Somerset also possesses a long coast-line and some miles of sea-cliffs, but the colonies of jackdaws found here are small compared with those of the Mendip range. The inland-cliff breeding daws that inhabit the valley of the Somerset Axe9 alone probably greatly outnumber all the daws in Middlesex, or Surrey, or Essex.
Finally, besides the cliffs and woods, there are the old towns and villages—small towns and villages with churches that are almost like cathedrals. No county in England is richer in noble churches, and no kind of building seems more attractive to the "ecclesiastical daw" than the great Perpendicular10 tower of the Glastonbury type, which is so common here.
Of the old towns which the bird loves and inhabits in numbers, Wells comes first. If Wells had no birds it would still be a city one could not but delight in. There are not more than half a dozen towns [Pg_60] in all the country where (if I were compelled to live in towns) life would not seem something of a burden; and of these, two are in Somerset—Bath and Wells. Of the former something will be said further on: Wells has the first place in my affections, and is the one town in England the sight of which in April and early May, from a neighbouring hill, has caused me to sigh with pleasure. Its cathedral is assuredly the loveliest work of man in this land, supremely11 beautiful, even without the multitude of daws that make it their house, and may be seen every day in scores, looking like black doves perched on the stony12 heads and hands and shoulders of that great company of angels and saints, apostles, kings, queens, and bishops13, that decorate the wonderful west front. For in this building—not viewed as in a photograph or picture, nor through the eye of the mere14 architect or archaeologist, who sees the gem15 but not the setting—nature and man appear to have worked together more harmoniously16 than in others.
But it is hard to imagine a birdless Wells. The hills, beautiful with trees and grass and flowers, come down to it; cattle graze on their slopes; the peewit has its nest in their stony places, and the kestrel with quick-beating wings hangs motionless overhead. Nature is round it, breathing upon and [Pg_61] touching17 it caressingly18 on every side; flowing through it like the waters that gave it its name in olden days, that still gush19 with noise and foam20 from the everlasting21 rock, to send their crystal currents along the streets. And with nature, in and around the rustic22 village-like city, live the birds. The green woodpecker laughs aloud from the group of old cedars23 and pines, hard by the cathedral close—you will not hear that woodland sound in any other city in the kingdom; and the rooks caw all day from the rookery in the old elms that grow at the side of the palace moat. But the cathedral daws, on account of their numbers, are the most important of the feathered inhabitants of Wells. These city birds are familiarly called "Bishop's Jacks24," to distinguish them from the "Ebor Jacks," the daws that in large numbers have their home and breeding-place in the neighbouring cliffs, called the Ebor Rocks.
The Ebor daws are but the first of a succession of colonies extending along the side of the Cheddar valley. A curious belief exists among the people of Wells and the district, that the Ebor Jacks make better pets than the Bishop's Jacks. If you want a young bird you have to pay more for one from the rocks than from the cathedral. I was assured that [Pg_62] the cliff bird makes a livelier, more intelligent and amusing pet than the other. A similar notion exists, or existed, at Hastings, where there was a saying among the fisher folks and other natives that "a Grainger daa is worth a ha'penny more than a castle daa." The Grainger rock, once a favourite breeding-place of the daws at that point, has long since fallen into the sea, and the saying has perhaps died out.
At Wells most of the cathedral birds—a hundred couples at least—breed in the cavities behind the stone statues, standing25, each in its niche26, in rows, tier above tier, on the west front. In April, when the daws are busiest at their nest-building, I have amused myself early every morning watching them flying to the front in a constant procession, every bird bringing his stick. This work is all done in the early morning, and about half-past eight o'clock a man comes with a barrow to gather up the fallen sticks—there is always a big barrowful, heaped high, of them; and if not thus removed the accumulated material would in a few days form a rampart or zareba, which would prevent access to the cathedral on that side.
It has often been observed that the daw, albeit27 so clever a bird, shows a curious deficiency of judg [Pg_63]ment when building, in his persistent28 efforts to carry in sticks too big for the cavity. Here, for instance, each morning in turning over the litter of fallen material I picked up sticks measuring from four or five to seven feet in length. These very long sticks were so slender and dry that the bird was able to lift and to fly with them; therefore, to his corvine mind, they were suitable for his purpose. It comes to this: the daw knows a stick when he sees one, but the only way of testing its usefulness to him is to pick it up in his beak29, then to try to fly with it. If the stick is six feet long and the cavity will only admit one of not more than eighteen inches, he discovers his mistake only on getting home. The question arises: Does he continue all his life long repeating this egregious30 blunder? One can hardly believe that an old, experienced bird can go on from day to day and year to year wasting his energies in gathering31 and carrying building materials that will have to be thrown away in the end—that he is, in fact, mentally on a level with the great mass of meaner beings who forget nothing and learn nothing. It is not to be doubted that the daw was once a builder in trees, like all his relations, with the exception of the cliff-breeding chough. He is even capable of reverting32 to the original habit, as I know [Pg_64] from an instance which has quite recently come to my knowledge. In this case a small colony of daws have been noticed for several years past breeding in stick nests placed among the clustering foliage34 of a group of Scotch35 firs. This colony may have sprung from a bird hatched and reared in the nest of a carrion36 crow or magpie37. Still, the habit of breeding in holes must be very ancient, and considering that the jackdaw is one of the most intelligent of our birds, one cannot but be astonished at the rude, primitive38, blundering way in which the nest-building work is generally performed. The most we can see by carefully watching a number of birds at work is that there appears to be some difference with regard to intelligence between bird and bird. Some individuals blunder less than others; it is possible that these have learned something from experience; but if that be so, their better way is theirs only, and their young will not inherit it.
One morning at Wells as I stood on the cathedral green watching the birds at their work, I witnessed a rare and curious scene—one amazing to an ornithologist39. A bird dropped a stick—an incident that occurred a dozen times or oftener any minute at that busy time; but in this instance the bird [Pg_65] had no sooner let the stick fall than he rushed down after it to attempt its recovery, just as one may see a sparrow drop a feather or straw, and then dart40 down after it and often recover it before it touches the ground. The heavy stick fell straight and fast on to the pile of sticks already lying on the pavement, and instantly the daw was down and had it in his beak, and thereupon laboriously41 flew up to his nesting-place, which was forty to fifty feet high. At the moment that he rushed down after the falling stick two other daws that happened to be standing on ledges42 above dropped down after him, and copied his action by each picking up a stick and flying with it to their nests. Other daws followed suit, and in a few minutes there was a stream of descending43 and ascending44 daws at that spot, every ascending bird with a stick in his beak. It was curious to see that although sticks were lying in hundreds on the pavement along the entire breadth of the west front, the daws continued coming down only at that spot where the first bird had picked up the stick he had dropped. By and by, to my regret, the birds suddenly took alarm at something and rose up, and from that moment not one descended45.
Presently the man came round with his rake and broom and barrow to tidy up the place. Before [Pg_66] beginning his work he solemnly made the following remark: "Is it not curious, sir, considering the distance the birds go to get their sticks, and the work of carrying them, that they never, by any chance, think to come down and pick up what they have dropped!" I replied that I had heard the same thing said before, and that it was in all the books; and then I told him of the scene I had just witnessed. He was very much surprised, and said that such a thing had never been witnessed before at that place. It had a disturbing effect on him, and he appeared to me to resent this departure from their old ancient conservative ways on the part of the cathedral birds.
For many mornings after I continued to watch the daws until the nest-building was finished, without witnessing any fresh outbreak of intelligence in the colony: they had once more shaken down into the old inconvenient46 traditional groove47, to the manifest relief of the man with the broom and barrow.
Bath, like Wells, is a city that has a considerable amount of nature in its composition, and is set down in a country of hills, woods, rocks and streams, and is therefore, like the other, a city loved by daws and by many other wild birds. It is a town [Pg_67] built of white stone in the hollow of an oblong basin, with the river Avon flowing through it; and though perhaps too large for perfect beauty, it is exceedingly pleasant. Its "stone walls do not a prison make," since they do not shut you out from rural sights and sounds: walking in almost any street, even in the lowest part, in the busiest, noisiest centre of the town, you have but to lift your eyes to see a green hill not far away; and viewed from the top of one of these hills that encircle it, Bath, in certain favourable states of the atmosphere, wears a beautiful look. One afternoon, a couple of miles out, I was on the top of Barrow Hill in a sudden, violent storm of rain and wind; when the rain ceased, the sun burst out behind me, and the town, rain-wet and sun-flushed, shone white as a city built of whitest marble against the green hills and black cloud on the farther side. Then on the slaty48 blackness appeared a complete and most brilliant rainbow, on one side streaming athwart the green hill and resting on the centre of the town, so that the high, old, richly-decorated Abbey Church was seen through a band of green and violet mist. That storm and that rainbow, seen by chance, gave a peculiar49 grace and glory to Bath, and the bright, unfading picture it left in memory has perhaps become too much associated [Pg_68] in my mind with the thought of Bath, and has given me an exaggerated idea of its charm.
When staying in Bath in the winter of 1898-9 I saw a good deal of bird life even in the heart of the town. At the back of the house I lodged50 in, in New King Street, within four minutes' walk of the Pump Room, there was a strip of ground called a garden, but with no plants except a few dead stalks and stumps51 and two small leafless trees. Clothes-lines were hung there, and the ground was littered with old bricks and rubbish, and at the far end of the strip there was a fowl-house with fowls52 in it, a small shed, and a wood-pile. Yet to this unpromising-looking spot came a considerable variety of birds. Starlings, sparrows, and chaffinches were the most numerous, while the blackbird, thrush, robin53, hedge-sparrow and wren54 were each represented by a pair. The wrens55 lived in the wood-pile, and were the only members of the little feathered community that did not join the others at table when crumbs56 and scraps57 were thrown out.
It was surprising to find all or most of these birds evidently wintering on that small plot of ground in the middle of the town, solely58 for the sake of the warmth and shelter it afforded them, and the chance crumbs that came in their way. It is true that I fed them [Pg_69] regularly, but they were all there before I came. Yet it was not an absolutely safe place for them, being much infested59 by cats, especially by a big black one who was always on the prowl, and who had a peculiarly murderous gleam in his luminous60 yellow orbs61 when he crouched62 down to watch or attempted to stalk them. One could not but imagine that the very sight of such eyes in that black, devilish face would have been enough to freeze their blood with sudden terror, and make them powerless to fly from him. But it was not so: he could neither fascinate nor take them by surprise. No sooner would he begin to practise his wiles63 than all the population would be up in arms—the loud, sharp summons of the blackbird sounding first; then the starlings would chatter64 angrily, the thrush scream, the chaffinches begin to pink-pink with all their might, and the others would join in, even the small hideling wrens coming out of their fortress65 of faggots to take part in the demonstration66. Then puss would give it up and go away, or coil himself up and go to sleep on the sloping roof of the tiny shed or in some other sheltered spot; peace and quiet would once more settle on the little republic, and the birds would be content to dwell with their enemy in their midst in full sight [Pg_70] of them, so long as he slept or did not watch them too narrowly.
Finding that blue tits were among the visitors at the back, I hung up some lumps of suet and a cocoa-nut to the twigs67 of the bushes. The suet was immediately attacked, but judging from the suspicious way in which they regarded the round brown object swinging in the wind, the Bath tits had never before been treated to a cocoa-nut. But though suspicious, it was plain that the singular object greatly excited their curiosity. On the second day they made the discovery that it was a new and delightful68 dish invented for the benefit of the blue tits, and from that time they were at it at all hours, coming and going from morning till night. There were six of them, and occasionally they were all there at once, each one anxious to secure a place, and never able when he got one to keep it longer than three or four seconds at a time. Looking upon them from an upper window, as they perched against and flitted round and round the suspended cocoa-nut, they looked like a gathering of very large pale-blue flies flitting round and feeding on medlar.
No doubt the sparrow is the most abundant species in Bath—I have got into a habit of not [Pg_71] noticing that bird, and it is as if I did not see him; but after him the starling is undoubtedly69 the most numerous. He is, we know, increasing everywhere, but in no other town in England have I found him in such numbers. He is seen in flocks of a dozen to half a hundred, busily searching for grubs on every lawn and green place in and round the town, and if you go up to some elevated spot so as to look down upon Bath, you will see flocks of starlings arriving and departing at all points. As you walk the streets their metallic70 clink-clink-clink sounds from all quarters—small noises which to most men are lost among the louder noises of a populous71 town. It is as if every house had a peal72 of minute bells hidden beneath the tiles or slates73 of the roof, or among the chimney-pots, that they were constantly being rung, and that every bell was cracked.
The ordinary or unobservant person sees and hears far more of the jackdaw than of any other bird in Bath. Daws are seen and heard all over the town, but are most common about the Abbey, where they soar and gambol74 and quarrel all day long, and when they think that nobody is looking, drop down to the streets to snatch up and carry off any eatable-looking object that catches their eye. [Pg_72]
It was here at this central spot, while I stood one day idly watching the birds disporting75 themselves about the Abbey and listened to their clamour, that certain words of Ruskin came into my mind, and I began to think of them not merely with admiration76, as when I first read them long ago, but critically.
Ruskin, one of our greatest prose writers, is usually at his best in the transposition of pictures into words, his descriptions of what he has seen, in nature and art, being the most perfect examples of "word painting" in the language. Here his writing is that of one whose vision is not merely, as in the majority of men, the most important and intellectual of the senses, but so infinitely77 more important than all the others, and developed and trained to so extraordinary a degree, as to make him appear like a person of a single sense. We may say that this predominant sense has caused, or fed upon, the decay of the others. This is to me a defect in the author I most admire; for though he makes me see, and delight in seeing, that which was previously78 hidden, and all things gain in beauty and splendour, I yet miss something from the picture, just as I should miss light and colour from a description of nature, however beautifully written, by a man whose sense of sight was nothing [Pg_73] or next to nothing to him, but whose other senses were all developed to the highest state of perfection.
No doubt Ruskin is, before everything, an artist: in other words, he looks at nature and all visible things with a purpose, which I am happily without: and the reflex effect of his purpose is to make nature to him what it can never appear to me—a painted canvas. But this subject, which I have touched on in a single sentence, demands a volume.
Ruskin wrote of the cathedral daws, "That drift of eddying79 black points, now closing, now scattering80, now settling suddenly into invisible places among the bosses and flowers, the crowd of restless birds that fill the whole square with that strange clangour of theirs, so harsh and yet so soothing81." For it seemed to me that he had seen the birds but had not properly heard them; or else that to his mind the sound they made was of such small consequence in the effect of the whole scene—so insignificant82 an element compared with the sight of them—that it was really not worth attending to and describing accurately83.
Possibly, in this particular case, when in speaking of the daws he finished his description by throwing in a few words about their voices, he was thinking less of the impression on his own mind, presumably [Pg_74] always vague about natural sounds, than of what the poet Cowper had said in the best passage in his best work about "sounds harsh and inharmonious in themselves," which are yet able to produce a soothing effect on us on account of the peaceful scenes amid which they are heard.
Cowper's notion of the daw's voice, by the way, was just as false as that expressed by Ruskin, as we may find in his paraphrase84 of Vincent Bourne's lines to that bird:—
There is a bird that by his coat,
And by the hoarseness86 of his note
Might be supposed a crow.
Now the daw is capable at times of emitting both hoarse85 and harsh notes, and the same may perhaps be said of a majority of birds; but his usual note—the cry or caw varied87 and inflected a hundred ways, which we hear every day and all day long where daws abound—is neither harsh like the crow's, nor hoarse like the rook's. It is, in fact, as unlike the harsh, grating caw of the former species as the clarion88 call of the cock is unlike the grunting89 of swine. It may not be described as bell-like nor metallic, but it is loud and clear, with an engaging wildness in it, and, like metallic sounds, far-reaching; and of so good [Pg_75] a quality that very little more would make it ring musically.
Sometimes when I go into this ancient abbey church, or into some cathedral, and seating myself, and looking over a forest of bonnets90, see a pale young curate with a black moustache, arrayed in white vestments, standing before the reading-desk, and hear him gabbling some part of the Service in a continuous buzz and rumble91 that roams like a gigantic blue-bottle through the vast dim interior, then I, not following him—for I do not know where he is, and cannot find out however much I should like to—am apt to remember the daws out of doors, and to think that it would be well if that young man would but climb up into the highest tower, or on to the roof, and dwell there for the space of a year listening to them; and that he would fill his mouth with polished pebbles92, and medals, and coins and seals and seal-rings, and small porcelain93 cats and dogs, and little silver pigs, and other objects from the chatelaines of his lady admirers, and strive to imitate that clear, penetrating94 sound of the bird's voice, until he had mastered the rare and beautiful arts of voice production and distinct understandable speech.
To go back to Cowper—the poet who has been much in men's thoughts of late, and who appears [Pg_76] to us as perhaps the most modern-minded of those who ceased to live a century ago. Undoubtedly he was as bad a naturalist95 as any singer before or after him, and as any true poet has a perfect right to be. As bad, let us say, as Shakespeare and Wordsworth and Tennyson. He does not, it is true, confound the sparrow and hedge-sparrow like Wordsworth, nor confound the white owl33 with the brown owl like Tennyson, nor puzzle the ornithologist with a "sea-blue bird of March." But we must not forget that he addressed some verses to a nightingale heard on New Year's Day. It is clear that he did not know the crows well, for in a letter of May 10, 1780, to his friend Newton, he writes: "A crow, rook, or raven96, has built a nest in one of the young elm-trees, at the side of Mrs Aspray's orchard97." But when he wrote those words—
Sounds inharmonious in themselves, and harsh,
And only there, please highly for their sake—
words which I have suggested misled Ruskin, and have certainly misled others—he, Cowper, knew better. His real feeling, and better and wiser thought, is expressed in one of his incomparable letters (Hayley, vol. ii. p. 230)—
"My green-house is never so pleasant as when [Pg_77] we are just on the point of surrendering it.... I sit with all the windows and the door wide open, and am regaled with the scent99 of every flower in a garden as full of flowers as I have known how to make it. We keep no bees, but if I lived in a hive I could hardly have more of their music. All the bees in the neighbourhood resort to a bed of mignonette opposite to the window, and pay me for the honey they get out of it by a hum, which, though rather monotonous100, is as agreeable to my ears as the whistling of my linnets. All the sounds that nature utters are delightful, at least in this country. I should not perhaps find the roaring of lions in Africa, or of bears in Russia, very pleasing; but I know no beast in England whose voice I do not account as musical, save and except always the braying101 of an ass4. The notes of all our birds and fowls please me, without one exception. I should not indeed think of keeping a goose in a cage that I might hang him up in the parlour for the sake of his melody, but a goose upon a common, or in a farmyard, is no bad performer; and as to insects, if the black beetle102, and beetles103 indeed of all hues104, will keep out of my way, I have no objection to any of the rest; on the contrary, in whatever key they sing, from the gnat's fine treble to [Pg_78] the bass105 of the bumble-bee, I admire all. Seriously, however, it strikes me as a very observable instance of providential kindness to men, that such an exact accord has been contrived106 between his ear and the sounds with which, at least in a rural situation, it is almost every moment visited."
Who has not felt the truth of this saying, that all natural sounds heard in their proper surroundings are pleasing; that even those which we call harsh do not distress107, jarring or grating on our nerves, like artificial noises! The braying of the donkey was to Cowper the one exception in animal life; but he never heard it in its proper conditions. I have often listened to it, and have been deeply impressed, in a wild, silent country, in a place where herds108 of semi-wild asses109 roamed over the plains; and the sound at a distance had a wild expression that accorded with the scene, and owing to its much greater power effected the mind more than the trumpeting110 of wild swans, and shrill111 neighing of wild horses, and other far-reaching cries of wild animals.
About the sounds emitted by geese in a state of nature, and the effect produced on the mind, I shall have something to say in a chapter on that bird.
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abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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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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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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precipices
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| n.悬崖，峭壁( precipice的名词复数 ) | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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foraging
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| v.搜寻（食物），尤指动物觅（食）( forage的现在分词 )；（尤指用手）搜寻（东西） | |
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hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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harmoniously
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| 和谐地，调和地 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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jacks
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| n.抓子游戏；千斤顶( jack的名词复数 )；（电）插孔；[电子学]插座；放弃 | |
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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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niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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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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beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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egregious
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| adj.非常的，过分的 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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reverting
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| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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owl
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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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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carrion
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| n.腐肉 | |
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37
magpie
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| n.喜欢收藏物品的人，喜鹊，饶舌者 | |
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38
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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39
ornithologist
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| n.鸟类学家 | |
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40
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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41
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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42
ledges
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| n.（墙壁，悬崖等）突出的狭长部分( ledge的名词复数 )；（平窄的）壁架；横档；（尤指）窗台 | |
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43
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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44
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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45
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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46
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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47
groove
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| n.沟，槽；凹线，（刻出的）线条，习惯 | |
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48
slaty
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| 石板一样的，石板色的 | |
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49
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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50
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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51
stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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52
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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53
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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54
wren
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| n.鹪鹩；英国皇家海军女子服务队成员 | |
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wrens
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| n.鹪鹩( wren的名词复数 ) | |
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56
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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57
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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58
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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59
infested
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| adj.为患的，大批滋生的（常与with搭配）v.害虫、野兽大批出没于( infest的过去式和过去分词 )；遍布于 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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orbs
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| abbr.off-reservation boarding school 在校寄宿学校n.球，天体，圆形物( orb的名词复数 ) | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wiles
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| n.（旨在欺骗或吸引人的）诡计，花招；欺骗，欺诈( wile的名词复数 ) | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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72
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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slates
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| （旧时学生用以写字的）石板( slate的名词复数 )； 板岩； 石板瓦； 石板色 | |
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gambol
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| v.欢呼，雀跃 | |
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disporting
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| v.嬉戏，玩乐，自娱( disport的现在分词 ) | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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78
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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79
eddying
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| 涡流，涡流的形成 | |
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80
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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81
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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82
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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83
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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84
paraphrase
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| vt.将…释义，改写；n.释义，意义 | |
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85
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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86
hoarseness
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| n.嘶哑， 刺耳 | |
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87
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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88
clarion
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| n.尖音小号声；尖音小号 | |
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89
grunting
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| 咕哝的，呼噜的 | |
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90
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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91
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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92
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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93
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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94
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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95
naturalist
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| n.博物学家(尤指直接观察动植物者) | |
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96
raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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97
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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99
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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100
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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101
braying
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| v.发出驴叫似的声音( bray的现在分词 )；发嘟嘟声；粗声粗气地讲话（或大笑）；猛击 | |
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102
beetle
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| n.甲虫，近视眼的人 | |
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103
beetles
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| n.甲虫( beetle的名词复数 ) | |
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104
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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105
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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106
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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107
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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108
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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109
asses
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| n. 驴，愚蠢的人，臀部 adv. (常用作后置)用于贬损或骂人 | |
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110
trumpeting
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| 大声说出或宣告（trumpet的现在分词形式） | |
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111
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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