“When I am living in the Midlands,
I light my lamp in the evening,
My work is left behind;
And the great hills of the South Country
Come back into my mind.”
The name is given to the south of England as distinguished2 from the Midlands, “North England”, and “West England” by the Severn. The poet is thinking particularly of Sussex and of the South Downs. In using the term I am thinking of all that country which is dominated by the Downs or by the English Channel, or by both; Cornwall and East Anglia have been admitted only for the sake of contrast. Roughly speaking, it is the country south of the Thames and Severn and east of Exmoor, and it includes, therefore, the counties of[2] Kent, Sussex, Surrey, Hampshire, Berkshire, Wiltshire, Dorset, and part of Somerset. East and west across it go ranges of chalk hills, their sides smoothly3 hollowed by Nature and the marl-burner, or sharply scored by old roads. On their lower slopes they carry the chief woods of the south country, their coombes are often fully4 fledged with trees, and sometimes their high places are crowned with beech5 or fir; but they are most admirably themselves when they are bare of all but grass and a few bushes of gorse and juniper and some yew6, and their ridges7 make flowing but infinitely8 variable clear lines against the sky. Sometimes they support a plateau of flint and clay, which slopes gradually to the level of the streams. Sometimes they fall away to the vales in well-defined ledges—first a long curving slope, then a plain of cornland, and below that a steep but lesser9 slope covered with wood, and then again grassland10 or sandy heaths and rivers. Except on the plateau, the summits have few houses and very small hamlets; the first terrace has larger villages and even a town or two; but most of the towns are beneath on the banks of the rivers, and chiefly where they are broadest near the sea, or on the coast itself. The rivers flow mainly north and south, and can have but a short course before they enter the sea on the south or the Thames on the north. Those I remember best are the Stours, the two Rothers, but especially the one which joins the Arun, the Medway, the Len, the Eden, the Holling, the Teise, the Ouse, the Itchen, the Meon, the Wey, the Mole11, the Kennet, the Ray, the Winterbournes, the Wiltshire Avon, the Wylye, the Ebble, and many little waters running gold over New Forest gravel12 or crystal over the chalk of Hamp[3]shire, and not least of all that unlucky rivulet13, the Wandle, once a nymph that walked among her sisters—
And first unto her lord, at Wandsworth doth appear,
That in the goodly court, of their great sovereign Tames,
There might no other speech be had amongst the streams,
But only of this Nymph, sweet Wandel, what she wore;
Of her complexion16, grace, and how herself she bore.
Nor can I omit the Wiltshire and Berkshire canal, as it was fifteen years ago, between Swindon and Dauntsey, an unfrequented by-way through a quiet dairy country, and full of pike and tench among the weeds and under the tall water docks and willow17 herbs which even then threatened to subdue18 it as they now have done.
The chief roads make south, south-east, south-west and west from London; almost the only road going east and west and not touching19 London is the old road known between Winchester and Canterbury as the Pilgrims’ Way.
Most of the towns are small market towns, manufacturing chiefly beer; or they are swollen20, especially in the neighbourhood of London, as residential21 quarters on lines of railway or as health and pleasure resorts on the sea. But any man used to maps will be wiser on these matters in an hour than I am. For what I have sought is quiet and as complete a remoteness as possible from towns, whether of manufactures, of markets or of cathedrals. I have used a good many maps in my time, largely to avoid the towns; but I confess that I prefer to do without them and to go, if I have some days before me, guided by the hills or the sun or a stream—or, if I have one day only, in a rough circle, trusting,[4] by taking a series of turnings to the left or a series to the right, to take much beauty by surprise and to return at last to my starting-point. On a dull day or cloudy night I have often no knowledge of the points of the compass. I never go out to see anything. The signboards thus often astonish me. I wish, by the way, that I had noted22 down more of the names on the signboards at the cross-roads. There is a wealth of poetry in them, as in that which points—by a ford23, too—first, to Poulner and Ringwood; second, to Gorley and Fordingbridge; third, to Linwood and Broomy: and another pointing to Fordingbridge, to Ringwood, and to Cuckoo Hill and Furze Hill: and another in the parish of Pentlow, pointing to Foxearth and Sudbury, to Cavendish and Clare, and to Belchamps and Yeldham. Castles, churches, old houses, of extraordinary beauty or interest, have never worn out any of my shoe leather except by accident. I like to come upon them—usually without knowing their names and legends—but do not lament24 when chance takes me a hundred times out of their way. Nor have I ever been to Marlow to think about Shelley, or to Winterslow for Hazlitt’s sake; and I enter Buriton many times without remembering Gibbon. They would move me no more than the statue of a man and a fat horse (with beribboned tail), which a grateful countryside erected25 to William III in the market square at Petersfield. I prefer any country church or chapel26 to Winchester or Chichester or Canterbury Cathedral, just as I prefer “All round my hat,” or “Somer is icumen in,” to Beethoven. Not that I dislike the cathedrals, or that I do not find many pleasures amongst them. But[5] they are incomprehensible and not restful. I feel when I am within them that I know why a dog bays at the moon. They are much more difficult or, rather, I am more conscious in them of my lack of comprehension, than the hills or the sea; and I do not like the showmen, the smell and look of the museum, the feeling that it is admiration27 or nothing, and all the well-dressed and flyblown people round about. I sometimes think that religious architecture is a dead language, majestic28 but dead, that it never was a popular language. Have some of these buildings lived too long, been too well preserved, so as to oppress our little days with too permanent an expression of the passing things? The truth is that, though the past allures29 me, and to discover a cathedral for myself would be an immense pleasure, I have no historic sense and no curiosity. I mention these trivial things because they may be important to those who read what I am paid for writing. I have read a great deal of history—in fact, a university gave me a degree out of respect for my apparent knowledge of history—but I have forgotten it all, or it has got into my blood and is present in me in a form which defies evocation30 or analysis. But as far as I can tell I am pure of history. Consequently I prefer the old brick houses round the cathedral, and that avenue of archaic31 bossy32 limes to the cathedral itself with all its turbulent quiet and vague antiquity33. The old school also close at hand! I was there after the end of the term once, and two boys were kicking a football in a half-walled court; it was a bright, cold, windy April afternoon; and the ancient brick was penetrated34 with their voices and the sound of the ball,[6] and I thought there could be nothing lovelier than that court, the pleasant walls, and the broad playing fields in sight of a smooth noble hill and a temple of dark firs on top. I was not thinking of Winchester or of any one older than the fondest son of that “mother, more than mother,” and little of him; but was merely caught up by and with the harmony of man and his work, of two children playing, and of the green downs and windy sky.
And so I travel, armed only with myself, an avaricious36 and often libertine37 and fickle38 eye and ear, in pursuit, not of knowledge, not of wisdom, but of one whom to pursue is never to capture. Politics, the drama, science, racing39, reforms and preservations40, divorces, book clubs—nearly everything which the average (oh! mysterious average man, always to be met but never met) and the superior and the intelligent man is thinking of, I cannot grasp; my mind refuses to deal with them; and when they are discussed I am given to making answers like, “In Kilve there is no weathercock.” I expect there are others as unfortunate, superfluous41 men such as the sanitation42, improved housing, police, charities, medicine of our wonderful civilization saves from the fate of the cuckoo’s foster-brothers. They will perhaps follow my meanders43 and understand. The critics also will help. They will misunderstand—it is their trade. How well they know what I ought, or at least ought not, to do. I must, they have said, avoid “the manner of the worst oleographs”; must not be “affected,” though the recipe is not to be had; must beware of “over-excitation of the colour sense.” In slow course of years we acquire a way of expression, hopelessly inadequate44, as we plainly see when[7] looking at the methods of great poets, of beautiful women, of athletes, of politicians, but still gradually as fitted to the mind as an old walking-stick to the hand that has worn and been worn by it, full of our weakness as of our strength, of our blindness as of our vision—the man himself, the poor man it may be. And I live by writing, since it is impossible to live by not writing in an age not of gold but of brass45.
Unlearned, incurious, but finding deepest ease and joy out of doors, I have gone about the South Country these twenty years and more on foot, especially in Kent between Maidstone and Ashford and round Penshurst, in Surrey between London, Guildford and Horley, in Hampshire round Petersfield, in Wiltshire between Wootton Bassett, Swindon and Savernake. The people are almost foreign to me, the more so because country people have not yet been thrown into quite the same confusion as townspeople, and therefore look awkwardly upon those who are not in trade—writing is an unskilled labour and not a trade—not on the land, and not idle. But I have known something of two or three men and women, and have met a few dozen more. Yet is this country, though I am mainly Welsh, a kind of home, as I think it is more than any other to those modern people who belong nowhere. Here they prefer to retire, here they take their holidays in multitudes. For it is a good foster-mother, ample-bosomed, mild and homely47. The lands of wild coast, of mountains, of myriad48 chimneys, offer no such welcome. They have their race, their speech and ways, and are jealous. You must be a man of the sea or of the hills to dwell there at[8] ease. But the South is tender and will harbour any one; her quiet people resent intrusion quietly, so that many do not notice the resentment49. These are the “home” counties. A man can hide away in them. The people are not hospitable50, but the land is.
Yet there are days and places which send us in search of another kind of felicity than that which dwells under the Downs, when, for example, the dark wild of Ashdown or of Woolmer, some parcel of heathery land, with tufted pines and pale wandering roads, rises all dark and stormy out of the gentle vale, or on such an evening as when the sky is solemn blue save at the horizon where it is faint gold, and between the blue and the gold, across the north-west, lies an ashen51 waste of level cloud. This sky and its new moon and evening star below, is barred by the boles of beeches52; through them the undulations of deserted53 ploughland are all but white with dewy grass and weed. Underfoot winds a disused path amid almost overlapping54 dog’s mercury. The earth is like an exhausted55 cinder56, cold, silent, dead, compared with the great act in the sky. Suddenly a dog-fox barks—with melancholy57 and malice58 in the repeated hoarse59 yells—a sound that awakens60 the wildest past out of the wood and the old path. He passes by me at a trot61, pausing a little to bark. He vanishes, but not his voice, into the wood, and he returns, still barking, and passes me again, filling the wood and the coombe below with a sound that has nothing to match it except that ashen waste in the beech-barred, cold blue and golden sky, against which the fox is carved in moving ebony. Or again, when a rude dark headland rises out of the mist of the plain into the evening[9] sky. The woods seem but just freed from the horror of primeval sea, if that is not primeval sea washing their bases. Capella hangs low, pale, large, moist and trembling, almost engulfed62 between two horns of the wood upon the headland, the frailest63 beacon64 of hope, still fluttering from the storm out of which the land is emerging. Then, or at home looking at a map of Britain, the West calls, out of Wiltshire and out of Cornwall and Devon beyond, out of Monmouth and Glamorgan and Gower and Caermarthen, with a voice of dead Townsends, Eastaways, Thomases, Phillipses, Treharnes, Marendaz, sea men and mountain men.
Westward65, for men of this island, lies the sea; westward are the great hills. In a mere35 map the west of Britain is fascinating. The great features of that map, which make it something more than a picture to be imperfectly copied by laborious66 childish pens, are the great promontories67 of Caernarvon, of Pembroke, of Gower and of Cornwall, jutting68 out into the western sea, like the features of a grim large face, such a face as is carved on a ship’s prow69. These protruding70 features, even on a small-scale map, thrill the mind with a sense of purpose and spirit. They yearn71, they peer out ever to the sea, as if using eyes and nostrils72 to savour the utmost scent73 of it, as if themselves calling back to the call of the waves. To the eyes of a child they stand for adventure. They are lean and worn and scarred with the strife74 and watching. Then gradually into the mind of the child comes the story that justifies75 and, still more, inspires and seems to explain those westward-pointing promontories. For, out towards them continually have the conquered races[10] of the world retreated, and their settlements give those corners a strangeness and a charm to our fantastic sympathies. Out from them conquerors77 in their turn have gone to found a legend like the Welsh Madoc, an empire like the men of Devon. The blood of conquered and conqueror76 is in our veins78, and it flushes the cheek at the sight or thought of the west. Each man of us is as ancient and complicated, as lofty-spired and as deep-vaulted as cathedrals and castles old, and in those lands our crypts and dark foundations are dimly remembered. We look out towards them from the high camps at Battlesbury and Barbury: the lines of the Downs go trooping along to them at night. Even in the bosom46 of the South Country, when the tranquil79 bells are calling over the corn at twilight80, the westward-going hills, where the sun has fallen, draw the heart away and fill us with a desire to go on and on for ever, that same way. When, in the clear windy dawn, thin clouds like traveller’s joy are upon the high air, it seems that up there also, in those placid81 spaces, they travel and know the joy of the road, and the sun—feeding on the blue, as a child said yesterday, as Lucretius said before—goes the desired way. London also calls, making the needle whirl in the compass. For in London also a man may live as up “a great river wide as any sea”; and over some of the fairest of the South Country hangs the all-night glimmer82 of the city, warning, threatening, beckoning83 anon. Some of this country has already perished, or is so ramparted about that there is no stranger country in the world unless it be those perpendicular84 valleys cloven among the Blue Mountains, their floors level and of the purest grass, but access[11]ible only at the end nearest the plain, where the cleft85 is sometimes so narrow that not even a dog can enter.
This, then, is my South Country. It covers the North Downs and the South Downs, the Icknield Way and the Pilgrims’ Way, and the cross-roads between them and the Thames and the sea, a land of hops86, fruit, corn, high pasture, meadow, woodland, heath and shore. But there is no man of whose powers I stand more in awe87 than the topographical writer, from Mr. A. G. Bradley or Mr. E. V. Lucas downwards88. I shall not attempt to compete with them. I should only be showing my ignorance and carelessness were I to label every piece of country which I chance to mention or describe. Any one can point out my omissions89, my blindness, my exaggeration. Nor can I bring myself to mention the names of the places where I walked or sat down. In a sense this country is all “carved out of the carver’s brain” and has not a name. This is not the South Country which measures about two hundred miles from east to west and fifty from north to south. In some ways it is incomparably larger than any country that was ever mapped, since upon nothing less than the infinite can the spirit disport90 itself. In other ways it is far smaller—as when a mountain with tracts91 of sky and cloud and the full moon glass themselves in a pond, a little pond.
It would need a more intellectual eye than mine to distinguish county from county by its physical character, its architecture, its people, its unique combination of common elements, and I shall not attempt it. As often as not I have no doubt mingled92 parts of Kent with my Wiltshire, and so on. And positively93 I cannot say to[12] which belongs one picture that occurs to me as characteristic of the South Country—
A crossing of roads encloses a waste place of no man’s land, of dwarf94 oaks, hawthorn95, bramble and fern, and the flowers of knapweed and harebell, and golden tormentil embroidering96 the heather and the minute seedling97 oaks. Follow one of these roads past straight avenues of elms leading up to a farm (built square of stone, under a roof of thatch98 or stone slate99, and lying well back from the road across a level meadow with some willows100 in the midst, elms round about, willow herb waving rosy101 by the stream at the border), or merely to a cluster of ricks; and presently the hedges open wide apart and the level white road cools itself under the many trees of a green, wych elms, sycamores, limes and horse-chestnuts, by a pool, and, on the other side, the sign of the “White Hart,” its horns held back upon its haunches. A stone-built farm and its barns and sheds lie close to the green on either side, and another of more stateliness where the hedges once more run close together alongside the road. This farmhouse102 has three dormers, two rows of five shadowy windows below, and an ivied porch not quite in the centre; a modest lawn divided by a straight path; dense103, well-watered borders of grey lavender, rosemary, ladslove, halberds of crimson104 hollyhock, infinite blending stars of Michaelmas daisy; old apple trees seeming to be pulled down almost to the grass by glossy-rinded fruit: and, behind, the bended line of hills a league away, wedding the lowly meadows, the house and the trees to the large heavens and their white procession of clouds out of the south and the sea. The utmost kindliness105 of earth is[13] expressed in these three houses, the trees on the flat green, the slightly curving road across it, the uneven106 posts and rails leaning this way and that at the edge of the pond. The trees are so arranged about the road that they weave a harmony of welcome, of blessing107, a viaticum for whosoever passes by and only for a moment tastes their shade, acknowledges unconsciously their attitudes, hears their dry summer murmuring, sees the house behind them. The wayfarer108 knows nothing of those who built them and those who live therein, of those who planted the trees just so and not otherwise, of the causes that shaped the green, any more than of those who reaped and threshed the barley109, and picked and dried and packed the hops that made the ale at the “White Hart.” He only knows that centuries of peace and hard work and planning for the undreaded future have made it possible. The spirit of the place, all this council of time and Nature and men, enriches the air with a bloom deeper than summer’s blue of distance; it drowses while it delights the responding mind with a magic such as once upon a time men thought to express by gods of the hearth110, by Faunus and the flying nymphs, by fairies, angels, saints, a magic which none of these things is too strange and “supernatural” to represent. For after the longest inventory111 of what is here visible and open to analysis, much remains112 over, imponderable but mighty113. Often when the lark114 is high he seems to be singing in some keyless chamber115 of the brain; so here the house is built in shadowy replica116. If only we could make a graven image of this spirit instead of a muddy untruthful reflection of words! I have sometimes thought that a statue, the statue of a human[14] or heroic or divine figure, might more fitly than in many another stand in such a place. A figure, it should be, like that benign117 proud Demeter in marble now banished118 to a recess119 in a cold gallery, before which a man of any religion, or class, or race, or time might bow and lay down something of his burden and take away what makes him other than he was. She would be at home and blithe120 again, enshrined in the rain or in this flowery sunlight of an English green, near the wych elm and sycamore and the walls of stone, the mortar121 mixed, as in all true buildings, with human blood.
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1
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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2
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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3
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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grassland
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| n.牧场，草地，草原 | |
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mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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residential
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| adj.提供住宿的；居住的；住宅的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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25
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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allures
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| 诱引，吸引( allure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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evocation
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| n. 引起，唤起 n. <古> 召唤，招魂 | |
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archaic
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| adj.(语言、词汇等)古代的，已不通用的 | |
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bossy
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| adj.爱发号施令的，作威作福的 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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avaricious
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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libertine
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| n.淫荡者；adj.放荡的，自由思想的 | |
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fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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preservations
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| n.保藏( preservation的名词复数 )；储藏；保持 | |
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41
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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42
sanitation
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| n.公共卫生，环境卫生，卫生设备 | |
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43
meanders
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| 曲径( meander的名词复数 )； 迂回曲折的旅程 | |
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44
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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45
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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46
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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47
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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48
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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49
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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50
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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51
ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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52
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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53
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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54
overlapping
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| adj./n.交迭（的） | |
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55
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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56
cinder
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| n.余烬，矿渣 | |
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57
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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58
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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59
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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60
awakens
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的第三人称单数 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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61
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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62
engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
frailest
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| 脆弱的( frail的最高级 )； 易损的； 易碎的 | |
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64
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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65
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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67
promontories
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| n.岬，隆起，海角( promontory的名词复数 ) | |
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68
jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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69
prow
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| n.(飞机)机头，船头 | |
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70
protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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71
yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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72
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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73
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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74
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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75
justifies
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| 证明…有理( justify的第三人称单数 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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76
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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77
conquerors
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| 征服者，占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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78
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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79
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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82
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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83
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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84
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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85
cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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86
hops
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| 跳上[下]( hop的第三人称单数 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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87
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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88
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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89
omissions
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| n.省略( omission的名词复数 )；删节；遗漏；略去或漏掉的事（或人） | |
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90
disport
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| v.嬉戏，玩 | |
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91
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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92
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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93
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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94
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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95
hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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96
embroidering
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| v.（在织物上）绣花( embroider的现在分词 )；刺绣；对…加以渲染（或修饰）；给…添枝加叶 | |
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97
seedling
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| n.秧苗，树苗 | |
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98
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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99
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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100
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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101
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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102
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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103
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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104
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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105
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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106
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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107
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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108
wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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109
barley
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| n.大麦，大麦粒 | |
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110
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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111
inventory
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| n.详细目录，存货清单 | |
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112
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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113
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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114
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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115
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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116
replica
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| n.复制品 | |
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117
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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118
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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120
blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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121
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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