, however, is not an unfailing test of a dry season, as in long-dead summers I have had occasion to note. They are not too dignified117, in despite of their quasi-sacred hierophantic traditions, to eat grasshoppers118. As these enemies alike of farmers and squatters are now despoiling120 every green thing, let us hope that the ibis contingent121 may have appetites proportioned to the length of their bills and the duration of their journey. A white variety of the species is occasionally noted122, but he is rare in comparison with the darker kind.
By the creek123 bank, in the early morn, the well-remembered note of the kingfisher, so closely associated with our youth, sounds close and clear. Yonder he sits upon the dead limb of the overhanging tree—greenish blue, purple-breasted as of yore. Stonelike he plunges124 into the deep pool, reappearing with a small fish or allied125 water-dweller. More beautiful is his relative the lesser kingfisher, metallic in sheen, with crimson126 breast—flashing like a feathered gem127 through the river shades, or burning like a flame spot against the mouldering128 log on which he sits. Of palest fawn129 colour, with long black filament130 at the back of his head, that graceful131 heron, the 'nankeen bird' of the colonist132, is also of the company; the white-necked, dark-blue crane, and that black-robed river pirate the cormorant133. While on the bird question, surely none are more delicately bright, more exquisitely134 neat of plumage and flawless of tone, than the Columba tribe. Ancient of birth are they as 'the doves from the rocks,' and principally for their conjugal135 fidelity136 have been honoured, by the choice of Mr. Darwin, as exemplars in working out experiments connected with the origin of species. In western wanderings I find five varieties of the pigeon proper. The beautiful bronze-wing, the squatter, and the crested137 pigeon. Besides these, two varieties of the dove are among the most exquisitely lovely of feathered creatures. Both are very small—one scarcely larger than a sparrow. The 'bronze-wing' is too well known to need description. The 'squatter pigeon' is a plainer likeness139, with a spot of white on either cheek, and, as its name implies, is unwilling140 to fly up, being struck down occasionally with the whip or a short throwing stick in the act of rising. The crested pigeon, the most graceful and attractive 437of the family, is from its tameness and extreme cleanliness of habit most suitable for the aviary141. In colouring, the breast is a delicate slate-grey tinged142 with faintest pink as it rises towards the wing muscles, the front wings barred with dark, pencilled cross-lines, the larger feathers of the extremities143 a burnished144 green, and the last row having feathers of a vivid dark pink or crimson. A crest138 and elongated145 pointed146 tail give character and piquancy147 to the whole appearance. As they fly up, a whirring noise, not unlike that of the partridge, is heard. When the male bird swells his chest and lowers his wings in defiance148 or ostentation149, he produces a sound not unlike that of his long-civilised congener. They will lay and hatch in captivity150, and I observed in an aviary one of the females sitting on her eggs complacently151 in a herring tin.
FROM TUMUT TO TUMBERUMBA
It was rather too far to walk this time; besides, the days are shortening. From Tumut to Tumberumba is forty-five miles all out, and a bad road. At breakfast-time we had no earthly idea of how or where to get a horse. A friend in need tided over that difficulty. So, mounted upon a clever mountain-bred hackney, we cleared the town about 9.30 A.M., and headed for the Khyber Pass (in a small way), up which the road winds south-easterly. The time was short, but we meant going steadily152, if not fast, all through, and trusted, as we have done 'with a squeeze' full many a time and oft before, to 'save the light.'
Buggies are comfortable vehicles when roads are good and horses fresh. You can carry your 'things' with you, and, in cases of entertainments, come out with more grandeur and effect than if on horseback. But give me the saddle, 'haud juventutis immemor.' It brings back old times; and certainly for people whose appearance is in danger of being compromised by a tendency to increased weight, riding is the more healthful exercise. Besides, one always feels as if adventures were possible to cavaliers. Wheels circumscribe154 one too narrowly. You must start early. You had better not drive late. Your stopping-places must be marked and labelled as it were. You are affiché, for good or evil.
438Now, once started on a fine morning, on a good horse, a 'lazy ally' feeling seems to pervade155 the surroundings and the landscape. If you meet wayside flowers, you may linger to gather them. You may avail yourself of chance invitations, secure that you can 'pull up time' late or early. As you sail away, if your horse walks well and canters easily (as does this one), you insensibly think of 'A day's ride, a life's romance.' Is that romance yet over? It may be. We are 'old enough to know better.' But still we were quite sure when we started that we should meet with an adventure or two.
First of all, we saw two young people in a buggy, driving towards the mountain land which lay eastward156 in a cloud-world. There was something in the expression of their backs as they passed us which suggested an early stage of the Great Experiment. The bride was fair, with, of course, a delicate complexion—that goes without saying in this part of the world. The bridegroom was stalwart and manly157 looking. Presently we were overtaken by another young lady of prepossessing appearance, with two attendant cavaliers, well mounted and evidently belonging to the same party. Bound for some miles along the same lonely but picturesque road, we asked permission to join the party, and fared on amicably158. Together we breasted the 'Six-Mile Hill,' and at length emerged upon the alpine159 plateau, which for many miles lies between the towns before mentioned.
Here the scene changed—the climate, the soil, the timber, the atmosphere. Eastward lay the darkly-brooding Titans of Kiandra, snow-capped and dazzling, the peaks contrasting with their darksome rugged160 sides, the blue and cloudless sky. Beneath our feet, beside and around us, lay the partially-thawed snow of Saturday's fall, in quantities which would have delighted the hearts of certain children of our acquaintance.
Snow in the abstract, 'beautiful snow,' is a lovely nature-wonder, concerning which many things have been sweetly sung and said. But in the concrete, after a forty-eight hours' thaw161, it is injurious to roads, in that it causes them to be 'sloppy162' and in a sense dangerous to horse and rider. Given a red, soapy soil, somewhat stony163, sticky, and irregularly saturated164, it must be a very clever steed, the ascents165, descents, and sidelings being continuous, that doesn't make a mistake 439or two. All the same, the girl on the well-bred chestnut166 horse kept sailing away, up hill, down hill, and along sidelings steep as the roof of a house; the whole thing (to quote Whyte-Melville) 'done with the graceful ease of a person who is playing upon a favourite instrument while seated in an armchair.' We kept in sight the second detachment, coming up in time to bid farewell as they turned off to the residence of the bride's family, where there was to be a dance in celebration of the auspicious167 event. We separated with my unspoken benison168 upon so promising169 a pair.
The wedding guests having departed, we paced on for half-a-dozen miles until a break in the solemn forest, like a Canadian clearing, disclosed the welcome outline of the half-way hostelry. Here were there distinct traces of the austerity of the patriarch Winter, so mild of mien170 on the lower levels. Half a foot of snow lay on the roofs of barn and stable, while the remnant of a gigantic snow-image, reduced to the appearance of a quartz171 boulder172, lay in front of the house.
A bare half-hour for refection was all that could be spared here, and as our steed ate his corn with apparently the same zest173 that characterised our consumption of lunch, it was time well spent. Boot and saddle again.
'But first, good mine host, what is the exact distance? The sun is low; the road indifferent rough; the night unfriendly for camping out.'
'Fifteen mile if you take the "cut"; eighteen by the road, every yard of it.'
'We mistrust short "cuts,"' say we, consulting the watch, which indicates 3.30 P.M.; 'they have lured174 us into difficulties ere now. But three miles make a tempting175 deduction176 from the weary end of the journey. We cannot miss it. Thanks; of that I am aware. Turn to the left, opposite the second house, cross the creek, turn to the right, and follow straight on.'
Of course. Just so. The old formula. How many a time have we cursed it and the well-intentioned giver, by all our gods, when stumbling, hours after, trackless, over an unknown country in darkness and despair. Reflected that by merely following the high road we should have been warmly housed, cheered, and fed long before. However, unusual enterprise or the mountain air induces us to try the 440short cut aforesaid; only this time, of course, we turn to the left, and immediately perceive ('facilis descensus Averni') that the path leads into a tremendous glen, with sides like the roof of a house. We dismount, as should all prudent177 riders not after cattle, and lead down our active steed. At the foot of the ca?on is a hurrying, yellow-stained mountain stream. Dark-red bluffs178, undermined and washed to the gravel179, exposed in all directions. 'Worked and abandoned' is plainly visible to the eye of the initiated180 upon the greater portion of the locality; but still lingering last are miners' cottages and a garden here and there. Children, of course. Ruddy of hue and sturdy, they abound181 like the fruits of a colder clime in these sequestered182 vales.
'What is the name of this—place?' say we guardedly to a blue-eyed boy, good-humouredly nursing a fractious baby.
'Upper Tumberumba,' he returns answer proudly.
'And the road to the town?'
'Cross the creek and follow down for six mile, and there you are.'
The road on the far side of the violent little creek follows that watercourse, and is fairly made. Bridges are the main consideration, for there seem to be trois cent milles water-races, some too deep to fall into scathless; and 'beauty born of murmuring sound' must be plentiful183, judging from the rushing, gushing184, leaping, and tumbling waters before and around us.
This is a land of sluices185, of head-races and tail-races, evidently, where 'first water' and 'second,' dam sites, and creek claims, with all the unintelligible186 phraseology of 'water diverted from its natural course for gold-mining purposes,' were once in high fashion and acceptance. As the short winter day darkens without warning, we trust that the bridges are sound, more especially as we have just cantered over one with a hole in it as big as a frying-pan.
One advantage secured by our adoption187 of the 'cut' is patently that of drier footing, the which causes our steed to amble188 with cheerfulness and alacrity189. The night comes on apace, but there is still sufficient light to distinguish the roadway from obstacles and pitfalls190. When the well-known sound of the water-mill breaks the stillness, light and voices betray the proximity191 of a township, and Tumberumba proper is reached.
441When we quit Tumberumba in the early morn for the return journey to Tumut, the air is charged with vapour, the mists lie heavily upon the hills. The low grey sky, the drizzle192 and the damp which pervade all nature, suggest 'The Lewis' or other Hebridean region. One can fully realise the sort of weather chiefly prevailing193 when the King of Bora uttered his pathetic farewell 'to his little Sheilah,' returning to his desolate194 dwelling195 alone, to distract himself as best he might with the company of the simple (but not vulgar) fishermen and a reasonable consumption of alcohol.
This opens up to the contemplative mind the whole vast 'Grief Question, and how people bear it.' What volumes might be written about the sorrows of the bereaved196, the forsaken197 men or women!—'all the dull, deep sorrow, the constant anguish198 of patience.' How the slow torture drags on, varied199 only by pangs200 of acute mental pain—the throbs201, the rackings, the utterly202 unendurable torment—what time the agonised spirit elects to quit its earthly tenement203 and face the dread204 unknown, rather than longer suffer the too dreadful present! So the soldier, captured by Indians, shoots himself to escape the inevitable205 torture. Also in this connection regarding anodynes, distractions207, solaces208, and medicaments, the which can be used harmlessly by one class of patients, but in no wise by others.
'An early start makes easy stages,' saith the seer. So it comes to pass that soon after mid-day we find ourselves at the Bago Cabaret, after which we incontinently dismount, fully minded to bait, after four or five hours' battling with the stony, sticky, slippery sidelings of the track. The good horse well deserves a feed. Also, thanks to the keenness of the atmosphere, we experience a steady prompting towards luncheon209.
The horse is led away, and in the parlour we find a fire, a welcome, and agreeable society. We learn that the wedding dance duly took place, well attended, and a great success—our fair informants having been there and danced till daylight, after which they walked home a trifle of five miles, which, with snow still on the ground, showed, in our opinion, praiseworthy pluck and determination; a convincing proof, were any needed, that the Anglo-Saxon race has not degenerated210 in this part of the world. 'The reverse if anything,' 442as the irascible old gentleman in the hunting-field made answer after a fall, when it was politely inquired of him 'whether he was hurt.'
But pleasures are like poppies spread—
fair yet fleeting211 in the very constitution of them; so an hour having quickly passed, much refreshed in sense and spirit, we tackle the twenty-six very long miles, in our estimation, which divide us from the fair Tumut Valley. Still lowers the day. The mists shut out the snow-crowned peaks. The forest is saturated with moisture, which ever and anon drops down like a shower-bath when the breeze stirs the leaves briskly. It is not a gala day, exactly. But oh, how good for the country!
What beneficent phenomena213 are the early and the latter rain! As we look downwards214 we can see thousands of tiny clover leaflets, none of your Medicago sativa, with its yellow flower and deadly burr, but the true, sweet-scented English meadow plant, fragrant215 in spring, harmless, fattening216, and sustaining to a wonderful degree, whenever it can command the moisture which is its fundamental necessity of growth. In days to come, every yard of this grand primeval woodland will be matted with it and the best English grasses, not forgetting that prime exotic the prairie grass (Bromus unioloides).
We are not aware whether there has been an extensive forest reserve proclaimed hereabouts, but in the interests of the State there should be. These grand, pillar-like timber trees, straight as gun-barrels, a hundred feet to the lowest branch, the growth of centuries, should not be abandoned to the bark-stripper, the ring-barker, the indiscriminate feller of good and bad timber alike. There is material here—gum, messmate, mountain ash, every variety of eucalyptus217—to serve for the sawpits, the railway bridges, and sleepers218 of centuries to come, if properly guarded and supervised. And it behoves the elected guardians219 of the public rights to permit no private monopoly or forestalling220; to see to the matter in time. For many an unremembered year have these glorious groves221 been slowly maturing. The carelessness of a comparatively short period may permit their destruction.
The eucalypts, as a family, have been subjected to undeserved contumely and scorn as trees which produce leaves 443but do not furnish shade, which are 'withered222 and wild in their attire223' as regards umbrageous224 covering. All depends upon the locality, the altitude, the consequent rainfall. Here the frondage225 is thick yet delicate in the older trees, while among the younger growth the habit is almost as dense226 and drooping227 as that of the Acmena pendula, which many of them resemble in the mass of pink-grey leafage. I notice, too, the beautiful blackwood or hickory of the colonists228 (Acacia melanoxylon), though not in great abundance nor of unusual size. Nothing, for instance, like the specimens near Colac, Western Victoria, or between Port Fairy and Portland. And scrutinising closely the different genera, we discovered a tree which bore a curious resemblance to a hybrid229 between the eucalyptus and the said blackwood. The leaves were thick, blunt-edged, and singularly like the blackwood. The bark was like that of the mimosa on the stem and branches, but roughened towards the butt230. The blossom—for it was just out—was unmistakably that of the eucalyptus tribe. We had never met with the specimen8 before and it puzzled us. It is locally known as the 'water gum.' The true mimosa and the wild cherry (Exocarpus cupressiformis) were common—this last of no great size; the wild hop54 occasionally. The English briar was not absent—as to which we foresee, for this rich soil, trouble in the future.
Lonely and hushed—in a sense awful—is this elevated region. The solitude231 becomes oppressive as one rides mile after mile along the silent highway, nor sees nor hears a sign of life save the note of the infrequent wood-thrush or the cry of the soaring eagle. But lo! the ruins of an ancient stock-yard! Easily recognised as belonging to the hoar antiquity232 of a purely233 pastoral régime. The selector-farmers do not put up such massive corner posts or cyclopean gateways234. Not for them and their slight enclosures is the rush of a hundred wild six-year-old bullocks, with a due complement235 of 'ragers,' given every now and again to carry a whole side of the yard away. This was the station stock-yard, doubtless, what time 'Bago Jemmy' and other stock-riders of the period acquired a colony-wide reputation for desperate riding (and equally hard drinking) amid these break-neck gullies and hillsides. They are gone; the wild riders, the wild cattle. Even the rails of the stock-yard have been utilised for purposes wide of their 444original intention. 'Their memorial is perished with them,' all save the huge corner and gate-posts, which, embedded236 four feet in the ground, are regarded as difficult and expensive to remove, and of no particular use, ornament237, or value when uprooted238. So they remain, possibly to puzzle future antiquarians, like the round towers of the Green Isle239.
IN THE THROES OF A DROUGHT
This is my last ramble240 for a while through the plains and forests of the North-West; would that it had been made under more pleasing circumstances. 'How shall I endure to behold the destruction of my kindred?' The quotation241 is apposite. All pastoralists are akin16 to me by reason of old memories; and if Rain comes not in this month of March, or even in April, their destruction, financially, seems imminent242.
What a weary time it is in the 'plains dry country,' whither my wandering steps have strayed at present. Far as eye can see, there is no herb nor grass nor living plant amid the death-stricken waste; not even the hard-visaged shrub243—the attenuated244, closely-pruned twigs245 of the salsolaceous plant. Earlier in the season a large proportion of the stock were removed, and were agisted at a high cost. The remainder were left to live or die as the season may turn out. The station-holders have at length become reckless, and have ceased to take trouble about the matter.
How hard it seems! For years the energetic, sanguine246 pastoralist shall invest every pound he has made, and more besides, in stud animals of high value, in judicious247 improvements, from which he is reasonably certain in a few years to receive splendid interest for the capital invested. When his plans are matured, when the improvement of his stock is demonstrated, will not his fame redound248 to the furthest limits of Australia? Eventually he will be able to revisit or for the first time behold Europe. All imaginable triumphs will be his. Rich, fortunate, envied, he will be amply repaid for the toils249, the sacrifices, the privations of his earlier years.
445'Then comes a frost, a killing250 frost.' Well, not exactly that, though frosts of considerable severity do occur, hot as is the climate; but it 'sets in dry.' No rain comes after spring; none during summer; none in autumn; curious to remark, none even in winter—except, of course, insignificant251 or partial showers. That seems strange, does it not? Instead of from sixteen to twenty-six inches of rain in twelve months, there fall but six—even less perhaps. What is the consequence of all this? The creeks252, the dams, the rivers dry up; the grass perishes; what little pasturage there may be, is eaten up by the famishing flocks.
During the summer it does not appear that the evil will be of such magnitude. The stock look pretty well. There is water; and the diet of dust, leaves, and sticks, with unlimited253 range, and no shepherds to bother, does not seem to disagree with them. Then the autumn comes, with shorter days; longer, colder nights. Still no rain! The sheep, the cattle, even the wild horses, begin now to feel the cruel pinch of famine. The weakest perish; the strong become weak; day by day numbers of the enfeebled victims are unable to rise after the weakening influences of the chilly254 night. The water-holes become muddy; defiled255 and poisoned with the carcases of animals which have had barely strength to drag themselves to the tempting water, over many a weary mile, have drunk their fill, and then lacked power to ascend256 the steep bank or extricate257 themselves from the clinging mud.
What a time of misery258 and despair is this for the luckless proprietor259! He sees before his eyes the thousands and tens of thousands of delicately woolled sheep, in whose breeding and multiplication260 he has taken so much pains,—on behalf of which he has studied treatises261, and gone into all the history of the merino family since the days of ancient Spanish Cabanas, Infantados, Escurials, what not,—converted into a crowd of feeble skeletons, perishing in thousands before his eyes without hope or remedy, save in the advent153 of rain, which, as far as appearances go, may come next year or the year after that.
Is it possible to imagine a condition more melancholy262, more hopeless, more calculated to drive to suicide the hapless victim of circumstances, beyond his—beyond any man's control? It has had the effect ere now. The torturing doubt, the 446hope deferred263, has resulted in the dread, irrevocable step. And who can find it in his heart to condemn264?
In a season like this, every one can realise the benefit of railways. How would these inland wastes be supplied were it not for the all-powerful steam-king? The dwellers265 hereabouts would scarcely have bread to eat; the necessaries of life would be enhanced in price; forage266 would be unattainable, except at prices which would resemble feeding them upon half-crowns. Talking to a teamster the other day about the signs of the times, I remarked that he and his comrades were compelled to carry quantities of forage with which to support their horses, while delivering loading.
'We'll have to carry a tank soon,' replied the tall, sun-bronzed Australian, 'if the season holds on this way. The water-holes are getting that low and choked up with dead stock as they're neither fit for man or beast to drink; and we lose horses too.'
'How is that?'
'Well, the heat, or the dust, or the rubbish in the chaff kills 'em. I can't rightly tell what it is; but these three teams lost five horses in one day—dropped down dead on that terrible hot Sunday.'
I did not wonder. There were the upstanding, well-conditioned Clydesdales walking along with their loads, gamely enough, but in a perfect cloud of dust. Above them the burning sun; around, the sandy, herbless waste. Different surroundings from those of the misty267 Northern Isles268, from which their ancestors, near or remote, had come! Ponderous269, heavy of hoof270 and hair, it seemed wonderful that they can do the work and travel the immense distances they do, under conditions so alien to their natural state. I inquired of their driver, himself an example of gradual adaptation to foreign habitude, whether the medium-sized, lighter-boned draught horses did not stand the eternal sun and drought better than their larger brethren. He thought they did. 'Wanted less food, and not so liable to inflammation or leg weariness.' I should be disposed to think that the Percheron horse, of which valuable breed several sires have lately been imported to Melbourne from Normandy, would be suitable for the long, hot, waggon journeys of the interior—a clean-limbed, active, spirited horse, immensely powerful for his size, easily 447kept, and more likely 'to come again' after exceptional fatigue271. But I know from experience that the Australian horse in every class, from the Shetland pony272 to the Shire, is the strongest, most active, and most enduring animal that the world can show. And I hesitate in the assertion that by any other horse can he be profitably superseded273.
As one traverses the arid waste, from time to time a whirlwind starts up within sight; a sand-pillar raises itself, contrasting strangely with the clear blue ether. Darkly smoke-coloured, furiously plunging274 about the base, it gradually fines off into the upper sky if you follow it sufficiently275 long.
'People doubt,' said the Eastern traveller to his guide, 'what produces those sand-pillars which so suddenly appear before us.'
'There is no doubt about the matter, praise be to Allah!' quoth the Bedouin. 'It is perfectly276 well known, say our holy men, that they are (Djinns) evil spirits.'
Is it so? and do they come to dance exultingly277 amid the stricken waste, over ruined hopes, dying herds and flocks—to mock at the vain adventurer who deemed that he could alter natural conditions and wrest278 fame and fortune from the ungenial wilds? Who may tell? They can scarcely afford a good omen77. The unimaginative boundary-rider regards them as a 'sign of a dry season.' More likely, one would say, they are its result. In a long-continued drought the production of dust must needs be favourable279 to the action of whirlwinds.
The oppressiveness of the summer is more felt in March, perhaps, than in any other month of the year. The hot weather has tired out the bodily power of resistance. One yearns280 and pines for a change; if it comes not, an intolerable weariness, a painful languor281, renders life for all not in robust282 health hard indeed to bear. Gradually relief arrives in the added length and coolness of the nights. Rain does not come, but the mosquitoes disappear. The dawn is almost chilly; the system is refreshed and invigorated. With the first heavy fall of rain a decided283 change of temperature takes place. In those happier sections of the continent, where this is the first cool month, the weather is all that can be wished. 'Ces jours cristals d'automne,' so much beloved by Madame de Sevigné at Petits Rochets, are reproduced. The friendly fireside—emblem 448of domestic happiness—awaits but the first week of April to be once more kindled284. The plough is seen again upon the fallow fields. The birds chirp285, as if with fresh hope, from the reviving woodlands. Nothing is needed but a rainfall for the full happiness of man and his humbler fellow-creatures. May His mercy, so often shown at sorest need, not fail us now!
From what road-reports come across me, I gather that typhoid fever is no infrequent visitor when the water becomes scarce, when sources are polluted, and the carcases of the rotting stock lie strewed over larger areas. Medical men seem to be at odds286 about the generation of this dire44 disease. Fever germs, bacilli, bacteria, water pollution, direct contagion,—all seem to have their advocates. It seems probable that towards the end of a drought the very air, uncleansed by shower and storm, becomes charged with disease germs. As to water pollutions, sometimes the disease is at its fiercest before a heavy fall of rain, to disappear almost magically afterwards. At other times the rain seems to intensify287 the epidemic288. The dry air of the interior, however hot, has always been thought to be antagonistic289 to the disease. It has not proved so of late years. Occasionally there is an outbreak of exceptional virulence290 in some particular locality; but nothing has hitherto been elicited291 as to the special conditions tending to produce or to aggravate292 the disease.
At and around Bourke matters seem approaching a crisis. Much of the 'made' water on the back blocks has failed of late, and the stock have been brought into the 'frontage,' there to drink their fill, doubtless, but to be utterly deprived of food as represented by the ordinary herbage. If rain does not come within a month, dire destruction, worse and more extensive than in any previous drought, must take place; and yet since 1866 I have so often heard the same prediction, and it was never fulfilled. In the meantime man can do nought293 but hope and pray, if faith be his in the Divine Disposer of events. In days to come, a comprehensive system of water supply may alleviate294 much suffering and prevent misfortune; but though water may be secured and stored, the sparse295 herbage of the boundless296 plain, the red-soiled forest, cannot be so treated. Unless the rainfall be timely in these far solitudes297, no human energy or forecast can avert298 disaster.
449
A SPRING SKETCH299
In the saddle once more, and away for a week's journeying o'er the wide Australian Waste! The springtime is again with us. The clouds have dispensed300 their priceless moisture, albeit301 not all too generously. The level sun-rays shine clear over leagues of bright-hued turf and greenwood free. The pale, dawn-streaked azure was cloudless; the morning air keenly crisp. All nature is now jubilant. The voice of Spring, faint in tone but wildly sweet, is audible to the lover of nature. The cry of birds, the rustling302 leaves in the tall trees that shade the winding river, and the green waste of dew-besprinkled herbage, awaken303 thoughts of long-dead years—of the season of youth—of the lost A?denn of the heart's freshness.
That Paradise we shall regain304 nevermore, ah me! But we must do our devoir as best we may in these days of the aftertime. Many a mile must be passed before nightfall, and we are a little short of time as usual; but our steed is fleet and free, the livelong day is before us, and the experienced cavalier can cover a long long stretch of woodland and plain before latest twilight305 without distressing306 the good horse either.
So we follow the winding waggon-tracks at only a moderate pace; observing as we go, in plant-and bird-life, floweret and herb, visible signs of development since our last acquaintance with them. The beautiful bronze-winged pigeon flits shyly through the thickets307 to her nest with its two white eggs, not unlike those of the tame congener. In the brook-ponds or marshy308 shallows the blue heron, the pied ibis, and the white spoonbill are wading309 or lounging, with the listless elegance310 of their tribe. The gigantic 'brolgan' or 'Native Companion,' tallest of Australian cranes, is to be seen in companies, ever and anon mirthfully conversing311 or 'dancing high and disposedly' before his ranked-up comrades.
For all manner of wild-fowl this is the 'close season.' Marauding teamsters, and others who should know better, now and then disregard the law; but on the whole the statute312 is enforced. A season of rest permits the black duck and the wood-duck, that smallest and most elegant of geese (for such is 450the Anas boscha in scientific nomenclature), the shoveller, the teal, the imposing313 mountain-duck, to rear their broods in peace.
While we are environed by that darksome eucalyptus, the sombre 'iron-bark' of the colonists, the mournful balāh, and the cypress-seeming pine, no token of the advancing spring greets us. 'A fringe of softer green' may brighten the pine wood, but as yet the touch of the magician's wand is unheeded. But as we speed towards the noonday, and the great plains of the North-West spread limitless before us, the frondage changes. The monotony of the endless champaign is broken by clumps314 and belts of timber. And amid these welcome oases316 of leafage might a botanist317 hold revel112 and delight his inmost soul. There is a sprinkling of casuarina and pine, but these copses are crowded with new and strangely-beautiful shrubs318. First in pride of place comes the wilgah, or native willow319, a brightly-green umbrageous tree, with a short upright stem and drooping salicene festoons, evenly cropped at the precise distance that the stock can reach from the ground. There are few lawns or meadows in Britain that would not be improved by the transplantation of the wilgah from these untended gardens of the wild. The mogil (native orange) is a dense-growing shrub, not wholly unlike the prince of fruit- and flower-bearers; to complete the resemblance, it is possessed320 of a fruit resembling in appearance only, faintly perhaps in perfume, the European original. The leopard-tree, with spotted321 bark, has for a comrade the beef-wood, with blood-red timber, almost bleeding to the remorseless axe322. The glaucous-foliaged myall, 'intense and soulful-eyed,' with its swaying arms and drooping habit, looks like a tree out of its mind. It boasts, with its more sturdy cousin, the yarran, a strangely-powerful violet perfume. These, with thorn acacias and delicate fringed-leaved mimosas, seem ready to burst into flower with the next calm tropical day. An early-blooming acacia has made a commencement; a shower of fresh, golden sprays illumines its tender greenery.
Here our pretty, pink-legged, pink-eyed flock-pigeons, with their crests323 raised, and their pointed tails elevated as they perch105, rejoin us. The grey and crimson galāh parrots are still numerous. They have surely delegated their nursery duties. They must pair and multiply, but, like fashionable parents, manage to enjoy the pleasures of society notwithstanding.
451The day is still young. The great flocks of merino sheep, running loose in paddocks enclosed only by wire fences, have not arisen to commence their daily round of nibbling324. About five thousand are encamped near the corner of an intersecting gate. Near them are the remnants of a leading aboriginal325 family, in the shape of twenty or thirty 'red forester' kangaroos, popularly called 'soldiers.' These curiously326-coloured marsupials are so bright of hue that one wonders whether they gradually acquired the colour (pace Darwin) so as to assimilate with the red earth of the plains over which they bound. They do not trouble themselves to go far out of my way—they simply depart from the road; and in calmly crossing a track one of the flying does 'takes off' a yard before she comes to it, and clearing the whole breadth without an effort, sends herself over about twenty feet without disturbing her balance.
Early as the season is, long trains of wool-waggons, drawn327 by bullocks or horses, are slowly crossing the plains. They carry from thirty to fifty bales each, much skill of its kind being required to secure the high-piled loads in position. At one rude hostelry I counted not less than twelve bullock-waggons so laden. The teams—at that moment unyoked, and feeding in a bend of the creek, from fourteen to eighteen in each—made up a drove of nearly two hundred head. Their bells sound like the chimes of a dozen belfries, pealing328 in contest. On the waggons, drawn up with shafts329 towards the railway terminus, were, say, four hundred bales of wool, representing a value of not less than six thousand pounds. Each bale bore in neat legend the brand of the station, with the weight, number, and class thereon imprinted330, as 'J.R., Swan Creek—No. 1120—First combing.'
The last month enjoyed at least one sufficing fall of rain, not less than two inches by the rain-gauge. It is hard to cause these salsiferous wastes 'to blossom like the rose'; but a result closely analogous331 invariably follows rainfall. Along the watercourses, the alluvial332 flats and horseshoe 'bends' are ankle high with wild trefoil and quick-springing grasses. The cotton-bush and salt-bush, perennial333 fodder334 plants often most 'wild and withered' of attire even when fairly nutritious335 to the flocks, put forth336 shoots and spikelets of a tender appearance. All Nature, strange as her vestments may be, under a southern 452sky, is full of the beauty and tenderness of the earth's jubilee337, joyous338 Spring.
But surely we are impinging on the domain339 of the giant Blunderbore, falsely alleged340 to have been slain by the irreverent Jack341, prototype of the modern 'larrikin' in his turbulent denial of authority. Yea, and yonder plain is his poultry-yard. Hither come his cochins and dark brahmas to be fed on corn as large as bullets, with tenpenny nails by way of tonic342. They walk softly along, lowering their lofty heads to the earth, running too, occasionally, like dame Partlet, after a grasshopper119, and diversifying343 their attitudes like Chanticleer. We count them, twenty-six in all, gigantic fowls344 able to pick the hat from your head. They are emus! See the quarry345, and neither hound nor hunter! When, lo! from out the further belt of timber rides forth a band of horsemen. They are shearers, bound on a holiday excursion. The preceding day has been wet, and the supply of sheep consequently short. All are well mounted, and look picturesque as they burst into a sudden gallop348, and every horse does its best to overtake the (figuratively) flying troop, now setting to for real work. The pace is too good for the majority; but one light weight, mounted on a long-striding chestnut, that probably has ere now carried off provincial349 prizes, is closing on the apteryx contingent. Another quarter of a mile—yes—no—by George!—yes. He has collared the leader; he crosses and recrosses the troop. Had he but a stockwhip or lasso he could wind either round one of the long necks so invitingly350 stretched. But he has proved the superior speed of his horse. Such a trial was said in old days to have sent to the training-stable one of Sydney's still quoted race-horses. There is no need to kill aimlessly one of the inoffensive creatures; and he pays an unconscious tribute to the modern doctrine351 of mercy by drawing off and rejoining his comrades.
Further still our roving commission has carried us; we have halted at the homestead of a great pastoral estate. A cattle-station in the days when small outlay352 in huts and yards was fitting and fashionable, now it has been 'turned into sheep,' as the phrase goes. A proprietor of advanced views has purchased the place, less for the stock than for the broad acres, and the improvement Genie353 has worked his will upon the erstwhile somnolent354 wilderness355.
453The change has been sweeping356 and comprehensive. The vast area of nearly half a million of acres has been enclosed and subdivided357 by the all-pervading wire-fencing. A couple of hundred thousand merinos, with a trifle of forty thousand half-grown lambs, now graze at large, without a shepherd nearer than Queensland. A handsome, well-finished house stands by the artificial sheet of water, formed by the big dam which spans the once meagre 'cowall' or anabranch of the main stream.
A windmill-pump irrigates358 the well-kept garden, where oranges are in blossom and ripening359 their golden globes at the same time. Green peas and cauliflowers, maturing early, appeal to a lower ?stheticism. The stables, the smithy, the store, the men's huts, the carpenter's shop, form a village of themselves; not a small one either.
A quarter of a mile northward360, backed up by a dense clump315 of pines, stands the woolshed, an immense building with apparently acres of roofing and miles of battened floors, ￡5000 to ￡6000 representing the cost. It is now in full blast. We walk over with the centurion361 to whom that particularly delicate commission, the captaincy of 'the shed,' has been entrusted362. It is by no means an ordinary sight. We ascend a few steps at the 'top' of the shed, and look down the centre aisle363, where sixty men are working best pace, as men will only do when the pay is high, and each man receives all he can earn by superior skill or strength.
They are chiefly young men, though some are verging364 on middle age, and an old man here and there is to be seen. Scarcely any but born Australians are on the 'board,' as the section devoted to the actual shearing365 operation is termed. Though an occasional Briton or foreigner enters the lists, the son of the soil has long since demonstrated his superior adaptation to this task, wherein skill and strength are so curiously blended.
Watch that tall shearer347 half-way down the line. A native-born Australian, probably of the second or third generation, he stands six feet and half an inch, good measurement, in his stockings. His brawny366 fore-arm is bare to the elbow. Broad-shouldered, deep-chested, light-flanked, he would have delighted the eye of Guy Livingstone. You cannot find any 454man out of Australia who can shear346 a hundred and fifty full-grown sheep in a day—as he can—closely, evenly, with wonderful seeming ease and rapidity. Like his horsemanship—a marvel367 in its way—it has been practised from boyhood, and, as with arts learned early in life, a perfection almost instinctive368 has resulted.
The shearers proper are all white men. The pickers-up and sorters of the fleece are a trifle mixed, the former being chiefly aboriginal blacks, some of the latter Chinamen. In the pressing demand for labour which obtains when a thousand sheds are at work, or preparing to shear, in the early spring months, over the length and breadth of the land, the inferior races find their opportunity.
A pound a week, lodging369, and a liberal diet-scale, render the shearing season a kind of carnival370 for the proletariat, from the first fierce gleam of the desert sun in July, till the mountain snow-plains are cleared in January and February.
There are eight men at the wool-table—a broad, battened platform—on which the fleeces are spread, skirted, rolled up, and self-tied by an ingenious infolding knack371, thrown into the wool-sorter's narrow pathway, and by him transferred to the separate bins27 of first and second combing, clothing, super, etc. The next stage carries them to the wool-presses, which somewhat complicated machinery372, aided by skilled and experienced labourers, turns out daily fifty to sixty neatest, compactest bales. Thence on trucks propelled to the dumping-press, an hydraulic373 ram-driven monster, which reduces them to less than half their former size, and hoops374 them with iron bands.
Waggon teams are in attendance at the dumping-sheds, and before sundown much of the wool that was on the sheep's backs at sunrise will be loaded up, or on the road to the railway terminus.
Even that bourne of the weary wayfarer375 by coach, and the dusty, bearded teamster, is shifting its position nearer and nearer annually376 to the great central wilderness. As I ride homeward, the tents of navvy gangs appear suddenly through the darkening twilight, in the midst of pine-wood and wilgah brakes. The muffled377 thunder of blasts is borne ever and anon through the rarely-vexed atmosphere, as the sandstone hills are riven. But the central plain once reached, no work 455but the shallow trench and the low embankment will be required for hundreds of miles.
In a few years the great pastoral estates will have their own railway platforms, within easy distance of the 'shed,' when possibly a tramway thence to the dumping-room will be a recognised and necessary 'improvement.' When that day comes, shearers and washers will arrive by train from the coast-range, or the 'Never Never' country; King Cobb will be deposed378 or exiled; 'Sundowners' will be abolished; and much of the romance and adventure of pastoral life will have fled for ever.
NEW YEAR'S DAY 1886
In the list of rambles379, possible in the event of certain undefined conditions coming to pass, one fairly-original project has always commended itself to me. An overland tramp from Sydney to Melbourne in the garb380 and character of a swagman seemed to offer special inducements. Inexpensive as to wearing apparel and including a position not difficult to keep up, the idea suggested health, variety, and adventure. From such a standpoint all grades of society might be observed in new and striking lights.
Circumstances prevented me, during the present holiday season, from carrying out this plan in its entirety. Nevertheless I found myself, in company with the usual midsummer contingent of strangers and pilgrims, in the metropolis of the southern colony; like them in quest of the rare anodyne206 which deadens care and allays381 regret. And what a blessed and salutary change is this from the inner wastes, the sun-scorched deserts, whence some of us have emerged but recently! I am not going to cry down the Bush, the good land of spur and saddle, of manly endeavour and steadfast382 endurance, which has done so much for many of us; but after a long cruise it is conceded that every sailor-man, from foremost Jack to the Captain bold, needs a 'run ashore383.' His health demands it; his morale384 is, in the long run, not deteriorated385 thereby386. For analogous reasons those of us who dwell afar from the green coast-fringe, having perhaps more than our share of sunshine, require a sea change. Every bushman, gentle or simple, should compass an annual holiday, which I recommend him to 456pass, if possible, in the colony where he does not habitually387 reside.
'Home-keeping youth have ever homely388 wit' is an aphorism389 which has been variously garbed390. I endorse25 the dictum, with limitations. For the removal of that insidious391 mental fungus392, provincial prejudice, there is no remedy like a moderate dose of travel.
Chief among the luxuries in the nature of Christmas gifts with which the wayfarer is presented on arrival in Melbourne may be reckoned an almost total immunity393 from the heat tyranny. The thermometer registers a scale usually associated with personal discomfort, but oppressiveness is neutralised by certain adjuncts of civilisation—lofty houses, cool halls, and shady trees. The ever-sighing sea-breeze—fair Calypso of the desert-worn Ulysses—invites to soft repose394; while the prevalence of ice, as applied395 to the manufacture of comforting beverages396, transforms thirst into a disguised blessing397. The glare of the noonday sun, so harmful to the precious gift of sight, even to reason's throne, is here 'blocked,' to use the prevailing idiom of the week, by a hundred cunning devices. The marvels398 of capitalised industry, the results of science, the miracles of art, are daily displayed. Old friends, new books, freshly-coined ideas, strange sights, wonder-signs of all shades and hues399, press closely the flying hours. The tired reveller400 sinks into dreamless rest each night, only to enter upon a fresh course of enjoyment401 and adventure with the opening morn.
I find myself following a multitude on one of the first days after arrival, not 'to do evil,' it may be humbly402 asserted, but to behold the Inter-Colonial Cricket Match. We step out past the Treasury403 and enter a side alley212 of Eden. The broad, asphalted walk leads through an avenue of over-arching elms—a close, embowered shade over which our enemy, the sun, has scant404 power. Anon we cross a winding streamlet, rippling405 through a gloom of fern-trees and a miniature tropical forest. There the thrush and blackbird flit unharmed, the moss406 velvet407 carpets the dark mould, and but a slanting408 sun-ray flecks409 the shadows from the close-ranked lofty exotics—'a place for pleading swain and whispering lovers made.' But the order of the day for all sorts and conditions of men and maids is plainly Richmond Park. Only a few deserters are seen from 457the ranks of the holiday-seeking army as we thread the leafy defiles410. Presently we emerge upon the unshaded road which, through the Jolimont estate—erstwhile a Viceregal residence—conducts us to the Melbourne cricket-ground.
Here, truly, is a sight for unaccustomed eyes. The great enclosure encircled by ornamental411 iron railings, larrikin proof, as I am informed, its level, close-shaved green a turf triumph and species of enlarged billiard-table as applied to cricket purposes. It is girdled by a ring of well-grown oaks and elms, through which the glossy-leaved Norfolk Island fig-trees, pushing their more lavish412 and intense foliage86, communicate a southern tone.
I stand invested with the privileges of the pavilion, an imposing three-storeyed edifice413, containing all necessary conveniences for the comfort of the athletes of the contest, as well as of their friends and well-wishers, who are in the proud position of members. The arrangements are liberal and comprehensive. Refreshment414 bars and luncheon tables, lavatories415, dressing-rooms, billiards416, and other palliatives are here provided, while on the western side are asphalted grounds, defended by wire netting, where the votaries417 of the racquet and tennis-ball display their skill. From the graduated tiers of seats in the lower or upper rooms, as well as from the roof itself, a perfect view of the game may be obtained; while on either side of the lawn, under cover or otherwise, full provision is made for the comfort of the gentler sex, always liberal in patronage418 of these popular contests. Around the remaining portions of the enclosure, and protected from the profanum vulgus by a high iron fence, accommodation is provided for the rank and file of the spectators, who, at a small cost, are admitted.
The hour is come and the man. Twelve o'clock has struck. New South Wales has won the toss. From the pavilion gate the manly form of Murdoch is seen to issue, cricket-armoured, with trusty bat in hand. He enters the arena419 amid general plaudits, followed by Alec Bannerman. Then forth file the eleven champions of Victoria, who spread themselves variously over the field. Palmer gives the ball a preliminary spin; Blackham stretches his limbs and stands ready and remorseless—a cricketer's fate—behind the wicket. The first ball is catapulted—swift speeding, with dangerous break. Murdoch 458'pokes it to the off' or 'puts it to leg,' and the great encounter has commenced.
Wonderful and chiefly comprehensible must it be to the uninitiated or the foreigner to mark the rapt attention with which the performance is viewed by the thousands of all classes and ages who are now gathered around. Ten thousand people watch every flight of ball or stroke of bat with eager interest, with prompt, instructed criticism. Wonderful order, indeed a curious silence, for the most part, prevails. It is too serious a matter for light converse420. The interchange of opinion is conveyed with bated breath; a narrow escape, to be sure, is noted with a sigh of relief; a hit with cheers and clapping of hands. When the fatal ball scatters421 the stumps422, or drops into the hands of the watchful423 adversary424, one unanimous burst of applause breaks from the vast assemblage. His Lordship the Bishop425 of Melbourne, who sits in one of the front seats watching the scene with an air compounded of interest and toleration, doubtless wishes that he could secure a congregation on great occasions so large, so deeply observant, so closely critical, so sincerely aroused. Doubtless his Lordship, conceding, with the kindly426 wisdom that distinguishes him, that the people must have their recreations, would admit that from no other spectacle could so many persons of all ranks and ages, and both sexes, derive427 so large an amount of innocent gratification.
The 'cricket is so good' that several days elapse before the perhaps somewhat too-protracted match is over. Heavy scoring on both sides in the first innings. An exciting finish on the fifth day wrests428 the chaplet temporarily from New South Wales. Victoria wins with three wickets to go down. But those who are willow-wise aver83 that if—ah me! those ifs—Spofforth and Massie had been there, the latter with the advantage of the matchless wicket, another tale might have been told—
From Fate's dark book a leaf been torn,
And Flodden had been Bannockbourne.
The bells have chimed on that fateful midnight when died the old year; the radiant stranger is a crowned king. In the forenoon we turn our steps westwards, and enter another of the parks with which this city has been generously endowed. A 459holiday-loving race, certes, are we Australians. Had Victoria been a Roman province, her populace would have been regally furnished with panem et circenses, or known the reason why. With the eight hours' system, high wages, and frequent holidays, the working-man of the period, compared with his European brother, is an aristocrat429. But here we are once more on the Flemington race-course, and of it, as of the Melbourne cricket-ground, we feel inclined to assert (pace Trollope) that it must be, in its way, the best in the world.
Much thoughtful care has been bestowed430 upon the grounds, the buildings, the adjuncts; much money spent since the old days, when it differed little from an ordinary cattle-paddock. And the results are bewildering. Whence this lovely lawn 'with verdure clad,' where, amid flowers and fountains, crowds of well-dressed people stroll and linger, protected as in their own gardens from inconvenient431 sound or sight? this broad, smooth terrace-promenade below the Stand? this immense edifice, where in sheltered comfort every stride of the race can be seen? these perfect arrangements for the protagonists—brute and human—in the Olympian games we have come to witness? Is this the place where often amid heat and dust, not infrequently under soaking showers, the same sports have been witnessed by the much-enduring crowd? or has the Eastern enchanter of our boyhood carried off the ancient race-course bodily, and replaced it with this garden of Armida?
If the surroundings are complete, and the concomitants exhilarating, the weather is delicious. All things have combined to make this first-born of the opening year a day of days. The unobtrusive sun is merely warm; the bright, blue sky softly toned by fleeting clouds; the sea-breeze whispers of the wave's cool marge and ocean caves.
'On such a day it were a joy to die,' and as in the first race—the 'Hurdle432'—one beholds433 Sparke's rider pulling desperately434 at the chain-bit in his horse's mouth, as he fights madly for the lead, it appears but too probable that he is destined435 for the sacrifice. The violent chestnut, however, contrary to an established theory, does not run himself out, or smash his jockey. He retains the lead gallantly, and, with the exception of a perilous436 bang over the last hurdle, touches nothing. He wins the race from end to end, confounding the backers of Lady Hampden and Vanguard, the latter horse 460having carried a hurdle on his hocks for some distance, and so lost his very good show in the race.
Archie wins the Bagot Plate, confirming his friends in their previous good opinion. Those, however, who backed him for 'the Standish' on the strength of it, are doomed437 to furnish another example of the 'you never can tell' theory, as he is therein beaten by Mr. Charles Lloyd's Chuckster. The remaining races are well contested, and many a good horse extends himself ere the Criterion Stakes, the last race on the programme, are won; but, curious to relate, one feels more interested in the people nowadays than in the horses. The pleasant walks and talks, which are possible in this equine paradise, detract from the keen interest with which formerly438 the possible winners were regarded. Even the luncheon at a friend's table (one of a series provided by the Management), with its accompaniments of smiles, champagne439, and lightsome converse, takes its place as a principal event. Afternoon tea, not less pleasant in its way, succeeds; after which function the mass of handsomely-appointed equipages in the carriage enclosure begins to disintegrate440, driving up singly to the side entrance. Whether the beer, presumably imbibed441 by the coachman, has got into the horses' heads, I am unable to state; but the latter prefer the use of their hind-legs temporarily. This effervescence, however, soon subsides442. The four-in-hands depart. Carriage after carriage rolls away; their daintily-attired occupants are whirled off safely. Nous autres take the Flemington road, or fight for a railway seat; and a day of pleasure, marked with a white stone for some of us, comes cheerily to an end.
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1
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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descries
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| v.被看到的，被发现的，被注意到的( descried的现在分词 ) | |
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efficiently
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| adv.高效率地，有能力地 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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groomed
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| v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的过去式和过去分词 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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14
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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15
tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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21
glides
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| n.滑行( glide的名词复数 )；滑音；音渡；过渡音v.滑动( glide的第三人称单数 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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25
endorse
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| vt.(支票、汇票等)背书，背署；批注；同意 | |
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26
endorsed
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| 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 | |
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27
bins
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| n.大储藏箱( bin的名词复数 )；宽口箱（如面包箱，垃圾箱等）v.扔掉，丢弃( bin的第三人称单数 ) | |
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acquiesces
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的第三人称单数 ) | |
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29
deducted
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| v.扣除，减去( deduct的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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31
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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32
overtime
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| adj.超时的，加班的；adv.加班地 | |
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swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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34
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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abstainer
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| 节制者，戒酒者，弃权者 | |
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gambling
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| n.赌博；投机 | |
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37
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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38
impoverishment
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| n.贫穷，穷困；贫化 | |
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infraction
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| n.违反；违法 | |
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40
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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41
converge
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| vi.会合；聚集，集中；(思想、观点等)趋近 | |
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42
caravans
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| （可供居住的）拖车（通常由机动车拖行）( caravan的名词复数 )； 篷车； （穿过沙漠地带的）旅行队（如商队） | |
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43
waggon
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| n.运货马车，运货车；敞篷车箱 | |
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44
dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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45
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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46
toiler
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| 辛劳者，勤劳者 | |
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47
strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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48
mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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49
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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50
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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51
waggons
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| 四轮的运货马车( waggon的名词复数 )； 铁路货车； 小手推车 | |
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52
varnish
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| n.清漆；v.上清漆；粉饰 | |
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53
squatter
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| n.擅自占地者 | |
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54
hop
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| 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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55
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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56
compendious
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| adj.简要的，精简的 | |
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wailingly
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| 愿意地，乐意地 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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61
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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62
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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64
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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horde
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| n.群众，一大群 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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68
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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72
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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74
scintillating
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| adj．才气横溢的,闪闪发光的; 闪烁的 | |
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glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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76
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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77
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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78
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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80
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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82
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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83
aver
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| v.极力声明；断言；确证 | |
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84
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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85
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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86
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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87
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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88
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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intervals
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| 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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severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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91
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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bleakness
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| adj. 萧瑟的, 严寒的, 阴郁的 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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98
discrepancies
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| n.差异，不符合（之处），不一致（之处）( discrepancy的名词复数 ) | |
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99
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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100
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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101
pinion
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| v.束缚；n.小齿轮 | |
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102
blenches
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| vi.（因惊吓而）退缩，惊悸（blench的第三人称单数形式） | |
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103
wren
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| n.鹪鹩；英国皇家海军女子服务队成员 | |
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104
perches
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| 栖息处( perch的名词复数 )； 栖枝； 高处； 鲈鱼 | |
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105
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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106
hops
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| 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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107
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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108
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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109
pelican
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| n.鹈鹕，伽蓝鸟 | |
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110
beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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111
pouch
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| n.小袋，小包，囊状袋；vt.装...入袋中，用袋运输；vi.用袋送信件 | |
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112
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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113
revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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114
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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115
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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116
boding
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| adj.凶兆的，先兆的n.凶兆，前兆，预感v.预示，预告，预言( bode的现在分词 )；等待，停留( bide的过去分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待 | |
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117
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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118
grasshoppers
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| n.蚱蜢( grasshopper的名词复数 )；蝗虫；蚂蚱；（孩子）矮小的 | |
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119
grasshopper
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| n.蚱蜢，蝗虫，蚂蚱 | |
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120
despoiling
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| v.掠夺，抢劫( despoil的现在分词 ) | |
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121
contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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122
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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123
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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124
plunges
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| n.跳进，投入vt.使投入，使插入，使陷入vi.投入，跳进，陷入v.颠簸( plunge的第三人称单数 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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125
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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126
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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127
gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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128
mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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129
fawn
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| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
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130
filament
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| n.细丝；长丝；灯丝 | |
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131
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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132
colonist
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| n.殖民者，移民 | |
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133
cormorant
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| n.鸬鹚，贪婪的人 | |
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134
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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135
conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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136
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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137
crested
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| adj.有顶饰的，有纹章的，有冠毛的v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的过去式和过去分词 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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138
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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139
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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140
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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141
aviary
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| n.大鸟笼，鸟舍 | |
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142
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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143
extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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144
burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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145
elongated
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| v.延长，加长( elongate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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147
piquancy
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| n.辛辣，辣味，痛快 | |
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148
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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149
ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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150
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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151
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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152
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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153
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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154
circumscribe
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| v.在...周围划线，限制，约束 | |
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155
pervade
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| v.弥漫，遍及，充满，渗透，漫延 | |
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156
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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157
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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158
amicably
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| adv.友善地 | |
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159
alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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160
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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161
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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162
sloppy
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| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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163
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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164
saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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165
ascents
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| n.上升( ascent的名词复数 )；（身份、地位等的）提高；上坡路；攀登 | |
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166
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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167
auspicious
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| adj.吉利的；幸运的，吉兆的 | |
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168
benison
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| n.祝福 | |
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169
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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170
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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171
quartz
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| n.石英 | |
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172
boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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173
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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174
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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175
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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176
deduction
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| n.减除，扣除，减除额；推论，推理，演绎 | |
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177
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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178
bluffs
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| 恐吓( bluff的名词复数 )； 悬崖； 峭壁 | |
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179
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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180
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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181
abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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182
sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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183
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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184
gushing
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| adj.迸出的；涌出的；喷出的；过分热情的v.喷，涌( gush的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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185
sluices
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| n.水闸( sluice的名词复数 )；（用水闸控制的）水；有闸人工水道；漂洗处v.冲洗( sluice的第三人称单数 )；（指水）喷涌而出；漂净；给…安装水闸 | |
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186
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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187
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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188
amble
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| vi.缓行，漫步 | |
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189
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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190
pitfalls
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| （捕猎野兽用的）陷阱( pitfall的名词复数 )； 意想不到的困难，易犯的错误 | |
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191
proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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192
drizzle
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| v.下毛毛雨；n.毛毛雨，蒙蒙细雨 | |
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193
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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194
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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195
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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196
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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197
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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198
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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199
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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200
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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201
throbs
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| 体内的跳动( throb的名词复数 ) | |
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202
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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203
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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204
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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205
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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206
anodyne
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| n.解除痛苦的东西，止痛剂 | |
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207
distractions
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| n.使人分心的事[人]( distraction的名词复数 )；娱乐，消遣；心烦意乱；精神错乱 | |
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208
solaces
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| n.安慰，安慰物( solace的名词复数 ) | |
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209
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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210
degenerated
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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211
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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212
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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213
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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214
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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215
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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216
fattening
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| adj.（食物）要使人发胖的v.喂肥( fatten的现在分词 )；养肥（牲畜）；使（钱）增多；使（公司）升值 | |
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217
eucalyptus
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| n.桉树，桉属植物 | |
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218
sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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219
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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220
forestalling
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| v.先发制人，预先阻止( forestall的现在分词 ) | |
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221
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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222
withered
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| 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 | |
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223
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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224
umbrageous
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| adj.多荫的 | |
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225
frondage
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| n.叶，茂盛的叶；叶丛；叶簇 | |
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226
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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227
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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228
colonists
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| n.殖民地开拓者，移民，殖民地居民( colonist的名词复数 ) | |
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229
hybrid
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| n.(动，植）杂种，混合物 | |
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230
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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231
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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232
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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233
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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234
gateways
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| n.网关( gateway的名词复数 )；门径；方法；大门口 | |
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235
complement
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| n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足 | |
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236
embedded
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| a.扎牢的 | |
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237
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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238
uprooted
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| 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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239
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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240
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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241
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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242
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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243
shrub
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| n.灌木，灌木丛 | |
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244
attenuated
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| v.（使）变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
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245
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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246
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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247
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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248
redound
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| v.有助于；提；报应 | |
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249
toils
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| 网 | |
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250
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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251
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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252
creeks
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| n.小湾( creek的名词复数 )；小港；小河；小溪 | |
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253
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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254
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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255
defiled
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| 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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256
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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257
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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258
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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259
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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260
multiplication
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| n.增加，增多，倍增；增殖，繁殖；乘法 | |
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261
treatises
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| n.专题著作，专题论文，专著( treatise的名词复数 ) | |
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262
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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263
deferred
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|
| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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264
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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265
dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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266
forage
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| n.(牛马的)饲料，粮草；v.搜寻，翻寻 | |
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267
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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268
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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269
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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270
hoof
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| n.(马，牛等的)蹄 | |
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271
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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272
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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273
superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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274
plunging
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|
| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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275
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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276
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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277
exultingly
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| 兴高采烈地，得意地 | |
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278
wrest
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| n.扭，拧，猛夺；v.夺取，猛扭，歪曲 | |
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279
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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280
yearns
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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281
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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282
robust
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|
| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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283
decided
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|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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284
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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285
chirp
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| v.(尤指鸟)唧唧喳喳的叫 | |
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286
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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287
intensify
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| vt.加强；变强；加剧 | |
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288
epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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289
antagonistic
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| adj.敌对的 | |
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290
virulence
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| n.毒力，毒性；病毒性；致病力 | |
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291
elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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292
aggravate
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|
| vt.加重(剧)，使恶化；激怒，使恼火 | |
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293
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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294
alleviate
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|
| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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295
sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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296
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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297
solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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298
avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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299
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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300
dispensed
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|
| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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301
albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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302
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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303
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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304
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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305
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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306
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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307
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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308
marshy
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| adj.沼泽的 | |
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309
wading
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的现在分词 ) | |
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310
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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311
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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312
statute
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| n.成文法，法令，法规；章程，规则，条例 | |
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313
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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314
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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315
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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316
oases
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|
| n.（沙漠中的）绿洲( oasis的名词复数 )；（困苦中）令人快慰的地方（或时刻）；乐土；乐事 | |
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317
botanist
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| n.植物学家 | |
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318
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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319
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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320
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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321
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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322
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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323
crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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324
nibbling
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的现在分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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325
aboriginal
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| adj.（指动植物）土生的，原产地的，土著的 | |
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326
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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327
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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328
pealing
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| v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的现在分词 ) | |
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329
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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330
imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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331
analogous
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| adj.相似的；类似的 | |
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332
alluvial
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| adj.冲积的；淤积的 | |
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333
perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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334
fodder
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| n.草料；炮灰 | |
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335
nutritious
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|
| adj.有营养的，营养价值高的 | |
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336
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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337
jubilee
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| n.周年纪念；欢乐 | |
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338
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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339
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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340
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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341
jack
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|
| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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342
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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343
diversifying
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| v.使多样化，多样化( diversify的现在分词 )；进入新的商业领域 | |
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344
fowls
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|
| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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345
quarry
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|
| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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346
shear
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| n.修剪，剪下的东西，羊的一岁；vt.剪掉，割，剥夺；vi.修剪，切割，剥夺，穿越 | |
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347
shearer
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| n.剪羊毛的人；剪切机 | |
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348
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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349
provincial
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|
| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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350
invitingly
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| adv. 动人地 | |
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351
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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352
outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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353
genie
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| n.妖怪，神怪 | |
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354
somnolent
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|
| adj.想睡的，催眠的；adv.瞌睡地；昏昏欲睡地；使人瞌睡地 | |
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355
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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356
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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357
subdivided
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| 再分，细分( subdivide的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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358
irrigates
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| 灌溉( irrigate的第三人称单数 )； 冲洗（伤口） | |
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359
ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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360
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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361
centurion
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| n.古罗马的百人队长 | |
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362
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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363
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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364
verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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365
shearing
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| n.剪羊毛，剪取的羊毛v.剪羊毛( shear的现在分词 )；切断；剪切 | |
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366
brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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367
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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368
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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369
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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370
carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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371
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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372
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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373
hydraulic
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| adj.水力的；水压的，液压的；水力学的 | |
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374
hoops
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| n.箍( hoop的名词复数 )；（篮球）篮圈；（旧时儿童玩的）大环子；（两端埋在地里的）小铁弓 | |
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375
wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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376
annually
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| adv.一年一次，每年 | |
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377
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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378
deposed
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| v.罢免( depose的过去式和过去分词 )；（在法庭上）宣誓作证 | |
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379
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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380
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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381
allays
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的第三人称单数 ) | |
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382
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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383
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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384
morale
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| n.道德准则，士气，斗志 | |
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385
deteriorated
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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386
thereby
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|
| adv.因此，从而 | |
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387
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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388
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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389
aphorism
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| n.格言，警语 | |
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390
garbed
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| v.（尤指某类人穿的特定）服装，衣服，制服( garb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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391
insidious
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|
| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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392
fungus
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| n.真菌，真菌类植物 | |
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393
immunity
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| n.优惠；免除；豁免，豁免权 | |
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394
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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395
applied
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|
| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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396
beverages
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| n.饮料( beverage的名词复数 ) | |
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397
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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398
marvels
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|
| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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399
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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400
reveller
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| n.摆设酒宴者，饮酒狂欢者 | |
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401
enjoyment
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|
| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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402
humbly
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|
| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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403
treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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404
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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405
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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406
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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407
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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408
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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409
flecks
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| n.斑点，小点( fleck的名词复数 )；癍 | |
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410
defiles
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| v.玷污( defile的第三人称单数 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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411
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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412
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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413
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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414
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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415
lavatories
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| n.厕所( lavatory的名词复数 )；抽水马桶；公共厕所（或卫生间、洗手间、盥洗室）；浴室水池 | |
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416
billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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417
votaries
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| n.信徒( votary的名词复数 )；追随者；（天主教）修士；修女 | |
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418
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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419
arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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420
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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421
scatters
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| v.（使）散开， （使）分散，驱散( scatter的第三人称单数 )；撒 | |
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422
stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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423
watchful
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|
| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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424
adversary
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|
| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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425
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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426
kindly
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|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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427
derive
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|
| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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428
wrests
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| （用力）拧( wrest的第三人称单数 )； 费力取得； （从…）攫取； （ 从… ） 强行取去… | |
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429
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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430
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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431
inconvenient
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|
| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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432
hurdle
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| n.跳栏，栏架；障碍，困难；vi.进行跨栏赛 | |
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433
beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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434
desperately
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|
| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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435
destined
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|
| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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436
perilous
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|
| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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437
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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438
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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439
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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440
disintegrate
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|
| v.瓦解，解体，（使）碎裂，（使）粉碎 | |
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441
imbibed
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|
| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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442
subsides
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的第三人称单数 )；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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