I sit tending my fire, and watching and balancing the kettle upon it; or I sit beside the cheerful blaze on which I have cooked my breakfast or my dinner, and I hold my mug of coffee in my hand and my piece of bread; I chip my just-boiled eggs, or I am digging into a pot of apple-jelly or cutting up a pine-apple, and I feel very tender towards the man who comes along the road and stops to pass a greeting and give and take the news of the day and the intelligence of the district.
There is a sort of hermit's charity. It is to have a spirit that is quietly joyful5, to be in that state towards man that a gentle woodsman is towards the shy birds who are not afraid of him as he lies on a forest bank[Pg 189] and watches them tripping to and from their little nests. Your fellow-man instinctively6 knows you and trusts you, and he puts aside the mask in which he takes refuge from other fellow-travellers who are alert and busy. I cherish as very precious all the little talks I had with this man and that man who came up to me in America.
As I sat one day by the side of my pleasant Susquehanna road, an oil-carrier met me, a gentle-voiced man in charge of four tons of kerosene7 and petrol, which his horses were dragging over the mountains from village to village and store to store. I was an opportunity to rest the horses, and the driver pulled up, relaxed his reins8 and entered into converse9 with me. Was I going far? Why was I tramping? What nationality was I? I told him what I was doing, and he said he would like to give up his job and do the same; he also was of British origin, though his mother was a German. He was a descendant of Sir Robert Downing. "There used to be many English about here," said he, "but they wore off." He went on to tell me what a wild district it had once been. His grandfather had shot a panther on the mountains. But there were no panthers now. The railways and the automobiles10 had frightened the wild things away. The change had come about very suddenly. He remembered when there were no telephone-poles along the road, but only road-poles. It used to be a posting-road, [Pg 190]and a good one too; but now the automobiles had torn up all the surface, and no one would take any trouble about the needs of horse vehicles.
One hot noontide, on the road to Shippenville and Oil City, I was having luncheon11 when a very pleasant Swede came down the road carrying a bucket in his hand,—Mr. G. B. Olson, bossing a gang of workers on the highway. He was going down the hill to a special spring to draw water for his thirsty men, but he could hardly resist the smoke of my wayside fire, and he told me, as it seemed, his whole story. He had come to America in 1873, and had worked on a farm in Illinois before the great Chicago fire. He was twenty-four then, and was sixty-five now.
When he heard I was British he told me how he had come from Europe via Leith and Glasgow, and had been fifteen and a half days crossing the Atlantic.
"Have you ever been back to Sweden?" I asked.
"No, sirr, never."
"Are you content with America?"
"Yes, sirr; it's the finest country under the sun. It gives the working man a show."
"Yes. We gave the Americans a good lift, we Swedes, Norwegians, Danes, and Germans, by settling the land when the rest of the colonists13 were running to the towns. We came in and did the rough pioneer[Pg 191] work that had to be done if America was going to be more than a mushroom growth. Where would America be to-day if it were not for us in Minnesota, Wisconsin, Iowa? You can't keep up big cities unless you've got plenty of men working in the background on the land."
The Swede went on to compliment me on my English. I spoke14 pretty clear for one who had been only three months in the country. He had met many British who spoke "very broken," especially Scotch16. "I shouldn't have been able to understand them," said he, "but that I am a foreigner myself, and know what it is not to speak good."
"You've got a gang of men working up above?"
"Yes. I'm bossing them for the State. A good job it is too, good money, and I don't have to work much."
"I should say you'd make a kind boss!"
"Yes. I never do anything against them. I get a good day's work out of the men, but I never put myself above them. I've got authority, that's all—it doesn't make me better'n they. I've got to boss them, they've got to work. That's how it's turned out.... Well, I must be off to water my hands!"
And he hastened away down the hill, whilst I put my things together and shouldered my pack.
The strange thing about this American journey[Pg 192] was the diversity of nationality I encountered, and the friendly terms in which it was possible for me as a man on the road to converse with them.
On leaving Clearfield I fell in with Peter Deemeff, a clever little Bulgarian immigrant, and spent two days in his company. He was an unpractical, rebellious18 boy, a student by inclination19, but a labourer by necessity, nervous in temperament20, and alternately gay and despondent21. He was thin-bodied, broad-browed, clean-shaven, but blue-black with the multitude of his hair-roots; he had two rows of faultless, little, milk-white teeth; an angelic Bulgarian smile, and an occasional ugly American grimace22.
We tramped along the most beautiful Susquehanna road to Curwenville, and then through magnificent gorges23 to the height of Luthersburg.
"Ho! Where you going?" said one of a group of Italian labourers at Curwenville.
"Oil City," I answered.
"You'll be sore," the Italian rejoined, and slapped his thigh24. "Why not stop here and get good job?"
But Peter and I were not looking for a job just then, and we went on. I was glad the Bulgarian was not tempted25, for I relished26 his company, and he was pleasantly loquacious27.
"Do you like the Americans?" I asked him.
[Pg 193]
"Half-civilise," said he. "When I say my boss, 'I go,' he want me fight. He offens me. I say, 'You Americans—bulldogs, no more, half-civilise.' And I go all the same and no fight great big fat American."
"You think Bulgaria a better country?"
"'S a poor country, that's all. There's more life in Europe. Americans don't know what they live for."
I looked with some astonishment29 on this day-labourer in shabby attire30 talking thus intelligently, and withal so frankly31.
He told me he hated the English. They had said, anent the Balkan War, "The fruits must not be taken from the victors"; but when Montenegro took Scutari they were the first to say to King Nicholas "Go back, go back." He thought I was a Slav immigrant like himself, or he would not have struck up acquaintance with me. But he seemed relieved when I told him my sympathies were entirely32 with the Slavs.
We talked of Russian literature, and of Tolstoy in particular.
"Tolstoy understood about God," said he. "He said God is within you, not far away or everywhere, but in yourself. By that I understand life. All life springs from inside. What comes from outside is nahthing. That is how Americans live—in outside things, going to shows, baseball matches.... I know Shakespeare was the mirror of life, that's not[Pg 194] what I mean.... To be educated mentally is light and life; to be developed only physically33 is death and.... That's why I say bulldogs, not civilise. When I was in Philadelphia I hear a Socialist34 in the Park and he asked, 'How d'ye fellows live?—eat—work, eat—work—drink, eat—work—sleep, eat—work—sleep. Machines, that's what y'are.'"
The most astonishing evidence of thought and culture that Peter Deemeff gave me was contained in a reflection he made half-aloud, in a pause in the conversation—"A great writer once said, 'If God had not existed, man would have invented his God'—that is a good idea, eh?" Fancy that from the lips of an unskilled labourer! These foreign working-men are bringing something new to America. If they only settle down to be American citizens and look after their children's education!
"Do many Bulgarians think?" I asked him.
"Yes, many—they think more than I do."
We spent the night under great rocks; he under one, I under another. My bed, which I made soft with last year's bracken, was under three immense boulders35, a natural shelter, a deep dark cavern36 with an opening that looked across the river-gorge to the forested cliff on the other side. The Bulgarian, less careful about his comfort, lay in a ferny hollow, just sheltered by an overhanging stone. Before lying down he commended himself to God, and crossed[Pg 195] himself very delicately and trustfully. With all his philosophy he had not cast off the habits of the homeland. And almost directly he laid himself down he fell asleep.
It was a wonderful night. As I lay in my cave and the first star was looking down at me from over the great wooded cliff, what was my astonishment to see a living spark go past the entrance of the cave, a flame on wings—the firefly. I lay and watched the forest lose its trees, and the cliff become one great black wall, ragged37 all along the crest38. Mists crept up and hid the wall for a while, and then passed. An hour and a half after I had lain down, and the Bulgarian had fallen asleep, I opened my eyes and looked out at the black wall—little lamps were momentarily appearing and disappearing far away in the mysterious dark depths of the cliff. It seemed to me that if when we die we perish utterly39, then that living flame moving past my door was something like the passing of man's life. It was strange to lie on the plucked rustling40 bracken, and have the consciousness of the cold sepulchre-like roof of the cave, and look out at the figure of man's life. But the river chorus lulled41 me to sleep. Whenever I reawakened and looked out I saw the little lights once more, appearing and vanishing, like minutest sprites searching the forest with lanterns.
Peter and I woke almost at the same time in the[Pg 196] morning in a dense42 mist. I sent him for water, and I collected wood for a fire. We made tea, took in warmth, and then set off once more.
"We get it most likely for nothing, because it's Sunday," said Peter with a smile.
The Americans are much more hospitable on Sundays than on week days. They do not, however, like to see you tramping the road on the day of rest; it is thought to be an infraction44 of the Sabbath—though it is difficult to see what tramps can do but tramp on a Sunday.
We had a splendid breakfast for ten cents apiece at a stock-breeding farm below Luthersburg,—pork and beans, bread and butter and cookies, strawberry jam and home-canned plums, pear-jelly. I thanked the lady of the establishment when we had finished, and remarked that I thought it very cheap at the price. She answered that she didn't serve out lunches for a profit, but wouldn't let decent men pass hungry.
"Are you hiking to the next burg?" she asked.
"Chicago," said I.
We came to Luthersburg, high up on the crest of the hills, a large village, with two severe-looking churches.
"When I see these narrow spires47 I'm afraid," said[Pg 197] the Bulgarian. "I should have to wither48 my soul and make it small to get into one of these churches. I like a church with walls of praise and a spire46 of yearning,—Tolstoy, eh? That spire says to me 'I feared Thee, O God, because Thou art an austere49 man.'"
I, for my part, thought it strange that Americans, taking so many risks in business, and daring and imagining so large-heartedly in the secular50 world, should be satisfied with so cramped51 an expression of their religion.
Peter and I went down on the other side of the hills to Helvetia, the first town in a wild coaling district, a place of many Austrians, Poles, and Huns. It was the Sunday evening promenade52, and every one was out of doors, hundreds of miners and labourers in straight-creased trousers (how soon obtained) and cheap felt hats, a similar number of dark, interesting-looking Polish girls in their gaudy53 Sunday best. We passed a hundred yards of grey coke-ovens glowing at all their doors and emitting hundreds of fires and flames. Peter seemed unusually attracted by the coke-ovens or by the Slav population, and he decided54 to remain at Helvetia and seek for a job on the morrow. So I accompanied him into a "boarding-house," and was ready to spend the night with him. But when I saw the accommodation of coaly beds I cried off. So the Bulgarian and I parted. I went on to Sykesville[Pg 198] and the Hotel Sykes. Obviously I was in America,—fancy calling a hotel in England "Hotel Sykes." But I did not stay there, preferring to hasten up country and get a long step beyond black breaker-towers, the sooty inclines up which trucks ran from the mines, the coke-ovens, the fields full of black stumps56 and rotting grass, the seemingly poverty-stricken frame-buildings, and more dirt and misery57 than you would see even in a bad district in Russia. It surprised me to see the Sunday clothes of Sykesville, the white collars, the bright red ties, the blue serge trousers with creases58, the bowler59 hats, and American smiles. Despite all the dirt, these new-come immigrants say Yes to American life and American hopes. But to my eyes it was a terrible place in which to live. It was an astonishing change, moreover, to pass from the magnificent loveliness of the Susquehanna gorges to this inferno60 of a colliery. But I managed to pass out of this region almost as quickly as I came into it, and next day was in the lovely country about Reynoldsville; and I tramped through beautiful agricultural or forested country to the bright towns of Brookville, Clarion62, and Shippenville, clean, new, handsome settlements, with green lawns, shady avenues, fine houses, and well-stocked shops. In such places I saw America at its best, just as at Helvetia and Sykesville I saw it at about its worst. I suppose Sykesville will never be made as beautiful as Brookville;[Pg 199] the one is the coal-cellar, the other is the drawing-room in the house of modern America.
But I had definitely left the coal region behind, now I was striking north, for oil. In three days I came into Oil City, so wonderfully situated63 on the wide and stately Alleghany river—the river having brown rings here and there, glimmering64 with wandering oil. The city is built up five or six hills, and is only a unity4 by virtue65 of its fine bridges. It is a clean town compared with Scranton, as oil is cleaner to deal with than coal. But the houses are more ramshackle. The poor people's dwellings66 suggest to the eye that they were made in a great hurry many years ago, and are now falling to bits; they are set one behind another up the hills, and you climb to them by wooden stairways. Some seem veritably tumbling down the hill. There were a fair number of foreign immigrants there, mostly Italians; but the oil business seems to be worked by Americans, the foreigners being too stupid to understand. Oil City is a cheap town to live in. I was boarded at a hotel for a dollar a day; and when I bought provisions for my next tramp to Erie Shore I found everything cheaper than in Eastern Pennsylvania. There appeared to be little cultured life, however, no theatre but the cinema, and little offered for sale in the shape of books.
I set out for Meadville on the "Meadville Pike." A feature of the new landscape and of the road and[Pg 200] fields was the oil-pump, working all by itself, the long cables, connecting the pump with the engine, often coming across the roadway, the jig67, jig, jig of the pumping movement, the clump68, clump, clump, stump55 of the engine—the pulse of the industrial countryside.
I met a Dutchman. He asked:
"What's on? What is it for?"
I told him I was studying the emerging American, and he told me what a menace the fecund69 Slavs were to the barren Americans. According to him the extinction70 of the American was a matter of mathematics.
I came upon an enormous gang of Americans, Russians, Slavs, Italians at work on the highroad, digging it out, laying a bed of mortar71, putting down bricks; some hundreds of workmen, extending over a mile and a half of closed road. Many of the American workmen were dressed as smartly as stockbrokers72' clerks and city men, and they kept themselves neat and clean—a new phenomenon in labouring. Americans, however, were working together, Italians together, and Russians together. A fine-looking American workman said to me knowingly, "You can photograph me if you like, but the Guineas won't want to be photographed—most of them shot some one sometime or other, you bet!"
ITALIANS WORKING WITH THE MIXER ON THE MEADVILLE PIKE
ITALIANS WORKING WITH THE "MIXER" ON THE MEADVILLE PIKE.
Near Cochranton I made the acquaintance of four little girls—Julia, Margaret, Elinor, Cora, and Georgiana—scampering about in bare legs and week-day[Pg 201] frocks, whilst father and mother, with gauze bags on their heads, were "boxing the bees." It was the first swarm73 of summer; two lots of bees had been boxed, but the third was giving much trouble. Julia, aged61 twelve, was a very pretty girl, and when at her mother's recommendation she went indoors, washed her face and put on a Sunday frock, she looked a very smart young lady. She was conscious of that fact, and informed me in course of conversation that she was going to travel when she was grown up. She was dying to see Paris, and she wanted to visit all the European towns!
Some miles north, near Frenchville, I met one of the French colonists of Northern Pennsylvania,—a tall, well-built stripling,—and he told me how the Breton peasants had settled at Boussot and Frenchville, bringing all their French ways of farming and economy, and becoming the admiration74 of the district round—a little Brittany. The young man's father-in-law had been the first Frenchman to come and settle in the district. After him had come, straight from France, relatives and friends, and relatives of friends and friends of friends in widening circles. They were beginning to speak English well now, but the newcomers were still without the new language. It was interesting for me to realise what a great gain such people were to America—to the American nation in the making. It is good to think of such[Pg 202] agricultural settlements lying in the background of industrial America—the whole villages of Swedes, of Russians, of Danes, Finns, Germans, French. They are ethnic75 reserves; they mature and improve in the background. They are Capital. If urban America can subsist76 on the interest, the surplus of the ambitious, how much richer she will be than if the population of whole country-sides is tempted to rush pêle-mêle to the places of fortune-making and body-wasting.
Coming into Meadville, a town of twelve thousand inhabitants, most of the labourers of whom are Italians employed at the great railway works, I was attracted to Nicola Hiagg, a Syrian, sitting outside his ice-cream shop, reading the Syrian paper. Whilst I had a "pine-apple soda77," I drew him into talk. It was a matter of pleasing interest to him that I had myself tramped in Syria, and knew the conditions in his native land. Nicola had first left Syria twelve years ago, had come to Philadelphia, and started making his living selling "soft drinks" in the street. After five years he had saved enough to take a holiday and go back to the old land. He and his brother had been merchants in Jerusalem before he set out for America; the brother had had charge of the store, and Nicola had convoyed the merchandise and the train of thirty asses78 to and from the country. He had many friends in Syria, but it was a poor country. The Turks were bloodsuckers, and drained it of every drop of vital energy.
[Pg 203]
"I lived in a poor little town between Beyrout and Damascus, not with my brother in Jerusalem. So poor! You cannot start anything new in Syria—the Turk interferes79. No bizness! What you think of the war? The Turk is beaten, hey? Now is the time for the Syrians to unite and throw off the Turk. There are Syrians all over the world; they are prosperous everywhere but in Syria.... America is a fine country; but if Syria became independent I'd go back...."
Nicola, when he had his holiday, found a Syrian girl and brought her back to America as his wife. She was not visible now, however; for the Syrian kept her in the background, and he told me he didn't believe in women's rights to public life. A bit of a Turk himself!
He was very proud of his little girl, who is being brought up as an American in the town school. "Already she can write, and when you say to her, 'Write something,' she does not look up at you and say, 'How d'you spell it?' She just writes it."
"She's sharp."
"You bet."
The Turks, the Greeks, and the Syrians, and to some extent the Italians, are engaged in the sweet-stuff and ice-cream business. Turkish Delight, the most characteristic thing of the Levant, seems to be their bond of union. It is a great business in[Pg 204] America, for the Americans are, beyond all comparison, fonder of sweet things than we are. I stopped one day at a great candy shop in South Bend, Indiana. It was kept by a Mr. Poledor, who was so pleased that I had been in Greece and knew the habits of the Greek Orthodox, that he gave me the freedom of the shop and bade me order anything I liked—he would "stand treat." There were over a hundred ways of having ice-cream, twenty sorts of ice-cream soda, thirteen sorts of lemonade, twelve frappes, and the menu card was something like a band programme. Mr. Poledor was a man of inventiveness, and the names of some of the dishes were as delicious as the dishes themselves. I transcribe80 a few:
Merry Widow.
Don't Care.
John D. (is very rich).
Yankee Doodle.
Upside down.
New Moon.
Sweet Smile.
Twin Beauties.
Lover's Delight.
Black-eyed Susan.
A young man could take his girl there and give her anything she asked for, were it the moon itself. The Greek was a magician.
[Pg 205]
But to return. As I was going out of Meadville, two young men swung out of a saloon and addressed me thus strangely:
"Have you had a benevolent82? We're giving them away."
One of them showed me a stylographic pen.
"Wha're you doing?" said the other.
"Oh, I'm travelling," I replied.
"How d'ye get your living?"
"I write in the magazines now and then."
A look of disappointment crept over the faces of the young men. The stylographic pen was replaced in waistcoat pocket.
"Did you say you were working for a magazine? So are we—The Homestead. I was about to ask you to become a subscriber83."
"And the benevolent?" I asked.
"Oh, these are given away to subscribers."
I explained that I wasn't a commercial traveller, but one of those who wrote sometimes in magazines.
"You'd be a sort of reporter?"
"Well, not quite."
"A poet?"
"No. I earn my living by writing."
"Better than a poet, I suppose. Well, good-day, wish you luck!"
[Pg 206]
I had a "still-creation-day" in quiet country, and towards evening came through the woods to the store and house of Padan-Aram. And just on the border of Ohio an elf-like person skipped out of a large farm and conducted me across, a boy of about twenty years, who cried out to me shrilly85 as he caught me up:
"I say, you're still in Pennsylvania."
"Yes," said I.
"Yes, but that house over there is in Ohio. Say! Would you like some candy?"
"No use for it," said the boy. "I've found God. I used to chew it, but I've stopped it."
"That is good. You've a strong will," said I.
"I reckon God can break any will," said the boy. "Once I ran away from home with five hundred dollars. You're walking? I can walk. I walked a hundred miles in five days and five nights. Feet were sore for a week. Five times I ran away. The sixth time I stayed away four years and worked on the steel works."
"Were your parents unkind?" I asked. "Or did you run away to see life?"
"Ran to show them I could," said the boy.
"They lay in to me I can tell you. There were Chinamen and niggers—all sorts. Hit a fellow over[Pg 207] the head with an ice-cream refrigerator—killed him dead."
"Where was this?"
"What are you, American?"
"Pennsylvanian Dutch."
"I suppose there is a church about here that you go to?"
"Is there a hotel at Padan-Aram?"
"No; but at Leon. If you go there, you'll get a Christian88 woman. You'll find God. She'll lighten your load. She's a saint. I know her well."
"What's your name? I'll mention you to her."
"Dull."
"I'll tell her I met you."
"Tell her you met Ralph Dillie—she'll know."
"All right," said I.
"Now you're in Ohio," said the boy. "Are you going into the store at Padan-Aram?"
"No."
"Don't you want to buy some candy?"
"No. I don't eat it along the road."
"Buy some for me."
"All right; yes."
"Buy a nickel's worth."
[Pg 208]
"Yes."
Ralph Dillie rejoiced. We went into the store and ordered a nickel's worth of candy. And directly the boy got it he started back for home on the run. And I watched him re-cross the border once more—into Pennsylvania.
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1
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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kerosene
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| n.(kerosine)煤油，火油 | |
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8
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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automobiles
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| n.汽车( automobile的名词复数 ) | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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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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colonists
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| n.殖民地开拓者，移民，殖民地居民( colonist的名词复数 ) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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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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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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gorges
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| n.山峡，峡谷( gorge的名词复数 )；咽喉v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的第三人称单数 )；作呕 | |
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thigh
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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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relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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loquacious
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| adj.多嘴的，饶舌的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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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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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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35
boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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42
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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infraction
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| n.违反；违法 | |
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gee
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| n.马；int.向右！前进！，惊讶时所发声音；v.向右转 | |
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46
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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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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stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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56
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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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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creases
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的第三人称单数 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹 | |
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bowler
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| n.打保龄球的人，（板球的）投（球）手 | |
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inferno
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| n.火海；地狱般的场所 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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clarion
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| n.尖音小号声；尖音小号 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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jig
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| n.快步舞（曲）；v.上下晃动；用夹具辅助加工；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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fecund
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| adj.多产的，丰饶的，肥沃的 | |
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extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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stockbrokers
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| n.股票经纪人( stockbroker的名词复数 ) | |
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swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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74
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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ethnic
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| adj.人种的，种族的，异教徒的 | |
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76
subsist
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| vi.生存，存在，供养 | |
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soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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78
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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interferes
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| vi. 妨碍，冲突，干涉 | |
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transcribe
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| v.抄写，誉写；改编(乐曲)；复制，转录 | |
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81
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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82
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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83
subscriber
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| n.用户，订户；（慈善机关等的）定期捐款者；预约者；签署者 | |
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84
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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85
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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86
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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87
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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88
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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