THE first six years of our married life were spent in New York City. Here we shared with my husband’s brother, Rowland Minturn Hall, and his two sisters, Elizabeth Prescott Hall and Frances Minturn Hall, the family home at No. 208 Second Avenue.
During this period our three older children were born, hence my time was much occupied with them. As my husband cared little for society, our life was extremely quiet, our social gaieties being for the most part confined to a pleasant family circle.
My mother thus recorded the event in her journal:
September 13.—Before I open even my New Testament5 to-day I must make record of the joyful6 birth of Flossy’s little son, which took place soon after 1 A.M.... The boy is a handsome infant.... I quieted him until 5 A.M., when I slept two hours. God bless this dear little child. May he bring new peace and love to the house where he comes a little too soon for convenience—I mean for his uncle and aunts Hall. His father and mother will bless God for him, as I do.
When I heard the baby’s first cry it seemed to me the sweetest music to which I had ever listened. The nurse had formerly7 been a Shaker, and soothed8 the child with quaint9 melodies of that sect10.
And shall He not my wants supply
With everything I need?
The air was old, having little quavers savoring13 of the “tie-wig” period. Sammy was a nervous child and required much quieting. He took his daily nap out of doors, winter and summer. He was the first grandson, sister Laura’s first child, born a month or two before, being a daughter.
We named him for the two families, Samuel after my father, and Prescott for my husband’s great-grandmother, Elizabeth Prescott, wife of the Rev14. David Hall. She was descended15 from the Rev. Peter Bulkley, the founder16 of Concord17, Massachusetts, and the lineal descendant of stout18 old Baron19 Bulkley, one of the men who wrested20 Magna Charta from King John and thus laid the foundations of the liberties of England and America.
Samuel Prescott, my husband’s great-greatuncle, accompanied Paul Revere21 on his famous ride. It must be confessed, however, that his errand was in part, at least, one of sentiment, as he was going to see his sweetheart in Concord. When Paul Revere was captured, Prescott escaped and carried the news of the coming of the British to Concord. His name is duly inscribed22 on one of the sign-posts which indicate to the passer-by all the historic spots of the ancient town. I dislike this excess of labeling which leaves nothing to the imagination.
When I told my father that we should name our boy for him, substituting Prescott for Gridley because the latter was such an ugly name, he replied very quietly that it belonged to a good old New England family. Boasting about one’s ancestry23 was so repugnant to him that he did not think proper to tell us that Richard Gridley had been a distinguished24 engineer during the Revolution, while Samuel, his grandfather and namesake, had served as captain in the former’s artillery25 regiment26.
Many times have I regretted not giving my son his grandfather’s full name. He has atoned27 for my failure to do so by calling his son “Samuel Gridley.”
I had an excellent nurse to take care of the children, but the youngest always slept in our room. With Sam we had some terrible moments, owing to our extreme zeal28 in tucking him up. As he disliked the process, he often waked up and gave tongue. One night my husband grew so desperate that he proposed taking the baby down to the dining-room, two flights below, and allowing him to cry until he was tired! In reality, he was a most affectionate parent, but this wild utterance29 relieved his feelings!
I did groan30 sometimes about the loss of sleep. I remember with a blush that I foolishly made a complaint to a kinswoman of my husband’s, wife of the Mr. Grinnell who financed the Arctic Expedition. She was a calm, elderly lady who had borne nine children. It is to be feared that she thought David Hall’s wife was a grumbling31 young woman!
At the time of our marriage my husband and I were not aware of any relationship existing between us. Some years later old General Greene, a devoted32 genealogist33, proved to us that a distant kinsmanship existed through the Greenes. People of Rhode Island descent almost inevitably34 have ancestors belonging to this family. Like the Legion of Honor, it is hard to escape from.
We had, also, a number of mutual35 relations, for two of his aunts, the Misses Eliza and Maria Hall, had married two of my greatuncles, Henry and William Ward36. Evidently the families possessed37 mutual attraction. This did not prevent the two clans38 from taking a high attitude of impartial39 criticism each toward the other. I found, to my surprise, the traits which we had supposed to be Hall—and which we mildly criticized, were, on the contrary, Ward. They had been acquired by the Halls on their marriage with the latter family, so I was told!
These mutual relatives welcomed me very kindly40 to New York. Just across the way lived two cousins, Mr. and Mrs. Charles H. Ward, to whom we were much attached. Cousin Mary was only related to us by marriage, but her husband’s relatives were delighted to adopt her as their own. To her joyous41 and generous soul it was a great pleasure to make other people happy. In her youth she had had so many admirers that it was jokingly said she had gone through the alphabet and stopped at “W” because that was as far as she could go! One young man fell so much in love with her that he disguised himself as a gardener and entered her father’s employ.
The most intimate friend of my girlhood, Louise Darling, had preceded me to New York. She had entered the Protestant Episcopal Sisterhood of Saint Mary, and was now Sister Constance. Her friends and parents had in vain remonstrated42 against this step. Yet we might have seen that it was in accord with her natural bent43 of mind. Brought up as a Unitarian, she had always been very devout44, and while still very young had contemplated45 becoming a missionary46. Not long after leaving school she became a convert to the Episcopal faith, devoting herself enthusiastically to church work.
When she entered the convent her heavy, beautiful blond hair was all cut off, for St. Mary’s is a High Church sisterhood. In her girdle of black rope were tied three knots, representing the three vows47 of poverty, chastity and obedience48. The late Rev. Morgan Dix, at that time a single man, was the Father Confessor of the establishment. I never could understand by what process of logic49 he could reconcile his encouragement of celibacy50 in such a young, enthusiastic woman as my friend, with his own later entrance into matrimony. Perhaps he changed his mind—but Sister Constance had taken the vows!
The sisterhood did not spend all their time in devotional exercises, but engaged also in good works. Sister Constance painted religious pictures and taught in the school. She seemed entirely51 happy in her new life. I went to see her whenever I could, but she could not call upon us—or she thought she could not. She was one of those persons who carry out thoroughly52 whatever they had undertaken.
After our marriage Uncle Richard Ward kindly invited us to come and live with him. Although we did not accept the offer, it was gratifying.
The furniture and effects of No. 8 Bond Street belonged to Uncle John Ward, who had died some years before. On the death of Uncle Richard they were divided among the eight heirs of the former. The uncles had occupied the roomy, old-fashioned house for many years. Not only their own possessions, but those of their relatives, had accumulated. Furniture, busts53 and pictures which were not wanted for the moment were left under the hospitable54 care of Uncle John. The result was a perfect maze55 of possessions, some of them belonging to the estate of my grandfather, who had died thirty-five years before, some to Aunt Louisa Terry, who was living in Rome.
What we should have done without my mother I do not know. Her excellent memory gave us the history of each doubtful piece. That set of furniture was bought by Grandfather Ward when Uncle Sam married Emily Astor and the young couple came to live with him at the corner house. Those pictures belonged to grandfather’s gallery; the Copley portraits of our ancestors had been purchased by Uncle John. The other heirs wisely left these details to her judgment56. The main division took a little time, but was accomplished57 without much difficulty. The heirs or their representatives had several meetings and chose what they wanted. My aunt, Mrs. Mailliard, who was living in California, gave her share as a weddingpresent to her three married Howe nieces, Julia, Florence, and Laura. Hence I attended the meetings, as representing one of the eight heirs.
The other heirs, the main business over, departed with light hearts. It was left for Cousin John Ward and me to attend to the final details. Days and weeks passed over our devoted heads and found us still at our task. A faithful old retainer lived in the house and aided us in our work.
I noticed one singular fact—articles of furniture which no one wanted in the division assumed a priceless value when they were gone beyond recall. Did Cousin John and I, in solemn conclave58, agree to sell, for the benefit of the eight heirs, a mahogany bedstead, then every one regretted our rash act.
Over Aunt Phebe’s knitting we pondered long and earnestly. It was a half-finished stocking and the wool was moth-eaten, for Greataunt Phebe had been dead for years. We decided59 to run the risk of sacrilege and destroy it. When Cousin John counted the great piles of plates he shut his eyes, saying it was easier for him to count in that way.
A death-mask found in the attic60 was hard to identify. When Uncle Sam called at No. 8 Bond Street, it was shown to him. “That is Maddie’s mother,” he said. I was grieved to have asked unwittingly such a painful question, for Maddie’s mother was his first wife, Emily Astor, who had died many years before. “Maddie” was their daughter, Margaret Astor Ward, afterward61 Mrs. Winthrop Chanler. Uncle Sam’s phrasing of his answer showed his tact62 and desire to avoid making me feel I had committed a stupid blunder.
My aunt’s present to us was a handsome one, even a third of an eighth representing quite a share of silver, furniture, etc. I also figured as a sort of residuary legatee, the heirs making me a number of presents ranging from a great mahogany bedstead down to small domestic articles of furniture. Hence I was well repaid for the trouble involved.
My father still walked with a light, quick step and maintained his gallant63 bearing till he was seventy-two years old. Soon afterward his health began to fail, but in spite of pain and weakness he kept at work. In 1874 he wrote a brief report of his life-work for the blind, of which it has been said:
“Were there no other monument to his memory, this would suffice.”
He still enjoyed his favorite exercise, riding on horseback, and took great pleasure in his grandchildren. In spite of his extremely busy life he had always found time to write to his children—were it only a few affectionate lines. Two notes to sister Julia lie before me.
Continental64, Philadelphia,
April 13, Sunday.
Darling Dudie,—Journeying homeward from Washington I was obliged to lie over here by sick headache, which, however, is passing away.
Washington is looking beautifully in the full bloom of spring. It is not cheering to leave it for the cold and still wintry north, except when one thinks of the sunlight of dear faces and the warmth of loving hearts.
Love to Michael.
Papa.
Glen, Sunday, Sept. 7th, ’73.
Mamma and I had the most charming and felicitous68 journey down that is conceivable....
The peace and quiet, however, is sadly broken in upon to-day, and the confusion half-crazes me. Besides our immediate69 three selves there are the two dear mothers[11] and two dear babies; and two nurses and Zalinski and Maud Parks and Girlie [?] Blackler, three men, two women and Pad [Miss Paddock]—nineteen, all told!
The day is delicious indeed. I have taken both babies to ride on horseback, and enjoyed their sweet enjoyment70.
Laura and some of them have been to see Parker Lawton and carried to him fruit and flowers.
I sent also a basket this afternoon to your old protégée Miss Taggart.
Dear love to the ascetic71 Epirote and to all friends and the residuary legatee of all my affections.
Papa.
When he died in January, 1876, beautiful tributes were paid to his memory by all sorts and conditions of men—from the Governor and Legislature down to the feeble-minded children whom he had brought into the human fold. A great memorial meeting was held in his honor, where Laura Bridgman, with her pale, sorrow-stricken face, was “the silent orator72 of the occasion.”
11. Sister Laura and I.
From the poem of Oliver Wendell Holmes, I quote a few verses:
How long the wreck-strewn journey seems
To reach the far-off past
That woke his youth from peaceful dreams
With Freedom’s trumpet-blast!
Along her classic hillsides rung
The Paynims’ battle-cry,
For her to live or die.
No trustier service claimed the wreath
For Sparta’s bravest son;
No truer soldier sleeps beneath
The mould of Marathon.
Edward Everett Hale said, in part:
You ask for his epitaph. It is a very simple epitaph. He found idiots chattering75, taunted76, and ridiculed77 by each village fool, and he left them cheerful and happy. He found the insane shut up in their wretched cells, miserable78, starving, cold, and dying, and he left them happy, hopeful, and brave. He found the blind sitting in darkness and he left them glad in the sunshine of the love of God.
The simplest tribute of all came from the poor children to whose minds he had brought light.
“They say Doctor Howe will take care of the blind in heaven. Won’t he take care of us, too?”
London, June 7, ’77.
Dear Mrs. Howe,—It is like a breath from Heaven to one’s overworked and well-nigh overwhelmed mind, your Memoir of one of the best and greatest men of our age, and your remembrance.
You have shown his many-sided life as known to few. You have shown in him a rarer and more fruitful man than even we, who had known and loved him for so long, knew.
What has been a revealing to us of him will be even more so for the crowd of your readers who knew him but by the dramatic Greek life: and by his work among the blind, deaf mutes and idiots. No one will know him quite till after you have been read. That is the privilege of your community with him—with his unconsciously heroic life. A great duty has been fulfilled in making known his sympathy for every kind of misfortune,—his love of helping80 humanity, so to speak, ancient and modern,—his generous and persevering81 devotion to right,—his noble horror of helpless pity,—his indomitable faith in progress; thanks to you.
And how little he thought of reputation! That was the noblest thing of all.
The pressure of ever-increasing illness and business—how little I thought to survive him—makes it difficult for me to write one unnecessary line. Our common friends, Mr. and Mrs. Bracebridge, Dr. Fowler, and how many others, are all gone before us.
In their names and in his name I bid with all my heart,
Fare you very well,
Florence Nightingale.
On the anniversary of my birth, our only daughter, Caroline Minturn Hall, was born at Portsmouth, near Newport, Rhode Island. One of her pictures exhibited at the Paris Salon82 shows the beloved landscape of “Oak Glen,” which adjoins her birthplace.
When our second son, Henry Marion Hall, was born, we moved to the country, in order to give our three children greater liberty and more fresh air than they could enjoy in the city. For fifteen years we lived in Scotch83 Plains, a pretty, quaint old New Jersey town lying at the foot of the Watchung Mountains. The countryside in 1878 was still in a primitive84 condition. Scotch Plains was almost destitute85 of “modern conveniences,” the gods of the servant-girl. A delusive86 bath-tub appeared very effective until you found that it was necessary to drag all the hot water up-stairs. We had a series of pumps indoors and out, but no set wash-tubs.
There was neither gas, electricity, nor steam heat. We burned kerosene-oil and my husband wrestled87 with the hot-air furnace, which required such devotion that he christened it his black wife.
Gradually all these things were improved, by persistent88 effort. Our landlord, young Doctor Coles, was our good friend, whom we persuaded to make many improvements. But in the beginning housekeeping was very difficult. Cooks looked upon us with an unfavorable eye, especially as there was no Roman Catholic Church in the town.
My visits to the intelligence office were frequent and plaintive89. Our neighbor, Mr. B——, grew desperate over the situation. When he was asked the searching question, “How many in fam’ly, sir?” he replied: “Seven children. But I will make away with some of them if you think that is too many!”
Some of our adventures were very funny—in the retrospect90. One green cook was much disturbed in mind about the asparagus. She could not wait for my promised help, but prepared the vegetable by neatly91 whittling92 off the tops. Great was the grief of our children, as this was the first asparagus of the season.
Another cook of an ingenious turn of mind saved herself the trouble of going down one flight of stairs to fill her bedroom pitcher93 by immersing it in the tank in the attic. My husband could not understand why it took comparatively few strokes of the pump to fill the tank—which soon became empty again.
One night our little daughter was disturbed by plaster falling on her face as she lay in bed. A glance at the ceiling revealed the cause. The stalwart foot and leg of the cook protruded94 from it! In going to dip her pitcher into the tank she had unwarily deviated95 from the narrow pathway which led to it, putting her foot through the unprotected lath and plaster!
Perhaps the most singular Irish bull was that of the functionary96 who had been directed to make the sandwiches “half jelly and half mutton.” When we were well started on our travels we tasted the luncheon97. It was horribly queer. Suddenly the truth flashed upon me! The literal-minded cook had combined these warring materials in every sandwich!
The mistress made some mistakes as well as the cook. Seeing a material of the color of the gingerbread often made in New England, I unhesitatingly mixed it with the batter98. When the supposititious gingerbread came on the table it was very heavy and quite uneatable. Something must have been wrong with the oven! The next time I began to make gingerbread the cook caught my hand. “Oh, Mrs. Hall! Don’t put that in! That’s mustard.” My family were mercilessly merry over this mistake.
I described the misadventure in Demorest’s Magazine, receiving five dollars for the article. Thus every time any one poked99 fun at me about the mustard gingerbread I countered with the five dollars! Better still, by persistent efforts I learned—from Marion Harland’s excellent receipt-book—to make gingerbread that appeared seraphic to my children.
When my husband once heartlessly observed that our sons could never twit their wives with mother’s cooking, a chorus went around the table, “Oh, but Mamma makes such lovely gingerbread!” And so I was honorably avenged100.
Fortunately we had a tower of strength in the children’s faithful nurse, Mary Thompson. When cooks periodically failed us she valiantly101 walked into the kitchen and did their work, as well as her own.
It must be confessed that Mary did not get along very well with the various cooks. She was greatly their superior in intelligence and character, as she well knew. Hence she did not always take enough pains to be agreeable to the reigning102 queen of the kitchen. One woman complained to me of this. “There we sit at table like two dumb brutes103!” she indignantly remarked.
In spite of all the troubles and trials of suburban104 life my husband and I greatly enjoyed having a house of our own.
I was very anxious that my old friend, Sister Constance, should visit us during her summer vacation. She was at this time established at the head of a branch sisterhood in Memphis, Tennessee. Her parents had unavailingly remonstrated with the authorities over this change of domicile, for a Southern climate did not agree with her.
In reply to my letter of invitation, she wrote me she was so tired that it was an effort to get up and walk across the room! A violent epidemic105 of yellow fever suddenly broke out in her home district. Exhausted106 as she was, she did not hesitate, but returned at once to the post of duty. In ten days she was dead!
When she lay dying they asked if she was ready to go. “Aye, glad!” she replied. So died, at the age of thirty-two, a woman who gave her life for her people as truly and as nobly as any hero of the modern war!
I have always blamed the Mother Superior for permitting this useless sacrifice. It was self-evident that in Sister Constance’s exhausted condition she would at once fall a prey107 to the dreaded108 scourge109. She should have been detained at the North long enough to recruit her strength before exposing her to an ordeal110 for which she was physically111 unfit.
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jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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commuter
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| n.(尤指市郊之间)乘公交车辆上下班者 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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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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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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ravens
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| n.低质煤；渡鸦( raven的名词复数 ) | |
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mead
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| n.蜂蜜酒 | |
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savoring
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| v.意味，带有…的性质( savor的现在分词 )；给…加调味品；使有风味；品尝 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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wrested
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| （用力）拧( wrest的过去式和过去分词 )； 费力取得； （从…）攫取； （ 从… ） 强行取去… | |
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revere
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| vt.尊崇，崇敬，敬畏 | |
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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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distinguished
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artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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atoned
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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zeal
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utterance
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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grumbling
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devoted
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genealogist
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| 系谱学者 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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possessed
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clans
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| 宗族( clan的名词复数 )； 氏族； 庞大的家族； 宗派 | |
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impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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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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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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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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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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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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vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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celibacy
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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53
busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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54
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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conclave
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| n.秘密会议，红衣主教团 | |
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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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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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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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felicitous
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| adj.恰当的，巧妙的；n.恰当，贴切 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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76
taunted
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| 嘲讽( taunt的过去式和过去分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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memoir
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| n.[pl.]回忆录，自传；记事录 | |
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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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persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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82
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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83
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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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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delusive
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| adj.欺骗的，妄想的 | |
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87
wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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90
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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whittling
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| v.切，削（木头），使逐渐变小( whittle的现在分词 ) | |
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93
pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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deviated
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| v.偏离，越轨( deviate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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98
batter
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| v.接连重击；磨损；n.牛奶面糊；击球员 | |
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99
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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100
avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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101
valiantly
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| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
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102
reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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103
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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104
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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105
epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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106
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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107
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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108
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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109
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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110
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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111
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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