FROM 1905 and onwards I spent five long seasons in Upper Egypt. I was engaged during a part of that time in reproducing a series of eighteenth dynasty bas-reliefs for four different museums. By the courtesy of the Antiquities1 Department I was allowed the use of the hut built by the Egyptian Exploration Fund, when, under the direction of Professor Naville, the excavations2 of the Mentuhoteb temple at Thebes were begun. I joined the camp during the last season of its work there. I spent a delightful3 winter in the companionship of four enthusiastic excavators. The exciting finds while Professor Currelly was in charge of the camp, as well as the epoch-making discovery of the tomb of Queen Tyi in the Valley of the Tombs of the Kings, all tend to make the winter of 1905–1906 a memorable4 one in the annals of Egyptian research. It was an exciting time; but as these events, as well as my own work for the museums, has been given in detail in Below the Cataracts5, I propose now to recount some of the incidents which occurred since the Egyptian Exploration Fund broke up their camp to carry on their work at Abydos.
The reproduction of the bas-reliefs in the Hatshepsu179 temple, which I originally undertook rather as an experiment, brought me numerous commissions from various museums. The work was interesting as well as lucrative7; but after some months of it I yearned8 to get back to my water-colour drawings. I therefore engaged an artist in Paris to come out the following season to assist me. We then had the hut to ourselves, and we turned the antiquities store-room into a studio for such work as we had not to do in the temple itself.
We led the ‘simple life’ here with a vengeance10. We slept under the canopy11 of the starlit heavens; we fed on what our Arab cook could find in the village between us and the cultivated land, supplemented with preserves I had sent out from England; we rose with the sun and retired12 not very long after it had set. Hatshepsu’s temple rises in terraces a couple of hundred yards from the hut, and the foundations of the newly excavated13 shrine14 of Mentuhoteb lie beside it, the former more or less an enlarged copy of its neighbour of twelve centuries earlier date. An amphitheatre of imposing15 limestone16 cliffs backs the two ruins and divides us from the Valley of the Tombs of the Kings.
The great Theban necropolis spreads over the desert between us and the cultivation17, and stretches some two miles both to the north and to the south of our hut, the vast temple of Medinet Habu being at the southern extremity18 and the road to the Valley of the Kings at its northern end. In these two to three square miles of broken ground, raised above the limits of the Nile’s overflow19, can we read most of what is known of the history of Egypt from the Middle Empire up to the Mohammedan180 invasion. Little is known from the decline of the twelfth dynasty until the rise of the New Empire some five-and-thirty centuries past. But the story of the renaissance20 during the eighteenth dynasty, the conquests of the second and the third Rameses, as well as the gradual decline of the empire until the foreign domination, can be read here by the Egyptologist as in an open book. Of the rule of the Tanites, of the Libyans, and of the Ethiopians, we find fewer indications. Some remains21 remind us of the second renaissance during the late Egyptian period, and we are also reminded of Cambyses and the Persian domination, when we behold22 the overturned colossal23 image of Rameses. A beautiful little temple of Nektanebos carries us forward to when the Egyptians came by their own again.
The Ptolemaic fa?ade at Medinet Habu, the beautiful little shrine at Der el-Medineh, and the inner sanctuary24 of Hatshepsu’s temple remain as examples of the work done under the Ptolemies. If we go a mile beyond Medinet Habu we find a little temple of Isis erected25 by Hadrian and Antoninus Pius, and bearing the inscriptions26 of Vespasian, Domitian, and Otho.
The early Christians27 have left their mark in Hatshepsu’s shrine to Ammon Ra; unfortunately little of their constructive29 work is seen, but a great many obliterations of beautiful eighteenth dynasty bas-reliefs make us regret their pious30 zeal31. Until recently a partly ruined Christian28 church stood in the centre of the second court of the Rameses III. temple at Medinet Habu. Misplaced zeal on the part of Egyptologists caused this primitive32 place of Christian worship to be181 cleared away so as not to obstruct33 the view of the earlier building. A broader view of arch?ology might have spared such an interesting structure.
To settle down to a stay of seven consecutive34 months in an arid35 waste, surrounded by tombs and the crumbling36 remains of a bygone age, might strike the man in the street as holding out a gloomy prospect37. The idea that I had not been particularly favoured never entered my head till, after four or five months passed here, I received a visit from a relative. This lady had picked her way on a donkey, through a mile or more of pit tombs, rock tombs and broken mausoleums, on a hot and dusty day, before she reached my hut. After our greetings she remarked, ‘You must be fed up with this place by now.’ She asked me to come and stay, as her guest, in the huge new hotel which we could see from here outlined against the eastern horizon. That I had become an object of pity instead of one to be envied was a new and strange idea to me. To give up my free life in this fine air, surrounded as I was with an infinity38 of things which filled me with interest, and my only regret being that the days were far too short—to give this up to loaf about the hotel at Luxor amidst a crowd of people whose one object is to kill time—the very thought of it gave me a shudder39. I tried to console my kindly40 intentioned relative that she would think better of my locality when she had seen the beautiful things Hatshepsu’s temple had in store for her.
The beautiful series of reliefs illustrating41 the expedition to the Land of Punt, the presentation of Queen Aahmes to Ammon Ra and the divine birth182 of Hatshepsu, all executed during the best period of the eighteenth dynasty, did less to expel the gloomy thoughts of my relation than did the cup of tea which my Arab cook had prepared for her. The frank admission that the chipped and cracked examples of an archaic42 art did not appeal to her was refreshing43, and I began already to have my suspicions as to the genuineness of many exclamations44 of admiration45 I had heard.
Early Egyptian art must ever remain as caviare to the masses until they learn that art is not merely a slavish reproduction of some natural objects. They would do well to credit those who have studied it and who assure them that it is in truth a very great art, and that it well repays any intelligent person who approaches it with proper reverence46. The absence of perspective and of all foreshortening in these low reliefs shocks the tyro47, and he may express himself that the figures must be wrong when an attitude is depicted48 which it is impossible to hold. The mind, however, soon accepts these conventions and is free to admire the wonderful drawing of the outline, the sense of proportion, and the marvellously suggested modelling in a relief that seldom surpasses the eighth of an inch in thickness. Apart from the purely49 ?sthetic pleasure the eighteenth dynasty work gives us, it is a delight to be carried back to a remote age and to see depicted not only the gods and the kings, but the everyday life, with its joys and its sorrows, of a people who flourished more than three millenniums ago.
The past may seem too remote to awaken50 much sympathy in many who are always surrounded by the comforts of the present day. But if we enter into the183 life of the fellaheen who dwell in the villages where desert and cultivation meet, we find much in common between the early Egyptians and this country-folk.
Some actually live in the tombs, using the forecourts for their beasts. Where exceptionally interesting wall inscriptions exist in the ancient sepulchres, the Antiquities Department has stepped in and protected them from the risk of being damaged. The evicted51 tenants52 then build their homes nearer the cultivation. The one I give as an illustration to this chapter is a fair sample of a modern Theban homestead. The dress of the people has altered slightly from that of their remote ancestors, and the camel was presumably non-existent in pharaonic times; but little else has been changed. The rude bins53 made of dried mud are of early Egyptian rather than of Saracenic design. The stone in the right-hand corner with which the fellaha grinds the corn, finds its prototype on the walls of many an adjacent tomb.
The farming operations have little changed during this great lapse54 of time. The scenes depicted on the walls of the tomb of Nakht: the men reaping with sickles55, the women gleaning56; others packing the ears of corn or measuring the garnered57 grain—all this can be seen now, in any of these villages, and it is done in the same simple and primitive manner. The types of the labouring people are less changed than their simple garments. The women plucking durra or winnowing58 the corn in Nakht’s sepulchre might have been drawn59 from any of the women we now see carrying their pitchers60 of water from the wells. All are now followers184 of the Prophet save a few Coptic Christians; the worship of Isis gave way to that of the risen Christ, and the crescent has since replaced the cross. But many a superstition61 has survived these changes. The mental characteristics of the Upper Egyptian differ very much from those of the true bred Arab; it is therefore rational to believe that these have been transmitted as well as the cast of the features.
Some allowance must be made for the inhabitants of Gurna, the long straggling village at the base of the necropolis. Year after year tourists pass by its hovels, and from a coin thrown now and again to the children, a breed of beggars is replacing an otherwise hard-working people. The demand for ‘antikas’ has caused a supply of false ones, or tempted62 the men to steal from the temples whenever a favourable63 chance presents itself. Many have lost the habit of work in consequence of these evil influences; thus, on the whole, the Gurna peasants compare badly with those of less frequented villages.
185 With the exception of a few friends who were connected with the excavations, or an occasional visit from acquaintances who were spending a season in Upper Egypt, I saw few human beings beside the Gurna peasants. I endeavoured to see the best side of their natures, and to make allowances for the centuries of bad government under which they have existed. I found them not quite so bad as they are painted. Their ingratitude64, of which I had heard a good deal, can be explained in two ways; firstly, hospitality is a duty of the Mohammedan religion, and hospitality of a kind is expected and taken for granted. We are seldom grateful for what we consider our due. Secondly66, many favours conferred by the foreigner are little more than common humanity demands, and he is liable to place too high an estimate on what he may have done. Where too much gratitude65 was not expected for some service performed, I generally found that the fellah could be as grateful as the peasant nearer home.
Their greed for money is a characteristic which the tourist cannot fail to perceive; but the tourist seldom meets any of the fellaheen save those who live near the frequented ‘sights.’ The annual influx67 of sightseers has become as a crop, to these peasants, from which a harvest should be gathered. In their eyes the Sauwah?n are all millionaires, and, according to the oriental mind, the rich man should pay out of the abundance of his riches, and not necessarily in proportion to the services rendered. Our medi?val ‘largess’ was taken in that light by our forebears, and corresponds very much to the fellaheen’s notion of baksheesh. This is not expected of those who live and work amongst them, for ‘How can a man be rich if he works daily with his hands?’ Baksheesh from such as myself would be expected not as largess, but more as a gratuity68 after a certain period of service.
I remember a man asking where the Beled es-Sauwah?n was, that is, the ‘Land of the Foreigners.’ On being told that the English, the French and Germans, who were all Sauwah?n, had each a separate country, my questioner retorted, ‘But surely you are not one of them?’ I told him that as I was an186 Englishman, I was of course one of them, and I, in my turn asking him a few questions, managed to arrive at his views on the subject. He was aware that there existed beyond the seas a land of the Ingleesi, also one of the Fransowi, and one of the Nemsawi; but besides these there was a land of the Sauwah?n, a rich people who apparently69 did no work, and annually70 migrated to the south to visit the temples and tombs of the ancient Egyptians for some obscure purpose which he had not quite fathomed71.
They are superstitious72 to a greater degree than the pure Arab, who, to my thinking, is less so than most other illiterate73 people, and it would be an interesting study to sift74 the superstitions75 which date back to the Pantheism of the early Egyptians from those which have been imported since the Mohammedan invasion.
They seem to credit every foreigner who lives amongst them with a certain amount of medical knowledge, and when their own treatment will have failed in its object, any European living amongst them may expect a visit from the sufferer. A supply of Epsom salts and a solution of boracic acid, left in my hut by the last tenants, did duty for most internal and external complaints which were brought to me during my first season; and these remedies, largely assisted by the antiseptic air of the desert, soon established my reputation as a hakeem. The remedies being gratis76, and a bottle thrown in, it is possible that the bottle may have attracted some of my patients. There is a well-appointed hospital at Luxor to which I vainly tried to persuade many to apply. Wild stories of imaginary horrors187 practised there, and the usual fear that some means would be used to extract money from them, prevents many an excellent hospital from being the blessing77 it should be.
A painful case that was brought to my notice decided78 me to augment79 not only my medical stores, but also to gain some elementary knowledge as to first-aid treatment. In early November scorpions81 are still active, and are not hibernating82, as they do while the tourist’s season is on, and only those who live here in the hot season have any idea what a pest scorpions can be. The case in point was that of a little girl who had been stung, and the father hurried round to my hut to ask me for a remedy. The only treatment I had then heard of was to take alcohol in sufficient quantities to counteract83 the poison of the scorpion80. As the child was only eleven years old, I put more water than whisky in the bottle, and told the man to give his girl a teaspoonful84 about every half-hour, and to be careful to keep the wound clean. I saw the man the next day, and he told me that the child was well again; how far he had applied85 the whisky solution I could not tell. A suspicion crossed my mind that he had probably drunk the whisky, and possibly rubbed the wound with the empty bottle. The child, however, being well, I thought no more about it till I again met the man, a week or so later. I playfully remarked that I hoped no more whisky might be required for scorpion stings, and received the startling answer that the child was dead. The man took his loss in the resigned fatalistic manner of most Mohammedans. ‘It was the will of Allah, and we must accept that as all for the best.’
188 I sent a letter the next day to the dispensary which is attached to the American mission, and begged the man in charge of it to supply me with any known remedies for the sting of the scorpion, and also to kindly write out how the remedies should be applied. My servant brought back two preparations of ammonia, some lint87, and detailed88 instructions how to use them. There was no mention of alcohol, so I trusted that my suspicions as to who had swallowed my whisky had been well founded.
As we got into December, we heard and saw little of scorpions, and, during the season of hibernation89, I forgot about these creatures as well as about the remedies, till a very rude reminder90 of their existence brought one and the other back to me.
While lifting up some stones in the Ramesseum so as to arrange a level place to stand my sketching-stool, I put my hand inadvertently on a sleeping scorpion. He was soon awake, and the sting I got in my hand caused the most acute physical pain I can ever remember. I was a mile away from my hut and the remedies; but remembering the first instructions, I endeavoured to tie my handkerchief tightly round my wrist, so as to stop the poison, which I felt shooting up my arm. I could not manage this with one hand, and had to call in the assistance of two American ladies who happened to be viewing the temple. When one kindly tied the handkerchief as tight as I could stand, the shooting pains up my arm lessened91, and the poison then worked its way to my finger-tips. My good Samaritan tried to induce me to mount her ass9 and ride into Luxor to see a189 doctor. This and the crossing of the Nile would have taken me over an hour, and the pain in my finger-tips became too acute to make an hour of it even thinkable. Besides which, I was keen on trying my new remedies.
The treatment which my missionary92 friend had written out worked very well; the application of ammonia to the wound, and the drops taken internally, soon had some effect, and Ebers’s Bride of the Nile, which I was reading, and on which I tried hard to concentrate my thoughts, probably did some good also. A native acquaintance called to suggest a cure. I was to repeat certain words accompanied by some signs, and I know not what else, for I was not in the mood to take his instructions in. Not wishing, however, to throw cold water on his good intentions, I told him that, good as his remedy might be, I was afraid that it might act counter to the one I was trying. The cabalistic words and signs might not agree with the ammonia treatment prescribed by one who had no belief in these words, and my friend admitted that he had never thought of that. I also pretended to fall asleep, and succeeded thereby93 in ridding myself of my well-intentioned visitor.
A peculiar94 stiffness hung about my finger-joints for nearly a week and then left me; it was my left hand, so it did not interfere95 with my work. One detail I had omitted may be well to mention, in case a reader be similarly circumstanced, and that is, when using some sharp instrument to open the puncture96 so as to squeeze out as much poison as possible, be sure to disinfect190 this instrument properly. I imagined a good wipe of the hypodermic syringe I used for the purpose would be a sufficient precaution; but a sore place which took some time to heal has taught me in future either to dip the instrument into carbolic acid, or, failing that, to heat it in the flame of a candle before trying any surgical97 operations with it.
No patients from scorpion stings applied to me again, for the death of the poor little girl may have been put to my charge. As an eye doctor I was in great request. Dirt being the chief cause of the complaints, a wash with the boracic solution did no harm, and generally did some good. Some brought blind people to my hut—rather a lot to expect from a little boracic acid! Some cases were probably only cataract6, and quite curable; but say what I would, I could not persuade these people to go to the Luxor hospital.
Since then I hear that a member of the Khedivial family has devoted98 a large sum of money to send properly equipped medical men to the villages to see how far they can cope with the various eye maladies. A wiser and better charity it is hard to conceive. Had my patients dwelt in the towns or on the cultivated land, my cures might have been few and far between. The pure desert air had much to do with my healings.
I mentioned the case of the little girl who had died to a medical friend who happened to be spending the season at Luxor. In his opinion the poison from the scorpion was not the cause of the death; but when picking at the little wound some poisonous matter must have got in and caused blood-poisoning.
191 I went out the next season more fully86 provided with medical stores, and our good doctor in Haslemere had given me some hints as to bandaging a wound and applying first-aid treatment. I had not long to wait before putting my freshly acquired knowledge to a test. One of the guards at the Hatshepsu temple trod with his naked foot on a jagged bottle end which some careless picnickers had left there. It was a ghastly wound, and though I told the man I would pay for a donkey to take him to Luxor, and would see that he lost no wages while he might be laid up, he would not go, and preferred taking the risk of losing his foot. As all persuasion100 failed, I set to work to do my best. I washed his foot and bandaged it with the antiseptic material I had, and sent him home with a broomstick for a crutch101. He and the broomstick appeared early next morning to have the wound dressed, and his visits were repeated twice daily for the best part of a week. The rapidity with which that foot healed up made me doubt as to whether I had not missed my vocation102. No London surgeon could have effected a cure as rapidly with all his experience and his up-to-date appliances. But lest I should become too conceited103, I reflected that the London surgeon had neither the desert air to operate in, nor had he as abstemious104 patients as mine was. No strong drinks had ever heated his blood, and his simple fare was sufficient for the easy work he had to do, but not enough to produce the acids of the often overfed Britisher.
Now this man was grateful for the trouble I had taken, and I’ll be bound to say, more so than many192 London hospital patients who take all that is gratuitously105 done for them as a matter of course.
He tried to show his gratitude one day in a manner I had to decline. I found him shaving the head of his fellow-guard with pieces of broken glass. I watched him for some time performing this dry shave: he would break a piece off a bottle and then jag the sharp edge over his mate’s skull106. When the edge was blunted, he would break off another piece of glass and continue the operation, till finally the head appeared as free of hair as a billiard ball. It took the best part of an afternoon to complete the job to his satisfaction. It was past the season when visitors to the temple might be expected, and time was therefore of no object. Seeing that my hair wanted cutting badly, my late patient seriously offered to shave my head in like manner.
I dislike long hair, especially in hot weather, but I thought I might dislike the broken glass still more. Neither I nor my assistant from Paris wished to lose a whole day by going to Luxor to visit the hairdresser, and the latter decided that he would let our cook try his hand on his head. Our cook appeared to be as expert a barber as the temple guard, and time being rather more valuable to him, he cleared the hair off my companion’s head very quickly.
Even this did not encourage me to submit to the operation, and I reflected that as my time was more valuable than that of a native Luxor barber, I would get a barber from thence to come to me. I also prefer these artists in hair to use my own brushes to any they may themselves possess. The brushes were, however, of little use, for there was nothing to brush for a fortnight after the Luxor hairdresser’s visit.
193 I have no picture of the broken bottle school of barber; but I painted one of the craft, at a recent date, plying99 his trade in a street in Cairo. He had a pair of scissors to take off the main crop, and a dry shave (where no blood was spilt) followed with a razor. He got through his job very much quicker than the amateurs at Der el-Bahri, but he did not do it as cleanly. While I painted my street corner, I noticed several heads the worse for the razor, and though some talk as to the charge for the operation usually preceded it, there were seldom any complaints about the cuts in the scalps.
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antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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excavations
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| n.挖掘( excavation的名词复数 )；开凿；开凿的洞穴（或山路等）；（发掘出来的）古迹 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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cataracts
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| n.大瀑布( cataract的名词复数 )；白内障 | |
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cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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lucrative
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| adj.赚钱的，可获利的 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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excavated
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| v.挖掘( excavate的过去式和过去分词 )；开凿；挖出；发掘 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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limestone
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| n.石灰石 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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constructive
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| adj.建设的，建设性的 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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obstruct
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| v.阻隔，阻塞(道路、通道等)；n.阻碍物，障碍物 | |
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consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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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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illustrating
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的现在分词 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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archaic
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| adj.(语言、词汇等)古代的，已不通用的 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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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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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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tyro
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| n.初学者；生手 | |
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depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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evicted
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| v.（依法从房屋里或土地上）驱逐，赶出( evict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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bins
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| n.大储藏箱( bin的名词复数 )；宽口箱（如面包箱，垃圾箱等）v.扔掉，丢弃( bin的第三人称单数 ) | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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sickles
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| n.镰刀( sickle的名词复数 ) | |
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gleaning
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| n.拾落穗，拾遗，落穗v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的现在分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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garnered
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| v.收集并（通常）贮藏（某物），取得，获得( garner的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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winnowing
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| v.扬( winnow的现在分词 )；辨别；选择；除去 | |
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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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pitchers
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| 大水罐( pitcher的名词复数 ) | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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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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ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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influx
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| n.流入，注入 | |
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gratuity
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| n.赏钱，小费 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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annually
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| adv.一年一次，每年 | |
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fathomed
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| 理解…的真意( fathom的过去式和过去分词 )； 彻底了解； 弄清真相 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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sift
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| v.筛撒，纷落，详察 | |
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superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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gratis
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| adj.免费的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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augment
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| vt.(使)增大，增加，增长，扩张 | |
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scorpion
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| n.蝎子，心黑的人，蝎子鞭 | |
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scorpions
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| n.蝎子( scorpion的名词复数 ) | |
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hibernating
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| （某些动物）冬眠，蛰伏( hibernate的现在分词 ) | |
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counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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teaspoonful
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| n.一茶匙的量；一茶匙容量 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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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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lint
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| n.线头；绷带用麻布，皮棉 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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hibernation
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| n.冬眠 | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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puncture
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| n.刺孔，穿孔；v.刺穿，刺破 | |
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surgical
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| adj.外科的，外科医生的，手术上的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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101
crutch
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| n.T字形拐杖；支持，依靠，精神支柱 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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103
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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104
abstemious
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| adj.有节制的，节俭的 | |
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105
gratuitously
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| 平白 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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