Now, the reason why these deluded7 creatures supposed trees to grow out of the ground, instead of out of the air, is probably only because they saw their roots there.
Of course, when people see a wallflower rooted in the clefts8 of some old church tower, they don't jump at once to the inane9 conclusion that it is made of rock—that it derives11 its nourishment12 direct from the solid limestone13; nor when they observe a barnacle hanging by its sucker to a ship's hull14, do they imagine it to draw up its food incontinently from the copper15 bottom. But when they see that familiar pride of our country, a British oak, with its great underground buttresses16 spreading abroad through the soil in every direction, they infer at once that the buttresses are there, not—as is really the case—to support it and uphold it, but to drink in nutriment from the earth beneath, which is just about as capable of producing oak-wood as the copper plate on the ship's hull is capable of producing the flesh of a barnacle. Sundry17 familiar facts about manuring and watering, to which I will return later on, give a certain colour of reasonableness, it is true, to this mistaken inference. But how mistaken it really is for all that, a single and very familiar little experiment will easily show one.
Cut down that British oak with your Gladstonian axe18; lop him of his branches; divide him into logs; pile him up into a pyramid; put a match to his base; in short, make a bonfire of him; and what becomes of robust19 majesty20? He is reduced to ashes, you say. Ah, yes, but what proportion of him? Conduct your experiment carefully on a small scale; dry your wood well, and weigh it before burning; weigh your ash afterwards, and what will you find? Why, that the solid matter which remains22 after the burning is a mere23 infinitesimal fraction of the total weight: the greater part has gone off into the air, from whence it came, as carbonic acid. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes; but air to air, too, is the rule of nature.
It may sound startling—to Other People, I mean—but the simple truth remains, that trees and plants grow out of the atmosphere, not out of the ground. They are, in fact, solidified24 air; or to be more strictly25 correct, solidified gas—carbonic acid.
Take an ordinary soda-water syphon, with or without a wine-glassful of brandy, and empty it till only a few drops remain in the bottom. Then the bottle is full of gas; and that gas, which will rush out with a spurt26 when you press the knob, is the stuff that plants eat—the raw material of life, both animal and vegetable. The tree grows and lives by taking in the carbonic acid from the air, and solidifying27 its carbon; the animal grows and lives by taking the solidified carbon from the plant, and converting it once more into carbonic acid. That, in its ideally simple form, is the Iliad in a nutshell, the core and kernel28 of biology. The whole cycle of life is one eternal see-saw. First the plant collects its carbon compounds from the air in the oxidized state; it deoxidizes and rebuilds them: and then the animal proceeds to burn them up by slow combustion29 within his own body, and to turn them loose upon the air, once more oxidized. After which the plant starts again on the same round as before, and the animal also recommences da capo. And so on ad infinitum.
But the point which I want particularly to emphasize here is just this: that trees and plants don't grow out of the ground at all, as most people do vainly talk, but directly out of the air; and that when they die or get consumed, they return once more to the atmosphere from which they were taken. Trees undeniably eat carbon.
Of course, therefore, all the ordinary unscientific conceptions of how plants feed are absolutely erroneous. Vegetable physiology30, indeed, got beyond these conceptions a good hundred years ago. But it usually takes a hundred years for the world at large to make up its leeway. Trees don't suck up their nutriment by the roots, they don't derive10 their food from the soil, they don't need to be fed, like babies through a tube, with terrestrial solids. The solitary31 instance of an orchid32 hung up by a string in a conservatory33 on a piece of bark, ought to be sufficient at once to dispel34 for ever this strange illusion—if people ever thought; but of course they don't think—I mean Other People. The true mouths and stomachs of plants are not to be found in the roots, but in the green leaves; their true food is not sucked up from the soil, but is inhaled35 through tiny channels from the air; the mass of their material is carbon, as we can all see visibly to the naked eye when a log of wood is reduced to charcoal36: and that carbon the leaves themselves drink in, by a thousand small green mouths, from the atmosphere around them.
But how about the juice, the sap, the qualities of the soil, the manure37 required? is the incredulous cry of Other People. What is the use of the roots, and especially of the rootlets, if they are not the mouths and supply-tubes of the plants? Well, I plainly perceive I can get 'no forrarder,' like the farmer with his claret, till I've answered that question, provisionally at least; so I will say here at once, without further ado—the plant requires drink as well as food, and the roots are the mouths that supply it with water. They also suck up a few other things as well, which are necessary indeed, but far from forming the bulk of the nutriment. Many plants, however, don't need any roots at all, while none can get on without leaves as mouths and stomachs. That is to say, no true plantlike plants, for some parasitic38 plants are practically, to all intents and purposes, animals. To put it briefly39, every plant has one set of aerial mouths to suck in carbon, and many plants have another set of subterranean40 mouths as well, to suck up water and mineral constituents41.
Have you ever grown mustard and cress in the window on a piece of flannel42? If so, that's a capital practical example of the comparative unimportance of soil, except as a means of supplying moisture. You put your flannel in a soup-plate by the dining-room window; you keep it well wet, and you lay the seeds of the cress on top of it. The young plants, being supplied with water by their roots, and with carbon by the air around, have all the little they need below, and grow and thrive in these conditions wonderfully. But if you were to cover them up with an air-tight glass case, so as to exclude fresh air, they'd shrivel up at once for want of carbon, which is their solid food, as water is their liquid.
The way the plant really eats is little known to gardeners, but very interesting. All over the lower surface of the green leaf lie scattered43 dozens of tiny mouths or apertures44, each of them guarded by two small pursed-up lips which have a ridiculously human appearance when seen through a simple microscope. When the conditions of air and moisture are favourable45, these lips open visible to admit gases; and then the tiny mouths suck in carbonic acid in abundance from the air around then. A series of pipes conveys the gaseous46 food thus supplied to the upper surface of the leaf, where the sunlight falls full upon it. Now, the cells of the leaf contain a peculiar47 green digestive material, which I regret to say has no simpler or more cheerful name than chlorophyll; and where the sunlight plays upon this mysterious chlorophyll, it severs48 the oxygen from the carbon in the carbonic acid, turns the free gas loose upon the atmosphere once more through the tiny mouths, and retains the severed49 carbon intact in its own tissues. That is the whole process of feeding in plants: they eat carbonic acid, digest it in their leaves, get rid of the oxygen with which it was formerly50 combined, and keep the carbon stored up for their own purposes.
Life as a whole depends entirely upon this property of chlorophyll; for every atom of organic matter in your body or mine was originally so manufactured by sunlight in the leaves of some plant from which, directly or indirectly51, we derive it.
To be sure, in order to make up the various substances which compose their tissues—to build up their wood, their leaves, their fruits, their blossoms—plants require hydrogen, nitrogen, and even small quantities of oxygen as well; but these various materials are sufficiently52 supplied in the water which is taken up by the roots, and they really contribute very little indeed to the bulk of the tree, which consists for the most part of almost pure carbon. If you were to take a thoroughly53 dry piece of wood, and then drive off from it by heat these extraneous54 matters, you would find that the remainder, the pure charcoal, formed the bulk of the weight, the rest being for the most part very light and gaseous. Briefly put, plants are mostly carbon and water, and the carbon which forms their solid part is extracted direct from the air around them.
How does it come about then that a careless world in general, and more especially the happy-go-lucky race of gardeners and farmers in particular, who have to deal so much with plants in their practical aspect, always attach so great importance to root, soil, manure, minerals, and so little to the real gaseous food stuff of which their crops are, in fact, composed? Why does Hodge, who is so strong on grain and guano, know absolutely nothing about carbonic acid? That seems at first sight a difficult question to meet. But I think we can meet it with a simple analogy.
Oxygen is an absolute necessary of human life. Even food itself is hardly so important an element in our daily existence; for Succi, Dr. Tanner, the prophet Elijah, and other adventurous55 souls too numerous to mention, have abundantly shown us that a man can do without food altogether for forty days at a stretch, while he can't do without oxygen for a single minute. Cut off his supply of that life-supporting gas, choke him, or suffocate56 him, or place him in an atmosphere of pure carbonic acid, or hold his head in a bucket of water, and he dies at once. Yet, except in mines or submarine tunnels, nobody ever takes into account practically this most important factor in human and animal life. We toil57 for bread, but we ignore the supply of oxygen. And why? Simply because oxygen is universally diffused58 everywhere. It costs nothing. Only in the Black Hole of Calcutta or in a broken tunnel shaft59 do men ever begin to find themselves practically short of that life-sustaining gas, and then they know the want of it far sooner and far more sharply than they know the want of food on a shipwreck60 raft, or the want of water in the thirsty desert. Yet antiquity61 never even heard of oxygen. A prime necessary of life passed unnoticed for ages in human history, only because there was abundance of it to be had everywhere.
Now it isn't quite the same, I admit, with the carbonaceous food of plants. Carbonic acid isn't quite so universally distributed as oxygen, nor can every plant always get as much as it wants of it. I shall show by-and-by that a real struggle for food takes place between plants, exactly as it takes place between animals; and that certain plants, like Oliver Twist in the workhouse, never practically get enough to eat. Still, carbonic acid is present in very large quantities in the air in most situations, and is freely brought by the wind to all the open spaces which alone man uses for his crops and his gardening. The most important element in the food of plants is thus in effect almost everywhere available, especially from the point of view of the mere practical everyday human agriculturist. The wind that bloweth where it listeth brings fresh supplies of carbon on its wings with every breeze to the mouths and throats of the greedy and eager plants that long to absorb it.
It is quite otherwise, however, with the soil and its constituents. Land, we all know—or if we don't, it isn't the fault of Mr. George and Mr. A.R. Wallace—land is 'naturally limited in quantity.' Every plant therefore struggles for a foothold in the soil far more fiercely and far more tenaciously62 than it struggles for its share in the free air of heaven. Your plant is a land-grabber of Rob Roy proclivities63; it believes in a fair fight and no favour. A sufficient supply of food it almost takes for granted, if only it can once gain a sufficient ground-space. But other plants are competing with it, tooth and nail (if plants may be permitted by courtesy those metaphorical65 adjuncts), for their share of the soil, like crofters or socialists66; every spare inch of earth is permeated67 and pervaded68 with matted fibres; and each is striving to withdraw from each the small modicum69 of moisture, mineral matter, and manure for which all alike are eagerly battling.
Now, what the plant wants from the soil is three things. First and foremost it wants support; like all the rest of us it must have its pou sto, its pied-à-terre, its locus70 standi. It can't hang aloft, like Mahomet's coffin71, miraculously72 suspended on an aerial perch73 between earth and heaven. Secondly74, it wants water, and this it can take in, as a rule, only or mainly by means of the rootlets, though there are some peculiar plants which grow (not parasitically) on the branches of trees, and absorb all the moisture they need by pores on their surface. And thirdly, it wants small quantities of nitrogenous matter—in the simpler language of everyday life called manure—as well as of mineral matter—in the simpler language of everyday life called ashes. It is mainly the first of these three, support, that the farmer thinks of when he calculates crops and acreage; for the second, he depends upon rainfall or irrigation; but the third, manure, he can supply artificially; and as manure makes a great deal of incidental difference to some of his crops, especially corn—which requires abundant phosphates—he is apt to over-estimate vastly its importance from a theoretical point of view.
Besides, look at it in another light. Over large areas together, the conditions of air, climate, and rainfall are practically identical. But soil differs greatly from place to place. Here it's black; there it's yellow; here it's rich loam75; there it's boggy76 mould or sandy gravel77. And some soils are better adapted to growing certain plants than others. Rich lowlands and oolites suit the cereals; red marl produces wonderful grazing grass; bare uplands are best for gorse and heather. Hence everything favours for the practical man the mistaken idea that plants and trees grow mainly out of the soil. His own eyes tell him so; he sees them growing, he sees the visible result undeniable before his face; while the real act of feeding off the carbon in the air is wholly unknown to him, being realizable only by the aid of the microscope, aided by the most delicate and difficult chemical analysis.
Nevertheless French chemists have amply proved by actual experiment that plants can grow and produce excellent results without any aid from the soil at all. You have only to suspend the seeds freely in the air by a string, and supply the rootlets of the sprouting78 seedlings79 with a little water, containing in solution small quantities of manure-stuffs, and the plants will grow as well as on their native heath, or even better. Indeed, nature has tried the same experiment on a larger scale in many cases, as with the cliff-side plants that root themselves in the naked clefts of granite80 rocks; the tropical orchids81 that fasten lightly on the bark of huge forest trees; and the mosses82 that spread even over the bare face of hard brick walls, with scarcely a chink or cranny in which to fasten their minute rootlets. The insect-eating plants are also interesting examples in their way of the curious means which nature takes for keeping up the manure supply under trying circumstances. These uncanny things are all denizens83 of loose, peaty soil, where they can root themselves sufficiently for purposes of foothold and drink, but where the water rapidly washes away all animal matter. Under such conditions the cunning sundews and the ruthless pitcher-plants set deceptive84 honey traps for unsuspecting insects, which they catch and kill, absorbing and using up the protoplasmic contents of their bodies, by way of manure, to supply their quota85 of nitrogenous material.
It is the literal fact, then, that plants really eat and live off carbon, just as truly as sheep eat grass or lions eat antelopes86; and that the green leaves are the mouths and stomachs with which they eat and digest it. From this it naturally results that the growth and spread of the leaves must largely depend upon the supply of carbon, as the growth and fatness of sheep depends upon the supply of pasturage. Under most circumstances, to be sure, there is carbon enough and to spare lying about loose for every one of them; but conditions do now and again occur where we can clearly see the importance of the carbon supply. Water, for example, contains practically much less carbonic acid than atmospheric87 air, especially when the water is stagnant88, and therefore not supplied fresh to the plant from moment to moment. As a consequence, almost all water-plants have submerged leaves very narrow and waving, while floating plants, like the water-lilies, have them large and round, owing to the absence of competition from other kinds about, which enables them to spread freely in every direction from the central stalk. Moreover, these leaves, lolling on the water as they do, have their mouths on the upper instead of the under surface. But the most remarkable89 fact of all is that many water plants have two entirely different types of leaves, one submerged and hair-like, the other floating and broad or circular. Our own English water-crowfoot, for example, has the leaves that spring from its stem, below the surface, divided into endless long waving filaments90, which look about in the water for the stray particles of carbon; but the moment it reaches the top of its native pond the foliage91 expands at once into broad lily-like lobes92, that recline on the water like oriental beauties, and absorb carbon from the air to their heart's content, The one type may be likened to gills, that similarly catch the dissolved oxygen diffused in water; the other type may be likened to lungs, that drink in the free and open air of heaven.
Equally important to the plant, however, with the supply of carbonic acid, is the supply of sunshine by whose aid to digest it. The carbon alone is no good to the tree if it can't get something which will separate it from the oxygen, locked in close embrace with it. That thing is sunshine. There is nothing, therefore, for which herbs, trees, and shrubs93 compete more eagerly than for their fair share of solar energy. In their anxiety for this they jostle one another down most mercilessly, in the native condition, grasses struggling up with their hollow stems above the prone94 low herbs, shrubs overtopping the grasses in turn, and trees once more killing95 out the overshadowed undershrubs. One must remember that wherever nature has free play, instead of being controlled by the hand of man, dense96 forest covers every acre of ground where the soil is deep enough; gorse, whins, and heather, or their equivalents grow wherever the forest fails; and herbs can only hold their own in the rare intervals97 where these domineering lords of the vegetable creation can find no foothold. Meadows or prairies occur nowhere in nature, except in places where the liability to destructive fires over wide areas together crushes out forest trees, or else where goats, bison, deer, and other large herbivores browse98 them ceaselessly down in the stage of seedlings. Competition for sunlight is thus even keener perhaps than competition for foodstuffs99. Alike on trees, shrubs, and herbs, accordingly the arrangement of the leaves is always exactly calculated so as to allow the largest possible horizontal surface, and the greatest exposure of the blade to the open sunshine. In trees this arrangement can often be very well observed, all the leaves being placed at the extremities100 of the branches, and forming a great dome-shaped or umbrella-shaped mass, every part of which stands an even chance of catching101 its fair share of carbonic acid and solar energy.
The shapes of the leaves themselves are also largely due to the same cause, every leaf being so designed in form and outline as to interfere102 as little as possible with the other leaves on the same stem, as regards supply both of light and of carbonaceous foodstuffs. It is only in rare cases, like that of the water-lily, that perfectly103 round leaves occur, because the conditions are seldom equal all round, and the incidence of light and the supply of carbon are seldom unlimited104. But wherever leaves rise free and solitary into the air, without mutual105 interference, they are always circular, as may be well seen in the common nasturtium and the English pennywort. On the other hand, among dense hedgerows and thickets106, where the silent, invisible struggle for life is fierce indeed, and where sunlight and carbonic acid are intercepted107 by a thousand competing mouths and arms, the prevailing108 types of leaf are extremely cut up and minutely subdivided109 into small lace-like fragments. The plant in such cases can't afford material to fill up the interstices between the veins110 and ribs111 which determine its underlying112 architectural structure. Often indeed species which grow under these hard conditions produce leaves which are, as it were, but skeleton representatives of their large and well filled-out compeers in the open meadows.
It is only by bearing vividly113 in mind this ceaseless and noiseless struggle between plants for their gaseous food and the sunshine which enables them to digest it that we can ever fully21 understand the varying forms and habits of the vegetable kingdom. To most people, no doubt, it sounds like pure metaphor64 to talk of an internecine114 struggle between rooted beings which cannot budge115 one inch from their places, nor fight with horns, hoofs116, or teeth, nor devour117 one another bodily, nor tread one another down with ruthless footsteps. But that is only because we habitually118 forget that competition is just as really a struggle for life as open warfare119. The men who try against one another for a clerkship in the City, or a post in a gang of builder's workmen, are just as surely taking away bread and butter out of their fellows' mouths for their own advantage, as if they fought for it openly with fists or six-shooters. The white man who encloses the hunting grounds of the Indian, and plants them with corn, is just as surely dooming120 that Indian to death as if he scalped or tomahawked him. And so too with the unconscious warfare of plants. The daisy or the plantain that spreads its rosette of leaves flat against the ground is just as truly monopolizing121 a definite space of land as the noble owner of a Highland122 deer forest. No blade of grass can spring beneath the shadow of those tightly pressed little mats of foliage; no fragment of carbon, no ray of sunshine can ever penetrate123 below that close fence of living greenstuff.
Plants, in fact, compete with one another all round for everything they stand in need of. They compete for their food—carbonic acid. They compete for their energy—their fair share of sunlight. They compete for water, and their foothold in the soil. They compete for the favours of the insects that fertilize124 their flowers. They compete for the good services of the birds or mammals that disseminate125 their seeds in proper spots for germination126. And how real this competition is we can see in a moment, if we think of the difficulties of human cultivation127. There, weeds are always battling manfully with our crops or our flowers for mastery over the field or garden. We are obliged to root up with ceaseless toil these intrusive128 competitors, if we wish to enjoy the kindly129 fruits of the earth in due season. When we leave a garden to itself for a few short years, we realize at once what effect the competition of hardy130 natives has upon our carefully tended and unstable131 exotics. In a very brief time the dahlias and phloxes and lilies have all disappeared, and in their place the coarse-growing docks and nettles132 and thistles have raised their heads aloft to monopolize133 air and space and sunshine.
Exactly the same struggle is always taking place in the fields and woods and moors134 around us, and especially in the spots made over to pure nature. There, the greenwood tree raises its huge umbrella of foliage to the skies, and allows hardly a ray of sunlight to struggle through to the low woodland vegetation of orchid or wintergreen underneath135. Where the soil is not deep enough for trees to root securely, bushes and heathers overgrow the ground, and compete with their bell-shaped blossoms for the coveted136 favour of bees and butterflies. And in open glades137, where for some reason or other the forest fails, tall grasses and other aspiring138 herbs run up apace towards the free air of heaven. Elsewhere, creepers struggle up to the sun over the stems and branches of stronger bushes or trees, which they often choke and starve by monopolizing at last all the available carbon and sunlight. And so throughout; the struggle for life goes on just as ceaselessly and truly among these unconscious combatants as among the lions and tigers of the tropical jungle, or among the human serfs of the overstocked market.
An ounce of example, they say, is worth a pound of precept139. So a single concrete case of a fierce vegetable campaign now actually in progress over all Northern Europe may help to make my meaning a trifle clearer. Till very lately the forests of the north were largely composed in places of the light and airy silver birches. But with the gradual amelioration of the climate of our continent, which has been going on for several centuries, the beech140, a more southern type of tree, has begun to spread slowly though surely northward141. Now, beeches142 are greedy trees, of very dense and compact foliage; nothing else can grow beneath their thick shade, where once they have gained a foothold; and the seedlings of the silver birch stand no chance at all in the struggle for life against the serried143 leaves of their formidable rivals. The beech literally144 eats them out of house and home; and the consequence is that the thick and ruthless southern tree is at this very moment gradually superseding145 over vast tracts146 of country its more graceful147 and beautiful, but far less voracious148 competitor.
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1
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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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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succinct
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| adj.简明的，简洁的 | |
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invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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clefts
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| n.裂缝( cleft的名词复数 )；裂口；cleave的过去式和过去分词；进退维谷 | |
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inane
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| adj.空虚的，愚蠢的，空洞的 | |
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derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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derives
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| v.得到( derive的第三人称单数 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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limestone
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| n.石灰石 | |
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hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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buttresses
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| n.扶壁，扶垛( buttress的名词复数 )v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的第三人称单数 ) | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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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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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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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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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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solidified
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| （使）成为固体，（使）变硬，（使）变得坚固( solidify的过去式和过去分词 )； 使团结一致； 充实，巩固； 具体化 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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spurt
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| v.喷出；突然进发；突然兴隆 | |
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solidifying
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| （使）成为固体，（使）变硬，（使）变得坚固( solidify的现在分词 )； 使团结一致； 充实，巩固； 具体化 | |
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kernel
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| n.(果实的)核，仁；(问题)的中心，核心 | |
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combustion
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| n.燃烧；氧化；骚动 | |
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physiology
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| n.生理学，生理机能 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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orchid
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| n.兰花，淡紫色 | |
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conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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37
manure
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| n.粪，肥，肥粒；vt.施肥 | |
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38
parasitic
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| adj.寄生的 | |
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39
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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40
subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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41
constituents
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| n.选民( constituent的名词复数 )；成分；构成部分；要素 | |
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42
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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43
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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44
apertures
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| n.孔( aperture的名词复数 )；隙缝；（照相机的）光圈；孔径 | |
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45
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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46
gaseous
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| adj.气体的，气态的 | |
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47
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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48
severs
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的第三人称单数 )；断，裂 | |
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49
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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50
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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51
indirectly
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| adv.间接地，不直接了当地 | |
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52
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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53
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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54
extraneous
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| adj.体外的；外来的；外部的 | |
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55
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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56
suffocate
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| vt.使窒息，使缺氧，阻碍；vi.窒息，窒息而亡，阻碍发展 | |
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57
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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58
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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59
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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60
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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61
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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62
tenaciously
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| 坚持地 | |
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63
proclivities
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| n.倾向，癖性( proclivity的名词复数 ) | |
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64
metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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65
metaphorical
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| a.隐喻的，比喻的 | |
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66
socialists
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| 社会主义者( socialist的名词复数 ) | |
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67
permeated
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| 弥漫( permeate的过去式和过去分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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68
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
modicum
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| n.少量，一小份 | |
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70
locus
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| n.中心 | |
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71
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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72
miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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73
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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74
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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75
loam
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| n.沃土 | |
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76
boggy
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| adj.沼泽多的 | |
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77
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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78
sprouting
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| v.发芽( sprout的现在分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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79
seedlings
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| n.刚出芽的幼苗( seedling的名词复数 ) | |
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80
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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81
orchids
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| n.兰花( orchid的名词复数 ) | |
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82
mosses
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| n. 藓类, 苔藓植物 名词moss的复数形式 | |
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83
denizens
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| n.居民，住户( denizen的名词复数 ) | |
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84
deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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85
quota
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| n.（生产、进出口等的）配额，（移民的）限额 | |
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86
antelopes
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| 羚羊( antelope的名词复数 )； 羚羊皮革 | |
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87
atmospheric
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| adj.大气的，空气的；大气层的；大气所引起的 | |
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88
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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89
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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90
filaments
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| n.（电灯泡的）灯丝( filament的名词复数 )；丝极；细丝；丝状物 | |
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91
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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92
lobes
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| n.耳垂( lobe的名词复数 )；（器官的）叶；肺叶；脑叶 | |
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93
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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94
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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95
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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96
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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97
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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98
browse
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| vi.随意翻阅，浏览；(牛、羊等)吃草 | |
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99
foodstuffs
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| 食物，食品( foodstuff的名词复数 ) | |
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100
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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101
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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102
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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103
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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104
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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105
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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106
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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107
intercepted
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| 拦截( intercept的过去式和过去分词 )； 截住； 截击； 拦阻 | |
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108
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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109
subdivided
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| 再分，细分( subdivide的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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111
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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112
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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113
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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114
internecine
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| adj.两败俱伤的 | |
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115
budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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116
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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117
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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118
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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119
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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120
dooming
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| v.注定( doom的现在分词 )；判定；使…的失败（或灭亡、毁灭、坏结局）成为必然；宣判 | |
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121
monopolizing
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| v.垄断( monopolize的现在分词 )；独占；专卖；专营 | |
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122
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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123
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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124
fertilize
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| v.使受精，施肥于，使肥沃 | |
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125
disseminate
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| v.散布；传播 | |
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126
germination
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| n.萌芽，发生；萌发；生芽；催芽 | |
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127
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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128
intrusive
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| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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129
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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130
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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131
unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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132
nettles
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| n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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133
monopolize
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| v.垄断，独占，专营 | |
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134
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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135
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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136
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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137
glades
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| n.林中空地( glade的名词复数 ) | |
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138
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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139
precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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140
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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141
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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142
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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143
serried
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| adj.拥挤的；密集的 | |
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144
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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145
superseding
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| 取代，接替( supersede的现在分词 ) | |
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146
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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147
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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148
voracious
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| adj.狼吞虎咽的，贪婪的 | |
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