There is nothing new in this. It has all been done before. But tell me, what is new? Does the aspiring1 and perspiring2 summer vaudeville3 artist flatter himself that his stuff is going big? Then does the stout4 man with the oyster-colored eyelids5 in the first row, left, turn his bullet head on his fat-creased neck to remark huskily to his companion:
"The hook for him. R-r-r-rotten! That last one was an old Weber'n Fields' gag. They discarded it back in '91. Say, the good ones is all dead, anyhow. Take old Salvini, now, and Dan Rice. Them was actors. Come on out and have something."
Does the short-story writer felicitate himself upon having discovered a rare species in humanity's garden? The Blase6 Reader flips7 the pages between his fingers, yawns, stretches, and remarks to his wife:
"That's a clean lift from Kipling—or is it Conan Doyle? Anyway, I've read something just like it before. Say, kid, guess what these magazine guys get for a full page ad.? Nix. That's just like a woman. Three thousand straight. Fact."
To anticipate the delver9 into the past it may be stated that the plot of this one originally appeared in the Eternal Best Seller, under the heading, "He Asked You For Bread, and Ye Gave Him a Stone." There may be those who could not have traced my plagiarism10 to its source.
Although the Book has had an unprecedentedly11 long run it is said to be less widely read than of yore.
Even with this preparation I hesitate to confess that this is the story of a hungry girl in a big city. Well, now, wait a minute. Conceding that it has been done by every scribbler from tyro12 to best seller expert, you will acknowledge that there is the possibility of a fresh viewpoint—twist—what is it the sporting editors call it? Oh, yes—slant13. There is the possibility of getting a new slant on an old idea. That may serve to deflect14 the line of the deadly parallel.
Just off State Street there is a fruiterer and importer who ought to be arrested for cruelty. His window is the most fascinating and the most heartless in Chicago. A line of open-mouthed, wide-eyed gazers is always to be found before it. Despair, wonder, envy, and rebellion smolder15 in the eyes of those gazers. No shop window show should be so diabolically16 set forth17 as to arouse such sensations in the breast of the beholder18. It is a work of art, that window; a breeder of anarchism, a destroyer of contentment, a second feast of Tantalus. It boasts peaches, dewy and golden, when peaches have no right to be; plethoric19, purple bunches of English hothouse grapes are there to taunt20 the ten-dollar-a-week clerk whose sick wife should be in the hospital; strawberries glow therein when shortcake is a last summer's memory, and forced cucumbers remind us that we are taking ours in the form of dill pickles21. There is, perhaps, a choice head of cauliflower, so exquisite22 in its ivory and green perfection as to be fit for a bride's bouquet23; there are apples so flawless that if the garden of Eden grew any as perfect it is small wonder that Eve fell for them.
There are fresh mushrooms, and jumbo cocoanuts, and green almonds; costly24 things in beds of cotton nestle next to strange and marvelous things in tissue, wrappings. Oh, that window is no place for the hungry, the dissatisfied, or the man out of a job. When the air is filled with snow there is that in the sight of muskmelons which incites25 crime.
Queerly enough, the gazers before that window foot up the same, year in, and year out, something after this fashion:
Item: One anemic little milliner's apprentice26 in coat and shoes that even her hat can't redeem27.
Item: One sandy-haired, gritty-complexioned man, with a drooping28 ragged30 mustache, a tin dinner bucket, and lime on his boots.
Item: One thin mail carrier with an empty mail sack, gaunt cheeks, and an habitual31 droop29 to his left shoulder.
Item: One errand boy troubled with a chronic32 sniffle, a shrill33 and piping whistle, and a great deal of shuffling34 foot-work.
Item: One negro wearing a spotted35 tan topcoat, frayed36 trousers and no collar. His eyes seem all whites as he gazes.
Enough of the window. But bear it in mind while we turn to Jennie. Jennie's real name was Janet, and she was Scotch37. Canny38? Not necessarily, or why should she have been hungry and out of a job in January?
Jennie stood in the row before the window, and stared. The longer she stared the sharper grew the lines that fright and under-feeding had chiseled39 about her nose, and mouth, and eyes. When your last meal is an eighteen-hour-old memory, and when that memory has only near-coffee and a roll to dwell on, there is something in the sight of January peaches and great strawberries carelessly spilling out of a tipped box, just like they do in the fruit picture on the dining-room wall, that is apt to carve sharp lines in the corners of the face.
The tragic40 line dwindled41, going about its business. The man with the dinner pail and the lime on his boots spat42, drew the back of his hand across his mouth, and turned away with an ugly look. (Pork was up to $14.25, dressed.)
The errand boy's blithe43 whistle died down to a mournful dirge44.
He was window-wishing. His choice wavered between the juicy pears, and the foreign-looking red things that looked like oranges, and weren't. One hand went into his coat pocket, extracting an apple that was to have formed the piece de resistance of his noonday lunch. Now he regarded it with a sort of pitying disgust, and bit into it with the middle-of-the-morning contempt that it deserved.
The mail carrier pushed back his cap and reflectively scratched his head. How much over his month's wage would that green basket piled high with exotic fruit come to?
Jennie stood and stared after they had left, and another line had formed. If you could have followed her gaze with dotted lines, as they do in the cartoons, you would have seen that it was not the peaches, or the prickly pears, or the strawberries, or the muskmelon or even the grapes, that held her eye. In the center of that wonderful window was an oddly woven basket. In the basket were brown things that looked like sweet potatoes. One knew that they were not. A sign over the basket informed the puzzled gazer that these were maymeys from Cuba.
Maymeys from Cuba. The humor of it might have struck Jennie if she had not been so Scotch, and so hungry. As it was, a slow, sullen47, heavy Scotch wrath48 rose in her breast. Maymeys from Cuba.
The wantonness of it! Peaches? Yes. Grapes, even, and pears and cherries in snow time. But maymeys from Cuba—why, one did not even know if they were to be eaten with butter, or with vinegar, or in the hand, like an apple. Who wanted maymeys from Cuba? They had gone all those hundreds of miles to get a fruit or vegetable thing—a thing so luxurious49, so out of all reason that one did not know whether it was to be baked, or eaten raw. There they lay, in their foreign-looking basket, taunting50 Jennie who needed a quarter.
Have I told you how Jennie happened to be hungry and jobless? Well, then I sha'n't. It doesn't really matter, anyway. The fact is enough. If you really demand to know you might inquire of Mr. Felix Klein. You will find him in a mahogany office on the sixth floor. The door is marked manager. It was his idea to import Scotch lassies from Dunfermline for his Scotch linen51 department. The idea was more fetching than feasible.
There are people who will tell you that no girl possessing a grain of common sense and a little nerve need go hungry, no matter how great the city. Don't you believe them. The city has heard the cry of wolf so often that it refuses to listen when he is snarling52 at the door, particularly when the door is next door.
Where did we leave Jennie? Still standing53 on the sidewalk before the fruit and fancy goods shop, gazing at the maymeys from Cuba. Finally her Scotch bump of curiosity could stand it no longer. She dug her elbow into the arm of the person standing next in line.
"What are those?" she asked.
The next in line happened to be a man. He was a man without an overcoat, and with his chin sunk deep into his collar, and his hands thrust deep into his pockets. It looked as though he were trying to crawl inside himself for warmth.
"Those? That sign says they're maymeys from Cuba."
"I know," persisted Jennie, "but what are they?"
"Search me. Say, I ain't bothering about maymeys from Cuba. A couple of hot murphies from Ireland, served with a lump of butter, would look good enough to me."
"Do you suppose any one buys them?" marveled Jennie.
"Surest thing you know. Some rich dame54 coming by here, wondering what she can have for dinner to tempt46 the jaded55 palates of her dear ones, see? She sees them Cuban maymeys. 'The very thing!' she says. 'I'll have 'em served just before the salad.' And she sails in and buys a pound or two. I wonder, now, do you eat 'em with a fruit knife, or with a spoon?"
Jennie took one last look at the woven basket with its foreign contents. Then she moved on, slowly. She had been moving on for hours—weeks.
Most people have acquired the habit of eating three meals a day. In a city of some few millions the habit has made necessary the establishing of many thousands of eating places. Jennie would have told you that there were billions of these. To her the world seemed composed of one huge, glittering restaurant, with myriads56 of windows through which one caught maddening glimpses of ketchup57 bottles, and nickel coffee heaters, and piles of doughnuts, and scurrying59 waiters in white, and people critically studying menu cards. She walked in a maze60 of restaurants, cafes, eating-houses. Tables and diners loomed61 up at every turn, on every street, from Michigan Avenue's rose-shaded Louis the Somethingth palaces, where every waiter owns his man, to the white tile mausoleums where every man is his own waiter. Everywhere there were windows full of lemon cream pies, and pans of baked apples swimming in lakes of golden syrup62, and pots of baked beans with the pink and crispy slices of pork just breaking through the crust. Every dairy lunch mocked one with the sign of "wheat cakes with maple63 syrup and country sausage, 20 cents."
There are those who will say that for cases like Jennie's there are soup kitchens, Y. W. C. A.'s, relief associations, policemen, and things like that. And so there are. Unfortunately, the people who need them aren't up on them. Try it. Plant yourself, penniless, in the middle of State Street on a busy day, dive into the howling, scrambling64, pushing maelstrom65 that hurls66 itself against the mountainous and impregnable form of the crossing policeman, and see what you'll get out of it, provided you have the courage.
Desperation gave Jennie a false courage. On the strength of it she made two false starts. The third time she reached the arm of the crossing policeman, and clutched it. That imposing67 giant removed the whistle from his mouth, and majestically68 inclined his head without turning his gaze upon Jennie, one eye being fixed69 on a red automobile70 that was showing signs of sulking at its enforced pause, the other being busy with a cursing drayman who was having an argument with his off horse.
Jennie mumbled71 her question.
Said the crossing policeman:
"Getcher car on Wabash, ride to 'umpty-second, transfer, get off at Blank Street, and walk three blocks south."
Then he put the whistle back in his mouth, blew two shrill blasts, and the horde72 of men, women, motors, drays, trucks, cars, and horses swept over him, through him, past him, leaving him miraculously73 untouched.
Jennie landed on the opposite curbing74, breathing hard. What was that street? Umpty-what? Well, it didn't matter, anyway. She hadn't the nickel for car fare.
What did you do next? You begged from people on the street. Jennie selected a middle-aged75, prosperous, motherly looking woman. She framed her plea with stiff lips. Before she had finished her sentence she found herself addressing empty air. The middle-aged, prosperous, motherly looking woman had hurried on.
Well, then you tried a man. You had to be careful there. He mustn't be the wrong kind. There were so many wrong kinds. Just an ordinary looking family man would be best. Ordinary looking family men are strangely in the minority. There are so many more bull-necked, tan-shoed ones. Finally Jennie's eye, grown sharp with want, saw one. Not too well dressed, kind-faced, middle-aged.
She fell into step beside him.
"Please, can you help me out with a shilling?"
Jennie's nose was red, and her eyes watery76. Said the middle-aged family man with the kindly77 face:
"Beat it. You've had about enough I guess."
Jennie walked into a department store, picked out the oldest and most stationary78 looking floorwalker, and put it to him. The floorwalker bent79 his head, caught the word "food," swung about, and pointed80 over Jennie's head.
"Grocery department on the seventh floor. Take one of those elevators up."
Any one but a floorwalker could have seen the misery81 in Jennie's face. But to floorwalkers all women's faces are horrible.
Jennie turned and walked blindly toward the elevators. There was no fight left in her. If the floorwalker had said, "Silk negligees on the fourth floor. Take one of those elevators up," Jennie would have ridden up to the fourth floor, and stupidly gazed at pink silk and val lace negligees in glass cases.
Tell me, have you ever visited the grocery department of a great store on the wrong side of State Street? It's a mouth-watering experience. A department store grocery is a glorified82 mixture of delicatessen shop, meat market, and vaudeville. Starting with the live lobsters83 and crabs84 you work your hungry way right around past the cheeses, and the sausages, and the hams, and tongues, and head-cheese, past the blonde person in white who makes marvelous and uneatable things out of gelatine, through a thousand smells and scents—smells of things smoked, and pickled, and spiced, and baked and preserved, and roasted.
Jennie stepped out of the elevator, licking her lips. She sniffed86 the air, eagerly, as a hound sniffs87 the scent85. She shut her eyes when she passed the sugar-cured hams. A woman was buying a slice from one, and the butcher was extolling88 its merits. Jennie caught the words "juicy" and "corn-fed."
That particular store prides itself on its cheese department. It boasts that there one can get anything in cheese from the simple cottage variety to imposing mottled Stilton. There are cheeses from France, cheeses from Switzerland, cheeses from Holland. Brick and parmesan, Edam and limburger perfumed the atmosphere.
Behind the counters were big, full-fed men in white aprons89, and coats. They flourished keen bright knives. As Jennie gazed, one of them, in a moment of idleness, cut a tiny wedge from a rich yellow Swiss cheese and stood nibbling90 it absently, his eyes wandering toward the blonde gelatine demonstrator. Jennie swayed, and caught the counter. She felt horribly faint and queer. She shut her eyes for a moment. When she opened them a woman—a fat, housewifely, comfortable looking woman—was standing before the cheese counter. She spoke91 to the cheese man. Once more his sharp knife descended92 and he was offering the possible customer a sample. She picked it off the knife's sharp tip, nibbled93 thoughtfully, shook her head, and passed on. A great, glorious world of hope opened out before Jennie.
Her cheeks grew hot, and her eyes felt dry and bright as she approached the cheese counter.
"A bit of that," she said, pointing. "It doesn't look just as I like it."
"Very fine, madam," the man assured her, and turned the knife point toward her, with the infinitesimal wedge of cheese reposing95 on its blade. Jennie tried to keep her hand steady as she delicately picked it off, nibbled as she had seen that other woman do it, her head on one side, before it shook a slow negative. The effort necessary to keep from cramming96 the entire piece into her mouth at once left her weak and trembling. She passed on as the other woman had done, around the corner, and into a world of sausages. Great rosy97 mounds98 of them filled counters and cases. Sausage! Sneer99, you pate8 de foies grasers! But may you know the day when hunger will have you. And on that day may you run into linked temptation in the form of Braunschweiger Metwurst. May you know the longing100 that causes the eyes to glaze101 at the sight of Thuringer sausage, and the mouth to water at the scent of Cervelat wurst, and the fingers to tremble at the nearness of smoked liver.
Jennie stumbled on, through the smells and the sights. That nibble94 of cheese had been like a drop of human blood to a man-eating tiger. It made her bold, cunning, even while it maddened. She stopped at this counter and demanded a slice of summer sausage. It was paper-thin, but delicious beyond belief. At the next counter there was corned beef, streaked102 fat and lean. Jennie longed to bury her teeth in the succulent meat and get one great, soul-satisfying mouthful. She had to be content with her judicious103 nibbling. To pass the golden-brown, breaded pig's feet was torture. To look at the codfish balls was agony. And so Jennie went on, sampling, tasting, the scraps104 of food acting45 only as an aggravation105. Up one aisle106, and down the next she went. And then, just around the corner, she brought up before the grocery department's pride and boast, the Scotch bakery. It is the store's star vaudeville feature. All day long the gaping107 crowd stands before it, watching David the Scone108 Man, as with sleeves rolled high above his big arms, he kneads, and slaps, and molds, and thumps109 and shapes the dough58 into toothsome Scotch confections. There was a crowd around the white counters now, and the flat baking surface of the gas stove was just hot enough, and David the Scone Man (he called them Scuns) was whipping about here and there, turning the baking oat cakes, filling the shelf above the stove when they were done to a turn, rolling out fresh ones, waiting on customers. His nut-cracker face almost allowed itself a pleased expression—but not quite. David, the Scone Man, was Scotch (I was going to add, d'ye ken110, but I will not).
Jennie wondered if she really saw those things. Mutton pies! Scones111! Scotch short bread! Oat cakes! She edged closer, wriggling112 her way through the little crowd until she stood at the counter's edge. David, the Scone Man, his back to the crowd, was turning the last batch113 of oat cakes. Jennie felt strangely light-headed, and unsteady, and airy. She stared straight ahead, a half-smile on her lips, while a hand that she knew was her own, and that yet seemed no part of her, stole out, very, very slowly, and cunningly, and extracted a hot scone from the pile that lay in the tray on the counter. That hand began to steal back, more quickly now. But not quickly enough. Another hand grasped her wrist. A woman's high, shrill voice (why will women do these things to each other?) said, excitedly:
"Say, Scone Man! Scone Man! This girl is stealing something!"
A buzz of exclamations114 from the crowd—a closing in upon her—a whirl of faces, and counter, and trays, and gas stove. Jennie dropped with a crash, the warm scone still grasped in her fingers.
Just before the ambulance came it was the blonde lady of the impossible gelatines who caught the murmur115 that came from Jennie's white lips. The blonde lady bent her head closer. Closer still. When she raised her face to those other faces crowded near, her eyes were round with surprise.
"'S far's I can make out, she says her name's Mamie, and she's from Cuba. Well, wouldn't that eat you! I always thought they was dark complected."
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1
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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perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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vaudeville
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| n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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blase
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| adj.厌烦于享乐的 | |
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flips
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| 轻弹( flip的第三人称单数 )； 按（开关）； 快速翻转； 急挥 | |
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pate
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| n.头顶；光顶 | |
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delver
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| 有耐性而且勤勉的研究者，挖掘器 | |
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plagiarism
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| n.剽窃，抄袭 | |
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unprecedentedly
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| adv.空前地 | |
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tyro
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| n.初学者；生手 | |
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slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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deflect
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| v.(使)偏斜，(使)偏离，(使)转向 | |
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smolder
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| v.无火焰地闷烧；n.焖烧，文火 | |
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diabolically
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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plethoric
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| adj.过多的，多血症的 | |
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taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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pickles
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| n.腌菜( pickle的名词复数 )；处于困境；遇到麻烦；菜酱 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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incites
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| 刺激，激励，煽动( incite的第三人称单数 ) | |
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apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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canny
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| adj.谨慎的，节俭的 | |
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chiseled
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| adj.凿刻的，轮廓分明的v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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43
blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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dirge
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| n.哀乐，挽歌，庄重悲哀的乐曲 | |
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45
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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47
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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48
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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49
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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50
taunting
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| 嘲讽( taunt的现在分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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51
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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52
snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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53
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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54
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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55
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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56
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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57
ketchup
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| n.蕃茄酱，蕃茄沙司 | |
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58
dough
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| n.生面团；钱，现款 | |
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59
scurrying
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的现在分词 ) | |
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60
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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61
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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62
syrup
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| n.糖浆，糖水 | |
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63
maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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64
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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65
maelstrom
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| n.大乱动；大漩涡 | |
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66
hurls
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的第三人称单数 )；大声叫骂 | |
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67
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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68
majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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69
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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70
automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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71
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
horde
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| n.群众，一大群 | |
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73
miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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74
curbing
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| n.边石，边石的材料v.限制，克制，抑制( curb的现在分词 ) | |
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75
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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76
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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77
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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78
stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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79
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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80
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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81
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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83
lobsters
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| 龙虾( lobster的名词复数 )； 龙虾肉 | |
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84
crabs
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| n.蟹( crab的名词复数 )；阴虱寄生病；蟹肉v.捕蟹( crab的第三人称单数 ) | |
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85
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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86
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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87
sniffs
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的第三人称单数 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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88
extolling
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| v.赞美( extoll的现在分词 )；赞颂，赞扬，赞美( extol的现在分词 ) | |
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89
aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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90
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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91
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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92
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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93
nibbled
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的过去式和过去分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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94
nibble
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| n.轻咬，啃；v.一点点地咬，慢慢啃，吹毛求疵 | |
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95
reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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96
cramming
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| n.塞满，填鸭式的用功v.塞入( cram的现在分词 )；填塞；塞满；（为考试而）死记硬背功课 | |
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97
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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98
mounds
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| 土堆，土丘( mound的名词复数 )； 一大堆 | |
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99
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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100
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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101
glaze
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| v.因疲倦、疲劳等指眼睛变得呆滞，毫无表情 | |
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102
streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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103
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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104
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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105
aggravation
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| n.烦恼，恼火 | |
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106
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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107
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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108
scone
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| n.圆饼，甜饼，司康饼 | |
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109
thumps
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| n.猪肺病；砰的重击声( thump的名词复数 )v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的第三人称单数 ) | |
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110
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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111
scones
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| n.烤饼，烤小圆面包( scone的名词复数 ) | |
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112
wriggling
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的现在分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等）；蠕蠕 | |
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113
batch
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| n.一批(组，群)；一批生产量 | |
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114
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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115
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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