Ulster county, of which this village was the capital, bordered on the North Carolina line, lying alongside the ancient shore of York. It was settled by the Scotch1 folk who came from the North of Ireland in the great migrations2 which gave America three hundred thousand people of Covenanter martyr3 blood, the largest and most important addition to our population, larger in number than either the Puritans of New England or the so-called Cavaliers of Virginia and Eastern Carolina; and far more important than either, in the growth of American nationality.
To a man they had hated Great Britain. Not a Tory was found among them. The cries of their martyred dead were still ringing in their souls when George III started on his career of oppression. The fiery5 words of Patrick Henry, their spokesman in the valley of Virginia, 188 had swept the aristocracy of the Old Dominion6 into rebellion against the King and on into triumphant7 Democracy. They had made North Carolina the first home of freedom in the New World, issued the first Declaration of Independence in Mecklenburg, and lifted the first banner of rebellion against the tyranny of the Crown.
They grew to the soil wherever they stopped, always home lovers and home builders, loyal to their own people, instinctive8 clan9 leaders and clan followers10. A sturdy, honest, covenant-keeping, God-fearing, fighting people, above all things they hated sham11 and pretence12. They never boasted of their families, though some of them might have quartered the royal arms of Scotland on their shields.
To these sturdy qualities had been added a strain of Huguenot tenderness and vivacity13.
The culture of cotton as the sole industry had fixed14 African slavery as their economic system. With the heritage of the Old World had been blended forces inherent in the earth and air of the new Southland, something of the breath of its unbroken forests, the freedom of its untrod mountains, the temper of its sun, and the sweetness of its tropic perfumes.
When Mrs. Cameron received Elsie’s letter, asking her to secure for them six good rooms at the “Palmetto” hotel, she laughed. The big rambling15 hostelry had been burned by roving negroes, pigs were wallowing in the sulphur springs, and along its walks, where lovers of olden days had strolled, the cows were browsing16 on the shrubbery.
But she laughed for a more important reason. They 189 had asked for a six-room cottage if accommodations could not be had in the hotel.
She could put them in the Lenoir place. The cotton crop from their farm had been stolen from the gin—the cotton tax of $200 could not be paid, and a mortgage was about to be foreclosed on both their farm and home. She had been brooding over their troubles in despair. The Stonemans’ coming was a godsend.
Mrs. Cameron was helping17 them set the house in order to receive the new tenants18.
“I declare,” said Mrs. Lenoir gratefully. “It seems too good to be true. Just as I was about to give up—the first time in my life—here came those rich Yankees and with enough rent to pay the interest on the mortgages and our board at the hotel. I’ll teach Margaret to paint, and she can give Marion lessons on the piano. The darkest hour’s just before day. And last week I cried when they told me I must lose the farm.”
“I was heartsick over it for you.”
“You know, the farm was my dowry with the dozen slaves Papa gave us on our wedding-day. The negroes did as they pleased, yet we managed to live and were very happy.”
Marion entered and placed a bouquet19 of roses on the table, touching20 them daintily until she stood each flower apart in careless splendour. Their perfume, the girl’s wistful dreamy blue eyes and shy elusive21 beauty, all seemed a part of the warm sweet air of the June morning. Mrs. Lenoir watched her lovingly.
“Mamma, I’m going to put flowers in every room. I’m 190 sure they haven’t such lovely ones in Washington,” said Marion eagerly, as she skipped out.
The two women moved to the open window, through which came the drone of bees and the distant music of the river falls.
“Marion’s greatest charm,” whispered her mother, “is in her way of doing things easily and gently without a trace of effort. Watch her bend over to get that rose. Did you ever see anything like the grace and symmetry of her figure—she seems a living flower!”
“Jeannie, you’re making an idol22 of her——”
“Why not? With all our troubles and poverty, I’m rich in her! She’s fifteen years old, her head teeming23 with romance. You know, I was married at fifteen. There’ll be a half dozen boys to see her to-night in our new home—all of them head over heels in love with her.”
“Oh, Jeannie, you must not be so silly! We should worship God only.”
“Isn’t she God’s message to me and to the world?”
“But if anything should happen to her——”
The young mother laughed. “I never think of it. Some things are fixed. Her happiness and beauty are to me the sign of God’s presence.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re coming to live with us in the heart of town. This place is a cosey nest, just such a one as a poet lover would build here in the edge of these deep woods, but it is too far out for you to be alone. Dr. Cameron has been worrying about you ever since he came home.” 191
“I’m not afraid of the negroes. I don’t know one of them who wouldn’t go out of his way to do me a favour. Old Aleck is the only rascal24 I know among them, and he’s too busy with politics now even to steal a chicken.”
“And Gus, the young scamp we used to own; you haven’t forgotten him? He is back here, a member of the company of negro troops, and parades before the house every day to show off his uniform. Dr. Cameron told him yesterday he’d thrash him if he caught him hanging around the place again. He frightened Margaret nearly to death when she went to the barn to feed her horse.”
“I’ve never known the meaning of fear. We used to roam the woods and fields together all hours of the day and night: my lover, Marion, and I. This panic seems absurd to me.”
“Well, I’ll be glad to get you two children under my wing. I was afraid I’d find you in tears over moving from your nest.”
“No, where Marion is I’m at home, and I’ll feel I’ve a mother when I get with you.”
“Will you come to the hotel before they arrive?”
“No; I’ll welcome and tell them how glad I am they have brought me good luck.”
“I’m delighted, Jeannie. I wished you to do this, but I couldn’t ask it. I can never do enough for this old man’s daughter. We must make their stay happy. They say he’s a terrible old Radical25 politician, but I suppose he’s no meaner than the others. He’s very ill, and she loves him devotedly26. He is coming here to find health, 192 and not to insult us. Besides, he was kind to me. He wrote a letter to the President. Nothing that I have will be too good for him or for his. It’s very brave and sweet of you to stay and meet them.”
“I’m doing it to please Marion. She suggested it last night, sitting out on the porch in the twilight27. She slipped her arm around me and said:
“‘Mamma, we must welcome them and make them feel at home. He is very ill. They will be tired and homesick. Suppose it were you and I, and we were taking my Papa to a strange place.’”
When the Stonemans arrived, the old man was too ill and nervous from the fatigue28 of the long journey to notice his surroundings or to be conscious of the restful beauty of the cottage into which they carried him. His room looked out over the valley of the river for miles, and the glimpse he got of its broad fertile acres only confirmed his ideas of the “slaveholding oligarchy” it was his life-purpose to crush. Over the mantel hung a steel engraving29 of Calhoun. He fell asleep with his deep, sunken eyes resting on it and a cynical30 smile playing about his grim mouth.
Margaret and Mrs. Cameron had met the Stonemans and their physician at the train, and taken Elsie and her father in the old weather-beaten family carriage to the Lenoir cottage, apologising for Ben’s absence.
“He has gone to Nashville on some important legal business, and the doctor is ailing31, but as the head of the clan Cameron he told me to welcome your father to the 193 hospitality of the county, and beg him to let us know if he could be of help.”
The old man, who sat in a stupor32 of exhaustion33, made no response, and Elsie hastened to say:
“We appreciate your kindness more than I can tell you, Mrs. Cameron. I trust father will be better in a day or two, when he will thank you. The trip has been more than he could bear.”
“I am expecting Ben home this week,” the mother whispered. “I need not tell you that he will be delighted at your coming.”
Elsie smiled and blushed.
“And I’ll expect Captain Stoneman to see me very soon,” said Margaret softly. “You will not forget to tell him for me?”
“He’s a very retiring young man,” said Elsie, “and pretends to be busy about our baggage just now. I’m sure he will find the way.”
Elsie fell in love at sight with Marion and her mother. Their easy genial34 manners, the genuineness of their welcome, and the simple kindness with which they sought to make her feel at home put her heart into a warm glow.
Mrs. Lenoir explained the conveniences of the place and apologized for its defects, the results of the war.
“I am sorry about the window curtains—we have used them all for dresses. Marion is a genius with a needle, and we took the last pair out of the parlour to make a dress for a birthday party. The year before, we used the ones in my room for a costume at a starvation 194 party in a benefit for our rector—you know we’re Episcopalians—strayed up here for our health from Charleston among these good Scotch Presbyterians.”
“We will soon place curtains at the windows,” said Elsie cheerfully.
“The carpets were sent to the soldiers for blankets during the war. It was all we could do for our poor boys, except to cut my hair and sell it. You see my hair hasn’t grown out yet. I sent it to Richmond the last year of the war. I felt I must do something when my neighbours were giving so much. You know Mrs. Cameron lost four boys.”
“I prefer the floors bare,” Elsie replied. “We will get a few rugs.”
She looked at the girlish hair hanging in ringlets about Mrs. Lenoir’s handsome face, smiled pathetically, and asked:
“Did you really make such sacrifices for your cause?”
“Yes, indeed. I was glad when the war was ended for some things. We certainly needed a few pins, needles, and buttons, to say nothing of a cup of coffee or tea.”
“I trust you will never lack for anything again,” said Elsie kindly35.
“You will bring us good luck,” Mrs. Lenoir responded. “Your coming is so fortunate. The cotton tax Congress levied36 was so heavy this year we were going to lose everything. Such a tax when we are all about to starve! Dr. Cameron says it was an act of stupid vengeance37 on the South, and that no other farmers in America have their crops taxed by the National Government. I am so 195 glad your father has come. He is not hunting for an office. He can help us, maybe.”
“I am sure he will,” answered Elsie thoughtfully.
Marion ran up the steps lightly, her hair dishevelled and face flushed.
“Now, Mamma, it’s almost sundown; you get ready to go. I want her awhile to show her about my things.”
She took Elsie shyly by the hand and led her into the lawn, while her mother paid a visit to each room, and made up the last bundle of odds38 and ends she meant to carry to the hotel.
“I hope you will love the place as we do,” said the girl simply.
“I think it very beautiful and restful,” Elsie replied. “This wilderness40 of flowers looks like fairyland. You have roses running on the porch around the whole length of the house.”
“Yes, Papa was crazy over the trailing roses, and kept planting them until the house seems just a frame built to hold them, with a roof on it. But you can see the river through the arches from three sides. Ben Cameron helped me set that big beauty on the south corner the day he ran away to the war——”
“The view is glorious!” Elsie exclaimed, looking in rapture41 over the river valley.
The village of Piedmont crowned an immense hill on the banks of the Broad River, just where it dashes over the last stone barrier in a series of beautiful falls and spreads out in peaceful glory through the plains toward Columbia and the distant sea. The muffled42 roar 196 of these falls, rising softly through the trees on its wooded cliff, held the daily life of the people in the spell of distant music. In fair weather it soothed43 and charmed, and in storm and freshet rose to the deep solemn growl44 of thunder.
The river made a sharp bend as it emerged from the hills and flowed westward45 for six miles before it turned south again. Beyond this six-mile sweep of its broad channel loomed46 the three ranges of the Blue Ridge47 Mountains, the first one dark, rich, distinct, clothed in eternal green, the last one melting in dim lines into the clouds and soft azure48 of the sky.
As the sun began to sink now behind these distant peaks, each cloud that hung about them burst into a blazing riot of colour. The silver mirror of the river caught their shadows, and the water glowed in sympathy.
As Elsie drank the beauty of the scene, the music of the falls ringing its soft accompaniment, her heart went out in a throb49 of love and pity for the land and its people.
“Can you blame us for loving such a spot?” said Marion. “It’s far more beautiful from the cliff at Lover’s Leap. I’ll take you there some day. My father used to tell me that this world was Heaven, and that the spirits would all come back to live here when sin and shame and strife51 were gone.”
“Are your father’s poems published?” asked Elsie.
“Only in the papers. We have them clipped and pasted in a scrapbook. I’ll show you the one about Ben Cameron some day. You met him in Washington, didn’t you?” 197
“Yes,” said Elsie quietly.
“Then I know he made love to you.”
“Why?”
“You’re so pretty. He couldn’t help it.”
“Does he make love to every pretty girl?”
“Always. It’s his religion. But he does it so beautifully you can’t help believing it, until you compare notes with the other girls.”
“Did he make love to you?”
“He broke my heart when he ran away. I cried a whole week. But I got over it. He seemed so big and grown when he came home this last time. I was afraid to let him kiss me.”
“Did he dare to try?”
“No, and it hurt my feelings. You see, I’m not quite old enough to be serious with the big boys, and he looked so brave and handsome with that ugly scar on the edge of his forehead, and everybody was so proud of him. I was just dying to kiss him, and I thought it downright mean in him not to offer it.”
“Would you have let him?”
“I expected him to try.”
“He is very popular in Piedmont?”
“Every girl in town is in love with him.”
“And he in love with all?”
“He pretends to be—but between us, he’s a great flirt52. He’s gone to Nashville now on some pretended business. Goodness only knows where he got the money to go. I believe there’s a girl there.”
“Why?” 198
“Because he was so mysterious about his trip. I’ll keep an eye on him at the hotel. You know Margaret, too, don’t you?”
“Yes; we met her in Washington.”
“Well, she’s the slyest flirt in town—it runs in the blood—has a half-dozen beaux to see her every day. She plays the organ in the Presbyterian Sunday school, and the young minister is dead in love with her. They say they are engaged. I don’t believe it. I think it’s another one. But I must hurry, I’ve so much to show and tell you. Come here to the honeysuckle——”
Marion drew the vines apart from the top of the fence and revealed a mocking-bird on her nest.
“She’s setting. Don’t let anything hurt her. I’d push her off and show you her speckled eggs, but it’s so late.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t hurt her for the world!” cried Elsie with delight.
“And right here,” said Marion, bending gracefully53 over a tall bunch of grass, “is a pee-wee’s nest, four darling little eggs; look out for that.”
Elsie bent54 and saw the pretty nest perched on stems of grass, and over it the taller leaves drawn55 to a point.
“Isn’t it cute!” she murmured.
“Yes; I’ve six of these and three mocking-bird nests. I’ll show them to you. But the most particular one of all is the wren57’s nest in the fork of the cedar58, close to the house.”
She led Elsie to the tree, and about two feet from the ground, in the forks of the trunk, was a tiny hole from which peeped the eyes of a wren. 199
“Whatever you do, don’t let anything hurt her. Her mate sings ‘Free-nigger! Free-nigger! Free-nigger!’ every morning in this cedar.”
“And you think we will specially59 enjoy that?” asked Elsie, laughing.
“Now, really,” cried Marion, taking Elsie’s hand, “you know I couldn’t think of such a mean joke. I forgot you were from the North. You seem so sweet and homelike. He really does sing that way. You will hear him in the morning, bright and early, ‘Free-nigger! Free-nigger! Free-nigger!’ just as plain as I’m saying it.”
“And did you learn to find all these birds’ nests by yourself?”
“Papa taught me. I’ve got some jay-birds and some cat-birds so gentle they hop39 right down at my feet. Some people hate jay-birds. But I like them, they seem to be having such a fine time and enjoy life so. You don’t mind jay-birds, do you?”
“I love every bird that flies.”
“Except hawks60 and owls61 and buzzards——”
“Well, I’ve seen so few I can’t say I’ve anything particular against them.”
“Yes, they eat chickens—except the buzzards, and they’re so ugly and filthy62. Now, I’ve a chicken to show you—please don’t let Aunt Cindy—she’s to be your cook—please don’t let her kill him—he’s crippled—has something the matter with his foot. He was born that way. Everybody wanted to kill him, but I wouldn’t let them. I’ve had an awful time raising him, but he’s all right now.” 200
Marion lifted a box and showed her the lame50 pet, softly clucking his protest against the disturbance63 of his rest.
“I’ll take good care of him, never fear,” said Elsie, with a tremor64 in her voice.
“And I have a queer little black cat I wanted to show you, but he’s gone off somewhere. I’d take him with me—only it’s bad luck to move cats. He’s awful wild—won’t let anybody pet him but me. Mamma says he’s an imp4 of Satan—but I love him. He runs up a tree when anybody else tries to get him. But he climbs right up on my shoulder. I never loved any cat quite as well as this silly, half-wild one. You don’t mind black cats, do you?”
“No, dear; I like cats.”
“Then I know you’ll be good to him.”
“Is that all?” asked Elsie, with amused interest.
“No, I’ve the funniest yellow dog that comes here at night to pick up the scraps65 and things. He isn’t my dog—just a little personal friend of mine—but I like him very much, and always give him something. He’s very cute. I think he’s a nigger dog.”
“A nigger dog? What’s that?”
“He belongs to some coloured people, who don’t give turn enough to eat. I love him because he’s so faithful to his own folks. He comes to see me at night and pretends to love me, but as soon as I feed him he trots66 back home. When he first came, I laughed till I cried at his antics over a carpet—we had a carpet then. He never saw one before, and barked at the colours and the figures in the pattern. Then he’d lie down and rub his back on it and growl. You won’t let anybody hurt him?” 201
“No. Are there any others?”
“Yes, I ’most forgot. If Sam Ross comes—Sam’s an idiot who lives at the poorhouse—if he comes, he’ll expect a dinner—my, my, I’m afraid he’ll cry when he finds we’re not here! But you can send him to the hotel to me. Don’t let Aunt Cindy speak rough to him. Aunt Cindy’s awfully67 good to me, but she can’t bear Sam. She thinks he brings bad luck.”
“How on earth did you meet him?”
“His father was rich. He was a good friend of my Papa’s. We came near losing our farm once, because a bank failed. Mr. Ross sent Papa a signed check on his own bank, and told him to write the amount he needed on it, and pay him when he was able. Papa cried over it, and wouldn’t use it, and wrote a poem on the back of the check—one of the sweetest of all, I think. In the war Mr. Ross lost his two younger sons, both killed at Gettysburg. His wife died heartbroken, and he only lived a year afterward68. He sold his farm for Confederate money and everything was lost. Sam was sent to the poorhouse. He found out somehow that we loved him and comes to see us. He’s as harmless as a kitten, and works in the garden beautifully.”
“I’ll remember,” Elsie promised.
“And one thing more,” she said hesitatingly. “Mamma asked me to speak to you of this—that’s why she slipped away. There one little room we have locked. It was Papa’s study just as he left it, with his papers scattered69 on the desk, the books and pictures that he loved—you won’t mind?” 202
Elsie slipped her arm about Marion, looked into the blue eyes, dim with tears, drew her close and said:
“It shall be sacred, my child. You must come every day if possible, and help me.”
“I will. I’ve so many beautiful places to show you in the woods—places he loved, and taught us to see and love. They won’t let me go in the woods any more alone. But you have a big brother. That must be very sweet.”
Mrs. Lenoir hurried to Elsie.
“Come, Marion, we must be going now.”
“I am very sorry to see you leave the home you love so dearly, Mrs. Lenoir,” said the Northern girl, taking her extended hand. “I hope you can soon find a way to have it back.”
“Thank you,” replied the mother cheerily. “The longer you stay, the better for us. You don’t know how happy I am over your coming. It has lifted a load from our hearts. In the liberal rent you pay us you are our benefactors70. We are very grateful and happy.”
Elsie watched them walk across the lawn to the street, the daughter leaning on the mother’s arm. She followed slowly and stopped behind one of the arbor-vit? bushes beside the gate. The full moon had risen as the twilight fell and flooded the scene with soft white light. A whippoorwill struck his first plaintive71 note, his weird72 song seeming to come from all directions and yet to be under her feet. She heard the rustle73 of dresses returning along the walk, and Marion and her mother stood at the gate. They looked long and tenderly at the house. Mrs. Lenoir uttered a broken sob74, Marion slipped an arm around her, 203 brushed the short curling hair back from her forehead, and softly said:
“Mamma, dear, you know it’s best. I don’t mind. Everybody in town loves us. Every boy and girl in Piedmont worships you. We will be just as happy at the hotel.”
In the pauses between the strange bird’s cry, Elsie caught the sound of another sob, and then a soothing75 murmur56 as of a mother bending over a cradle, and they were gone.
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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migrations
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| n.迁移，移居( migration的名词复数 ) | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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imp
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| n.顽童 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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browsing
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| v.吃草( browse的现在分词 )；随意翻阅；（在商店里）随便看看；（在计算机上）浏览信息 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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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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levied
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| 征（兵）( levy的过去式和过去分词 )； 索取； 发动（战争）； 征税 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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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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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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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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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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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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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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cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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hawks
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| 鹰( hawk的名词复数 )； 鹰派人物，主战派人物 | |
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owls
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| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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trots
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| 小跑，急走( trot的名词复数 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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benefactors
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| n.捐助者，施主( benefactor的名词复数 )；恩人 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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73
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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