Blessed with an infant’s ignorance of all
But his own simple pleasures; now and then
A wrestling match, a foot-race, or a fair.—Cowper.
We have in a preceding chapter, taken a view of the English farmer. We have seen him at market—in his fields, and in his house receiving his friends to a holiday feast. If we were to go to the farm-house on any other day, and at any season of the year, and survey the farmer and his men in their daily and ordinary course of life, we should always see something to interest us; and we should have to contemplate2 a mode of existence forming a strong contrast to that of townsmen; and, notwithstanding the innovation which the progress of modern habits has made on life in the country, still presenting a picture of simplicity4, homeliness5, and quiet, which no other life retains. Thousands, indeed, looking into a farm-house, surveying its furniture, the apparatus6 and supply of its table, the manners and the language of its inhabitants, would wonder where, after all, was the vast change said to have taken place in the habits of the agricultural population. O! rude and antiquated7 enough in all conscience, are hundreds of our farm-houses and their inmates8, in many an obscure district of merry England yet. The spots are not difficult to be found even now, where the old oak table, with legs as thick and black as those of an elephant, is spread in the homely9 house-place, for the farmer and his family—wife, children, servants, male and female; and is heaped with the rude plenty of beans and bacon, beef and cabbage,[108] fried potatoes and bacon, huge puddings with “dip” as it is called, that is, sauce of flour, butter, and water boiled, sharpened with vinegar or verjuice, and sweetened with brown sugar or more economical molasses—“dip,” so called, no doubt, because all formerly10 dipped their morsel11 into it; a table where bread and cheese, and beer, and good milk porridge and oatmeal porridge, or stirabout, still resist the introduction of tea and coffee and such trash, as the stout13 old husbandman terms it. Let no one say that modern language and modern habits have driven away the ancient rusticity14, while such dialogues between the farmer and guest as the following may be heard—and such may yet be heard in the Peak of Derbyshire, where this really passed.
Farmer at table to his guest.—Ite, mon, ite!
Guest.—Au have iten, mon. Au’ve iten till Au’m weelly brussen.
Farmer.—Then ite, and brust thee out mon: au wooden we hadden to brussen thee wee.[2]
[2] This is the present genuine dialect of the Peak, and is nearly as pure Saxon. It is curious to see in the southern agricultural counties, how the old Saxon terms are worn out by a greater intercourse16 with London and townspeople, although the people themselves have a most Saxon look, with their fair complexions17 and light brown hair; while, as you proceed northward18, the Saxon becomes more and more prevalent in the country dialects. In the midland counties bracken is the common term for fern—in the south not a peasant ever heard it. The dialects of Derbyshire, Nottinghamshire, and Staffordshire, are so similar to that of the Sassenach of Scotland, the Lowland Scots, that the language of Burns was nearly as familiar to me when I first read his poems, as that of my village neighbours; and the Scotch20 read that clever romance of low life, “Bilberry Thurland,” with a great relish21, the dialogues of which are genuine Nottinghamshire, because they said, it was such good Scotch. I have noticed that the plays of the boys in Derbyshire and in the Scotch Lowlands have similar names, differing from the English names in general; as the English game of bandy, in Derbyshire is shinny, in Scotland shinty.
It is no rare sight to see the farmer himself, with his clouted22 shoon and his fustian23 coat, ribbed blue or black worsted stockings, and breeches of corduroy; to see him arousing his household, at five o’clock of a morning, and his wife hurrying the servant-wenches, as they call them, from their beds, crying,—“Up, up, boulder-heads!” that is pebble-heads, or heavy-heads, and asking them if they mean to lie till the sun burns their eyes out; having them up to light fires, sweep the hearth24, and get to milking,[109] cheese-making, churning, and what not; while he gets his men and boys to their duties,—in winter, to fodder25 the horses and cows, and prepare for ploughing, or carting out manure26; to supply the “young beast,”—young cattle, in the straw-yard with food; to chop turnips28, carrots, mangel-würzel, cut hay, boil potatoes for feeding pigs or bullocks; thrash, winnow29, or sack corn. In summer, to be off to the harvest-field. The wife is ready to take a turn at the churn, or to turn up her gown-sleeves to the shoulders, and kneeling down on a straw cushion, to press the sweet curd30 to the bottom of the cheese-pan. To boil the whey for making whey butter, to press the curd into the cheese-vats; place the new cheese in the press; to salt and turn, and look after those cheeses which are in the different stages of the progress from perfect newness and white softness, to their investment with the unctuous31 coating of a goodly age. He is ready to go with the men into the farm; she is ready to see that the calves32 are properly fed, and to bargain with the butcher for the fat ones; to feed her geese, turkeys, guinea-fowls33, and barn-door fowls; to see after the collection of eggs; how the milk is going on in the dairy, the cream churning, and moulding of butter for sale. In some counties, especially in the west of England, numerous are those homely and most useful dames34 that you see mounted on their horses with nothing but a flat pad, or a stuffed sack under them, jogging to market to dispose of the products of their dairy and poultry35 yard, as fresh, hale, and independent, as their grandmothers were. As to the farmer himself, he can hold the plough as his father did before him. He hates your newfangled notions; he despises your fine-fingered chaps, that are brought up at boarding-schools till they are fit for nothing but to ride on smart whisk-tailed nags36 to market, and carry a bit of a sample-bag in their pockets; and had rather, ten times, be off to the hunt or the race-course than to market at all; or to be running after a dog and gun, breaking down fences and trampling37 over turnip27 and potato crops, when they ought to be watching that other idlers did not commit such depredations38. He sits with his men, and works with his men; and, while he does as much as the best of them—follows the plough, the harrow, or the drill, empties the manure-cart on his fallows, loads the hay or the corn-wagon39,—he many a[110] time says to himself that the “master’s eye does still more than his hand.” The celebrated40 Mr. Robinson of Cambridge, who was fond of farming, gives in a letter to a friend, a most striking view of the perpetual recurrence41 of the little occupations which present themselves to the practical farmer, and however apparently42 trivial, are really important, and full of pleasure to those whose hearts are in such pursuit.—“Rose at three o’clock; crawled into the library, and met one who said,—‘work while ye have the light; the night cometh, when no man can work: my father worketh hitherto, and I work.’ Rang the great bell, and roused the girls to milking, went up to the farm, roused the horsekeeper, fed the horses while he was getting up; called the boy to suckle the calves and clean out the cow-house; lighted the pipe, walked round the garden to see what was wanted there; went up to the paddock to see if the weaning calves were well; went down to the ferry to see if the boy had scooped43 and cleaned the boat; returned to the farm, examined the shoulders, heels, traces, chaff44 and corn of eight horses going to plough, mended the acre-staff, cut some thongs46, whip-corded the plough-boys’ whips, pumped the troughs full, saw the hogs47 fed, examined the swill-tubs, and then the cellar; ordered a quarter of malt, for the hogs want grains, and the men want beer; filled the pipe again, returned to the river, and bought a lighter48 of turf for dairy fires, and another of sedge for ovens; hunted out the wheelbarrows, and set them a trundling; returned to the farm, called the men to breakfast, and cut the boys’ bread and cheese, and saw the wooden bottles filled; sent one plough to the three roods, another to the three half-acres, and so on; shut the gates, and the clock struck five; breakfasted; set two men to ditch the five roods, two men to chop sods, and spread about the land, two more to throw up manure in the yard, and three men and six women to weed wheat; set on the carpenter to repair cow-cribs, and set them up till winter; the wheeler, to mend the old carts, cart-ladders, rakes, etc., preparatory to hay-time and harvest; walked to the six-acres, found hogs in the grass, went back and set a man to hedge and thorn; sold the butcher a fat calf49 and the suckler a lean one.—The clock strikes nine; walked into the barley50-field; barleys fine—picked off a few tiles and stones, and cut a few thistles; the peas fine but foul51; the charlock must be[111] topped; the tares52 doubtful, the fly seems to have taken them; prayed for rain, but could not see a cloud; came round to the wheat-field, wheats rather thin, but the finest colour in the world; sent four women on to the shortest wheats; ordered one man to weed along the ridge12 of the long wheats, and two women to keep rank and file with him in the furrows53; thistles many, blue-bottles no end; traversed all the wheat-field, came to the fallow-field; the ditchers have run crooked54, set them straight; the flag sods cut too much, the rush sods too little, strength wasted, shew the men how to three-corner them; laid out more work for the ditchers, went to the ploughs, set the foot a little higher, cut a wedge, set the coulter deeper, must go and get a new mould-board against to-morrow; went to the other plough, gathered up some wood and tied over the traces, mended a horse-tree, tied a thong45 to the plough-hammer, went to see which lands wanted ploughing first, sat down under a bush, wondered how any man could be so silly as to call me reverend; read two verses in the Bible of the loving-kindness of the Lord in the midst of his temple, hummed a tune56 of thankfulness, rose up, whistled, the dogs wagged their tails, and away we went, dined, drunk some milk and fell asleep, woke by the carpenter for some slats which the sawyers must cut, etc. etc.”
So spends many a farmer of the old stamp his day, and at night he takes his seat on the settle, under the old wide chimney—his wife has her little work-table set near—the “wenches” darning their stockings, or making up a cap for Sunday, and the men sitting on the other side of the hearth, with their shoes off. He now enjoys of all things, to talk over his labours and plans with the men,—they canvass57 the best method of doing this and that—lay out the course of to-morrow—what land is to be broke up, or laid down; where barley, wheat, oats, etc. shall be sown, or if they be growing, when they shall be cut. In harvest-time, lambing-time, in potato setting and gathering58 time, in fact, almost all summer long, there is no sitting on the hearth—it is out of bed with the sun, and after the long hard day—supper, and to bed again. It is only in winter that there is any sitting by the fire, which is seldom diversified59 further than by the coming in of a neighbouring farmer, or the reading of the weekly news.
Such is the rustic15, plodding60 life of many a farmer in England,[112] and there is no part of the population for which so little has been done, and of which so little is thought, as of their farm-servants. Scarcely any of these got any education before the establishment of Sunday schools—how few of them do yet, compared with the working population of towns? The girls help their mothers—the labourers’ wives—in their cottages, as soon almost as they can waddle61 about. They are scarcely more than infants themselves, when they are set to take care of other infants. The little creatures go lugging62 about great fat babies that really seem as heavy as themselves. You may see them on the commons, or little open green spots in the lanes near their homes, congregating63 together, two or three juvenile64 nurses, with their charges, carrying them along, or letting them roll on the sward, while they try to catch a few minutes of play with one another, or with that tribe of bairns at their heels—too old to need nursing, and too young to begin nursing others. As they get bigger they are found useful in the house—they mop and brush, and feed the pig, and run to the town for things; and as soon as they get to ten or twelve, out they go to nurse at the farm-houses; a little older, they “go to service;” there they soon aspire66 to be dairymaids, or housemaids, if their ambition does not prompt them to seek places in the towns,—and so they go on scrubbing and scouring67, and lending a hand in the harvest-field, till they are married to some young fellow, who takes a cottage and sets up day-labourer. This is their life; and the men’s is just similar. As soon as they can run about, they are set to watch a gate that stands at the end of the lane or the common to stop cattle from straying, and there through long solitary68 days they pick up a few halfpence by opening it for travellers. They are sent to scare birds from corn just sown, or just ripening69, where
They stroll, the lonely Crusoes of the fields—
as Bloomfield has beautifully described them from his own experience. They help to glean70, to gather potatoes, to pop beans into holes in dibbling time, to pick hops71, to gather up apples for the cider-mill, to gather mushrooms and blackberries for market, to herd72 flocks of geese, or young turkeys, or lambs at weaning time; they even help to drive sheep to market, or to the wash at shearing[113] time; they can go to the town with a huge pair of clouted ancle-boots to be mended, as you may see them trudging73 along over the moors74, or along the footpath75 of the fields, with the strings76 of the boots tied together, and slung77 over the shoulder—one boot behind and the other before; and then they are very useful to lift and carry about the farm-yard, to shred79 turnips, or beet-root—to hold a sack open—to bring in wood for the fire, or to rear turfs for drying on the moors, as the man cuts them with his paring shovel80, or to rear peat-bricks for drying. They are mighty81 useful animals in their day and generation, and as they get bigger, they successively learn to drive plough, and then to hold it; to drive the team, and finally to do all the labours of a man. That is the growing up of a farm-servant. All this time he is learning his business, but he is learning nothing else,—he is growing up into a tall, long, smock-frocked, straw-hatted, ancle-booted fellow, with a gait as graceful82 as one of his own plough-bullocks. He has grown up, and gone to service; and there he is, as simple, as ignorant, and as laborious83 a creature as one of the wagon-horses that he drives. The mechanic sees his weekly newspaper over his pipe and pot; but the clodhopper, the chopstick, the hawbuck, the hind78, the Johnny-raw, or by whatever name, in whatever district, he may be called, is every where the same; he sees no newspaper, and if he did, he could not read it; and if he hears his master reading it, ten to one but he drops asleep over it. In fact, he has no interest in it. He knows there is such a place as the next town, for he goes there to statutes84, and to the fair; and he has heard of Lunnon, and the French, and Buonaparte, and of late years of America, and he has some dreamy notion that he should like to go there if he could raise the wind, and thought he could find the way—and that is all that he knows of the globe and its concerns, beyond his own fields. The mechanic has his library, and he reads, and finds that he has a mind, and a hundred tastes and pleasures that he never dreamed of before; the clodhopper has no library, and if he had, books in his present state would be to him only so many things set on end upon shelves. He is as much of an animal as air and exercise, strong living and sound sleeping, can make him, and he is nothing more. Just see the daily course of his life. Harvest-time is the jubilee85 of his year. It is a time of incessant86 and hurrying occupation—but that is a[114] benefit to him—it is an excitement, and he wants exciting. It rouses him out of that beclouded and unimaginative dreamy state in which he stalks along the solitary fields, or wields87 the flail88 in the barn; digs the drain or the ditch, or plashes the fence, from day to day and week to week. The energies that he has, and they are chiefly physical, are all called forth89. He is in a bustle90. The weather is fine and warm—his blood flows quicker. The gates are thrown open—the hay rustles91 in the meadow, or the golden corn stands in shock amid the stubble: the wagons92 are rattling93 along the lanes and the fields. His neighbours are all called out to assist. The labourers leave every thing else, and are all in the harvest-field. The women leave their cottages, and are there too. Young, middle-aged94, and old,—all are there, to work or to glean. The comely95 maiden96 with her rosy97 face, her beaming eyes, and fair figure, brings with her mirth and joke. The stout village matrons have drawn98 footless stockings on their arms to protect them from the sun and stubble—they have pinned up their bed-gowns behind, or doffed99 themselves to the brown stays and linsey-woolsey petticoat, and are amongst the best hands in the field. Even the old are feebly pulling at a rake, or putting hay into wain-row, or looking on, and telling what they have done in their time. The beer-keg is in the field, and the horn often goes round. The lunch is eaten under the tree, or amongst the sheaves. In the house at noon, there is a great setting out of dinner; beans and bacon, huge puddings and dumplings are plentiful100,—it is a joyous101 and a stirring time. There is no other season of the year in which the farm-servant enjoys himself so much as in harvest; not even in his few other days of relaxation—on his visit to the fair, to the statutes, to the ploughing match, or on Mothering Sunday, when all the “servant-lads” and “servant-wenches” are, in some parts of the country, set at liberty for a day, to go and see their mothers. See him at any other time, and what a plodding, simple, monotonous102 life he leads! He rises at an early hour—we have seen in this chapter at what an hour the Rev19. Mr. Robinson had his men up;—if he be going to work in the farm-yard, he goes out and gets to it till breakfast-time: but if he be going to plough, or to do work at a distance, or to carry corn home that has been sold at market by his master, or to fetch bones, rape-dust, or other manure from the[115] town, or coals from the pit, he is up, whether it be summer or winter, at an hour at which townspeople are often not gone to bed. In early spring, and autumn he gets up to plough at five and six o’clock in a morning. It is pitch dark, and dismally103 cold. He strikes a light with his tinder, for lucifers he never saw, and has only heard of, as a horrible invention for setting ricks on fire. He slips on his ancle-boots without lacing them, and out he goes to fodder his horses, and rub them down. That done, he comes in again.
The “servant wench” has lit the fire and set out his breakfast for him and his fellows; huge basins of milk porridge, and loaves as big as beehives, and pretty much of the same shape, and as brown as the back of their own hands. To this fare he betakes himself with a capacity that only country air and hard labour can give. Having made havoc104 with as much of these as would serve a round family of citizens to breakfast, he then stretches out his hand to a capacious dish of cold fat bacon of about six inches thick; nay105, I once saw bacon on such a table actually ten inches thick, and all one solid mass of fat. This is set on the top of half a peck of cold boiled beans that were left the day before, and however strange such viands106 might seem to a townsman at six o’clock, or earlier, in a morning, they vanish as rapidly as if they did not follow that mess of porridge, and those huge hunches107 of bread. Well, to a certainty he has now done. Nay, don’t be in such haste—he has not done; he has his eye on the great brown loaf again. He must have a snack of bread and cheese; so he takes his knife out of his waistcoat pocket, a gigantic clasp knife, assuredly made by the knowing Sheffielder to hew55 down such loaves, and lie in such pockets, and fill such stomachs, and for no other earthly purpose. See! he cuts a massy fragment of the rich curly kissing-crust, that hangs like a fretted108 cornice from the upper half of the loaf, and places it between the little finger and the thick of his left hand; he cuts a corresponding piece of cheese, and places it between the thumb and the two fore-fingers of the same hand, and alternately cutting his bread and cheese with his clasp-knife (for he would not use another for that purpose on any account), as Betty sets a mug of ale before him, he wipes his mouth and says, as he lifts the mug, to his younger companion, who has all this time been faithfully[116] and valiantly109 imitating him,—“Well, Jack110, we must be off, lad; take a draught111, then get the horses out, and I’ll be with thee.”
This is pretty well for five or six o’clock in a morning; but it is quite as likely that it is only one or two in the morning, as it certainly is, if he be going to a distance with a load, or for a load of any thing. The breakfast is as liberally handled, and Betty mean time has put up their luncheons113 or “ten-o’clocks”—huge masses of bread and cheese, or cold bacon, or cold meat, and a bottle of ale if they are going to plough. Having now breakfasted, he has only to lace his boots, which he generally does in the most inconvenient114 posture115, and not before he has filled himself till it is tenfold additionally inconvenient—so with a face into which all the blood in his body seems to rush, and with many a grunt116, he accomplishes his task, and away he goes;—his whip cracks, his gears jingle117, his wagon rumbles118, and he is gone. If, however, he be going to plough, he will duly about eleven o’clock lunch under a tree, while his horses rest and eat their hay; and then, at three or four o’clock, he will loose them from the plough, and return home to a dinner as plentiful as his breakfast; his horses are fed, and he goes to bed. If he be going out with corn, or for coals, he is off, as I have said, probably by two o’clock, and in his wagon he duly takes with him a truss of hay and a truss of straw. The hay is for his horses to eat at some wayside public-house, and the straw is for payment for their standing3 in the stable. The straw is worth a shilling, and in some places, at certain seasons, eighteen-pence. If he does not take straw, he takes a shilling in money. He carries his luncheon112 and eats it in the alehouse, and he has a shilling for himself and companion to drink, and treat the hostler. This is a custom as old as farms and corn-mills themselves. If it be winter weather, you shall meet him, probably, with straw-bands wrapped round his legs, or even round his hat for warmth; and in heavy rain his Macintosh is a sack-bag, which he throws over his shoulders, and goes on defying the weather for a whole day. In sudden squalls and thunder showers in summer, you may see him, and frequently a whole cluster of harvesters, take shelter under his wagon till the storm is over. By the evening fire, in some farm-houses, they mend their shoes, or shape and polish the heads of flails119 which they have[117] cut from the black-thorn bush, and have had in a loft120 or under their bed seasoning121 for the last six months, or they get into some horse-play, or they doze122
Till chilblains wake them, or the snapping fire.
And on Sundays they go to church in the morning to get a quiet nod. Perhaps it is to them that the Apostle alludes123 when he says—“And your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams.” For the only chance of their worship seems to be in their dreams—the daily exposure to the air on the six days making them as drowsy124 as bats on the seventh. In the afternoon they lean over gates, or play at quoits:—and there is the life of a farmer man-servant, till he is metamorphosed into a labourer by marrying and setting up his cottage, finding himself, and receiving weekly instead of yearly wages. Such is the farm-servant, whether you see him in his white, his blue, his tawny125, or his olive-green smock-frock, in his straw-hat, or his wide-awake, according to the prevailing126 fashion of different parts of the country—and truly, seeing him and his fellows, we may ask with Wordsworth—
What penetrating128 power of sun or breeze
Shall e’er dissolve the crust wherein his soul
Or crowded city may be taxed with aught
To which in after years he may be roused.
This boy the fields produce:—his spade and hoe—
The carter’s whip that on his shoulder rests,
The sceptre of his sway: his country’s name,
Her equal rights, her churches and her schools—
What have they done for him? And, let me ask,
For tens of thousands, uninformed as he?[3]
[118]
[3] Who would believe it, that such is the profound ignorance amongst the peasantry even of the Cumberland hills—amongst that peasantry where Wordsworth himself has found his Michaels, his Matthews, and many another man and woman that in his hands have become classical and enduring specimens135 of rustic heart and mind, that such facts as the following could occur, and yet this did occur there not very long ago. The “statesmen,” that is, small proprietors136 there, are a people very little susceptible137 of religious excitement; and, we may believe, have, in past years, been very much neglected by their natural instructors138. You hear of no “revivals” amongst them, and the Methodists have little success amongst them. Some person, speaking with the wife of one of these “statesmen” on religious subjects, found that she had not even heard of such a person as Jesus Christ! Astonished at the discovery, he began to tell her of his history; of his coming to save the world, and of his being put to death. Having listened to all this very attentively139, she inquired where this occured; and that being answered, she asked, “and when was it?” this being also told her, she very gravely observed—“Well, its sae far off, and sae lang since, we’ll fain believe that it isna true!”
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guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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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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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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homeliness
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| n.简朴，朴实；相貌平平 | |
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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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rusticity
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| n.乡村的特点、风格或气息 | |
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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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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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complexions
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| 肤色( complexion的名词复数 )； 面色； 局面； 性质 | |
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northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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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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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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clouted
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| adj.缀补的，凝固的v.（尤指用手）猛击，重打( clout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fustian
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| n.浮夸的；厚粗棉布 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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25
fodder
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| n.草料；炮灰 | |
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26
manure
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| n.粪，肥，肥粒；vt.施肥 | |
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27
turnip
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| n.萝卜，芜菁 | |
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28
turnips
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| 芜青( turnip的名词复数 )； 芜菁块根； 芜菁甘蓝块根； 怀表 | |
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29
winnow
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| v．把（谷物）的杂质吹掉，扬去 | |
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30
curd
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| n.凝乳；凝乳状物 | |
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31
unctuous
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| adj.油腔滑调的，大胆的 | |
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32
calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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33
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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34
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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35
poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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36
nags
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| n.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的名词复数 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的第三人称单数 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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37
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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38
depredations
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| n.劫掠，毁坏( depredation的名词复数 ) | |
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39
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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40
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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41
recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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42
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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43
scooped
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| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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44
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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45
thong
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| n.皮带；皮鞭；v.装皮带 | |
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46
thongs
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| 的东西 | |
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47
hogs
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| n.（尤指喂肥供食用的）猪( hog的名词复数 )；（供食用的）阉公猪；彻底地做某事；自私的或贪婪的人 | |
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48
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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49
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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50
barley
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| n.大麦，大麦粒 | |
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51
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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52
tares
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| 荑；稂莠；稗 | |
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53
furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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54
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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55
hew
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| v.砍；伐；削 | |
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56
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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57
canvass
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| v.招徕顾客，兜售；游说；详细检查，讨论 | |
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58
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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59
diversified
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| adj.多样化的，多种经营的v.使多样化，多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 )；进入新的商业领域 | |
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60
plodding
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| a.proceeding in a slow or dull way | |
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61
waddle
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| vi.摇摆地走；n.摇摆的走路(样子) | |
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62
lugging
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| 超载运转能力 | |
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63
congregating
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| （使）集合，聚集( congregate的现在分词 ) | |
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64
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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65
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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66
aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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67
scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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68
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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69
ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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70
glean
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| v.收集(消息、资料、情报等) | |
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71
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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72
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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73
trudging
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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74
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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75
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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76
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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77
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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78
hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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79
shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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80
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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81
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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82
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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83
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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84
statutes
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| 成文法( statute的名词复数 )； 法令； 法规； 章程 | |
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85
jubilee
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| n.周年纪念；欢乐 | |
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86
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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87
wields
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的第三人称单数 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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88
flail
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| v.用连枷打；击打；n.连枷（脱粒用的工具） | |
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89
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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90
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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91
rustles
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| n.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的名词复数 )v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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92
wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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93
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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94
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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95
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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96
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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97
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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98
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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99
doffed
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| v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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101
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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102
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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103
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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104
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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105
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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106
viands
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| n.食品，食物 | |
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107
hunches
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| 预感，直觉( hunch的名词复数 ) | |
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108
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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109
valiantly
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| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
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110
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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111
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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112
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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113
luncheons
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| n.午餐，午宴( luncheon的名词复数 ) | |
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114
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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115
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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116
grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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117
jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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118
rumbles
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| 隆隆声，辘辘声( rumble的名词复数 ) | |
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119
flails
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| v.鞭打( flail的第三人称单数 )；用连枷脱粒；（臂或腿）无法控制地乱动；扫雷坦克 | |
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120
loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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121
seasoning
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| n.调味；调味料；增添趣味之物 | |
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122
doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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123
alludes
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| 提及，暗指( allude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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124
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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125
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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126
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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127
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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128
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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129
caterpillar
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| n.毛虫，蝴蝶的幼虫 | |
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130
sheathed
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| adj.雕塑像下半身包在鞘中的；覆盖的；铠装的；装鞘了的v.将（刀、剑等）插入鞘( sheathe的过去式和过去分词 )；包，覆盖 | |
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131
torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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132
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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133
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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134
boorish
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| adj.粗野的，乡巴佬的 | |
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135
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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136
proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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137
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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138
instructors
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| 指导者，教师( instructor的名词复数 ) | |
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139
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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