Along Broadway, from union to Greeley Squares, any fair day during the period of his artistic7 elevation8, he is to be seen. Past the rich shops and splendid theaters he betakes himself with leisurely9 grace. In Thirtieth Street he may turn for a few moments, but it is only to say good-morning to his publishers. In Twenty-eighth Street, where range the host of those who rival his successful house, he stops to talk with lounging actors and ballad10 singers. Well-known variety stars nod to him familiarly. Women whose sole claim to distinction139 lies in their knack11 of singing a song, smile in greeting as he passes. Occasionally there comes a figure of a needy12 ballad-monger, trudging13 from publisher to publisher with an unavailable manuscript, who turns upon him, in passing, the glint of an envious14 glance. To these he is an important figure, satisfied as much with their envy as with their praise, for is not this also his due, the reward of all who have triumphed?
I have in mind another figure, equally singular: a rouged15 and powdered little maiden16, rich in feathers and ornaments17 of the latest vogue18; gloved in blue and shod in yellow; pretty, self-assured, daring, and even bold. There has gone here all the traditional maidenly19 reserve you would expect to find in one so young and pleasing, and yet she is not evil. The daughter of a Chicago butcher, you knew her when she first came to the city—a shabby, wondering little thing, clerk to a music publisher transferring his business east, and all eyes for the marvels21 of city life.
Gradually the scenes and superlatives of elegance22, those showy men and women coming daily to secure or sell songs, have aroused her longings23 and ambitions. Why may not she sing, why not she be a theatrical celebrity24? She will. The world shall not keep her down. That elusive25 and almost imaginary company known as they, whose hands are ever against the young, shall not hold her back.
Behold26, for a time, then, she has gone; and now, elegant, jingling27 with silver ornaments, hale and merry from good living, she has returned. To-day she is playing at one of the foremost vaudeville28 houses. To-morrow140 she leaves for Pittsburgh. Her one object is still a salary of five hundred or a thousand a week and a three-sheet litho of herself in every window and upon every billboard29.
“I’m all right now,” she will tell you gleefully. “I’m way ahead of the knockers. They can’t keep me down. You ought to have seen the reception I got in Pittsburgh. Say, it was the biggest yet.”
Blessed be Pittsburgh, which has honored one who has struggled so hard, and you say so.
“Are you here for long?”
“Only this week. Come up and see my turn. Hey, cabbie!”
“Take me to Keith’s. So long. Come up and see my turn to-night.”
This is the woman singer, the complement31 of the male of the same art, the couple who make for the acceptance and spread of the popular song as well as the fame of its author. They sing them in every part of the country, and here in New York, returned from a long season on the road, they form a very important portion of this song-writing, song-singing world. They and the authors and the successful publishers—but we may simplify by yet another picture.
In Twenty-seventh or Twenty-eighth Street, or anywhere along Broadway from Madison to Greeley Squares, are the parlors32 of a score of publishers, gentlemen who co?rdinate this divided world for song publishing purposes. There is an office and a reception-room; a music-chamber33, where songs are tried, and a141 stock room. Perhaps, in the case of the larger publishers, the music-rooms are two or three, but the air of each is much the same. Rugs, divans34, imitation palms make this publishing house more bower35 than office. Three or four pianos give to each chamber a parlor-like appearance. The walls are hung with the photos of celebrities36, neatly37 framed, celebrities of the kind described. In the private music-rooms, rocking-chairs. A boy or two waits to bring professional copies at a word. A salaried pianist or two wait to run over pieces which the singer may desire to hear. Arrangers wait to make orchestrations or take down newly schemed out melodies which the popular composer himself cannot play. He has evolved the melody by a process of whistling and must have its fleeting38 beauty registered before it escapes him forever. Hence the salaried arranger.
Into these parlors then, come the mixed company of this distinctive39 world: authors who have or have not succeeded, variety artists who have some word from touring fellows or know the firm, masters of small bands throughout the city or the country, of which the name is legion, orchestra-leaders of Bowery theaters and uptown variety halls, and singers.
The inquirer is a little, stout41, ruddy-faced Irish boy from the gas-house district. His common clothes are not out of the ordinary here, but they mark him as possibly a non-professional seeking free copies.
“Sure, let me see. For what do you want it?”
“Well, I’m from the Arcadia Pleasure Club. We’re142 going to give a little entertainment next Wednesday and we want some songs.”
“I think I’ve got just the thing you want. Wait till I call the boy. Harry42! Bring me some professional copies of ballads43.”
The youth is probably a representative of one of the many Tammany pleasure organizations, the members of which are known for their propensity44 to gather about east and west side corners at night and sing. One or two famous songs are known to have secured their start by the airing given them in this fashion on the street corners of the great city.
Upon his heels treads a lady whose ruffled45 sedateness46 marks her as one unfamiliar48 with this half-musical, half-theatrical atmosphere.
“I have a song I would like to have you try over, if you care to.”
The attending publisher hesitates before even extending a form of reception.
“What sort of a song is it?”
“Well, I don’t exactly know. I guess you’d call it a sentimental49 ballad. If you’d hear it I think you might——”
“We are so over-stocked with songs now, Madam, that I don’t believe there’s much use in our hearing it. Could you come in next Friday? We’ll have more leisure then and can give you more attention.”
The lady looks the failure she has scored, but retreats, leaving the ground clear for the chance arrival of the real author, the individual whose position is attested50 by one hit or mayhap many. His due is that deference143 which all publishers, if not the public, feel called upon to render, even if at the time he may have no reigning53 success.
Whence the Song
“Hello, Frank, how are you? What’s new?”
“Sit down. How are things with you, anyhow?”
“Oh, so-so.”
“That new song of yours will be out Friday. We have a rush order on it.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, and I’ve got good news for you. Windom is going to sing it next year with the minstrels. He was in here the other day and thought it was great.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“That song’s going to go, all right. You haven’t got any others, have you?”
“Surest thing you know. Here, Harry! Call Hatcher.”
Now comes the pianist and arranger, and a hearing and jotting56 down of the new melody in a private room. The favored author may have piano and pianist for an indefinite period any time. Lunch with the publishers awaits him if he remains57 until noon. His song, when ready, is heard with attention. The details which make for its publication are rushed. His royalties58 are paid with that rare smile which accompanies the payment of anything to one who earns money for another. He is to be petted, conciliated, handled with gloves.
At his heels, perhaps, another author, equally successful,144 maybe, but almost intolerable because of certain marked eccentricities59 of life and clothing. He is a negro, small, slangy, strong in his cups, but able to write a good song, occasionally a truly pathetic ballad.
“What?”
“That effusion.”
“What are you talking about?”
“That audience-killer—that there thing that’s goin’ to sweep the country like wildfire—that there song.”
Much laughter and apology.
“It will be here Friday, Gussie.”
“Thought it was to be here last Monday?”
“So it was, but the printers didn’t get it done. You know how those things are, Gussie.”
“I know. Gimme twenty-five dollars.”
“Sure. But what are you going to do with it?”
“Never you mind. Gimme twenty-five bones. To-morrow’s rent day up my way.”
Twenty-five is given as if it were all a splendid joke. Gussie is a bad negro, one day radiant in bombastic60 clothing, the next wretched from dissipation and neglect. He has no royalty61 coming to him, really. That is, he never accepts royalty. All his songs are sold outright62. But these have earned the house so much that if he were to demand royalties the sum to be paid would beggar anything he has ever troubled to ask for.
“I wouldn’t take no royalty,” he announces at one time, with a bombastic and yet mellow63 negro emphasis, which is always amusing. “Doan want it. Too much145 trouble. All I want is money when I needs it and wants it.”
Seeing that nearly every song that he writes is successful, this is a most equitable64 arrangement. He could have several thousand instead of a few hundred, but being shiftless he does not care. Ready money is the thing with him, twenty-five or fifty when he needs it.
And then those “peerless singers of popular ballads,” as their programs announce them, men and women whose pictures you will see upon every song-sheet, their physiognomy underscored with their own “Yours Sincerely” in their own handwriting. Every day they are here, arriving and departing, carrying the latest songs to all parts of the land. These are the individuals who in their own estimation “make” the songs the successes they are. In all justice, they have some claim to the distinction. One such, raising his or her voice nightly in a melodic65 interpretation66 of a new ballad, may, if the music be sufficiently67 catchy68, bring it so thoroughly69 to the public ear as to cause it to begin to sell. These individuals are not unaware70 of their services in the matter, nor slow to voice their claims. In flocks and droves they come, whenever good fortune brings “the company” to New York or the end of the season causes them to return, to tell of their success and pick new songs for the ensuing season. Also to collect certain pre-arranged bonuses. Also to gather news and dispense71 it. Then, indeed, is the day of the publisher’s volubility and grace. These gentlemen and ladies must be attended to with that deference52 which is the right146 of the successful. The ladies must be praised and cajoled.
“Did you hear about the hit I made with ‘Sweet Kitty Leary’ in Kansas City? I knocked ’em cold. Say, it was the biggest thing on the bill.”
The publisher may not have heard of it. The song, for all the uproarious success depicted72, may not have sold an extra copy, and yet this is not for him to say. Has the lady a good voice? Is she with a good company? He may so ingratiate himself that she will yet sing one of his newer and as yet unheard of compositions into popularity.
“Was it? Well, I’m glad to hear it. You have the voice for that sort of a song, you know, Marie. I’ve got something new, though, that will just suit you—oh, a dandy. It’s by Harry Welch.”
For all this flood of geniality73 the singer may only smile indifferently. Secretly her hand is against all publishers. They are out for themselves. Successful singers must mind their P’s and Q’s. Payment is the word, some arrangement by which she shall receive a stated sum per week for singing a song. The honeyed phrases are well enough for beginners, but we who have succeeded need something more.
“Let me show you something new. I’ve got a song here that is fine. Come right into the music-room. Charlie, get a copy of ‘She May Have Seen Better Days.’ I want you to play it over for Miss Yaeger.”
The boy departs and returns. In the exclusive music-room147 sits the singer, critically listening while the song is played.
“Isn’t that a pretty chorus?”
“Well, yes, I rather like that.”
“That will suit your voice exactly. Don’t ever doubt it. I think that’s one of the best songs we have published in years.”
“Have you the orchestration?”
“Sure; I’ll get you that.”
Somehow, however, the effect has not been satisfactory. The singer has not enthused. He must try other songs and give her the orchestrations of many. Perhaps, out of all, she will sing one. That is the chance of the work.
As for her point of view, she may object to the quality of anything except for that which she is paid. It is for the publisher to see whether she is worth subsidizing or not. If not, perhaps another house will see her merits in a different light. Yet she takes the songs and orchestrations along. And the publisher turning, as she goes, announces, “Gee, there’s a cold proposition for you. Get her to sing anything for you for nothing?—Nix. Not her. Cash or no song.” And he thumbs his fingers after the fashion of one who pays out money.
Your male singer is often a bird of the same fine feather. If you wish to see the ideal of dressiness as exemplified by the gentlemen of the road, see these individuals arrive at the offices of the publishers. The radiance of half-hose and neckties is not outdone by the sprightliness74 of the suit pattern or the glint of the stone in the shirt-front. Fresh from Chicago or Buffalo75 they arrive, rich148 in self-opinion fostered by rural praise, perhaps possessed76 of a new droll77 story, always loaded with the details of the hit they made.
“Well, well! You should have seen how that song went in Baltimore. I never saw anything like it. Why, it’s the hit of the season!”
Is he absolutely sure of the estimation in which the house holds his services? You will hear a sequel to this, not this day perhaps but a week or a month later, during his idle summer in New York.
“You haven’t twenty-five handy you could let me have, have you, Pat? I’m a little short to-day.”
Into the publisher’s eye steals the light of wisdom and decision. Is this individual worth it? Will he do the songs of the house twenty-five dollars’ worth of good next season? Blessed be fate if there is a partner to consult. He will have time to reflect.
“Well, George, I haven’t it right here in the drawer, but I can get it for you. I always like to consult my partner about these things, you know. Can you wait until this afternoon?”
Of course the applicant79 can wait, and between whiles are conferences and decisions. All things considered, it may be advisable to do it.
“We will get twenty-five out of him, any way. He’s got a fine tenor voice. You never can tell what he might do.”
So a pleasant smile and the money may be waiting149 when he returns. Or, he may be put off, with excuses and apologies. It all depends.
There are cases, however, where not even so much delay can be risked, where a hearty80 “sure” must be given. This is to that lord of the stage whose fame as a singer is announced by every minstrel billboard as “the renowned81 baritone, Mr. Calvin Johnson,” or some such. For him the glad hand and the ready check, and he is to be petted, flattered, taken to lunch, dinner, a box theater party—anything—everything, really. And then, there is that less important one who has over-measured his importance. For him the solemn countenance82 and the suave83 excuse, at an hour when his need is greatest. Lastly, there is the sub-strata applicant in tawdry, make-believe clothes, whose want peeps out of every seam and pocket. His day has never been as yet, or mayhap was, and is over. He has a pinched face, a livid hunger, a forlorn appearance. Shall he be given anything? Never. He is not worth it. He is a “dead one.” Is it not enough if the publisher looks after those of whose ability he is absolutely sure. Certainly. Therefore this one must slop the streets in old shoes and thin clothing, waiting. And he may never obtain a dime84 from any publisher.
Out of such grim situations, however, occasionally springs a success. These “down and out” individuals do not always understand why fate should be against them, why they should be down, and are not willing to cease trying.
“I’ll write a song yet, you bet,” is the dogged, grim decision. “I’ll get up, you bet.”
Once in a while the threat is made good, some mood150 allowing. Strolling along the by-streets, ignored and self-commiserating, the mood seizes them. Words bubble up and a melody, some crude commentary on the contrasts, the losses or the hopes of life, rhyming, swinging as they come, straight from the heart. Now it is for pencil and paper, quick. Any old scrap85 will do—the edge of a newspaper, the back of an envelope, the edge of a cuff86. Written so, the words are safe and the melody can be whistled until some one will take it down. And so, occasionally, is born—has been often—the great success, the land-sweeping melody, selling by the hundreds of thousands and netting the author a thousand a month for a year or more.
Then, for him, the glory of the one who is at last successful. Was he commonplace, hungry, envious, wretchedly clothed before? Well, now, see! And do not talk to him of other authors who once struck it, had their little day and went down again, never to rise. He is not of them—not like them. For him, now, the sunlight and the bright places. No clothing too showy or too expensive, no jewelry87 too rare. Broadway is the place for him, the fine cafés and rich hotel lobbies. What about those other people who looked down on him once? Ha! they scorned him, did they? They sneered88, eh? Would not give him a cent, eh? Let them come and look now! Let them stare in envy. Let them make way. He is a great man at last and the whole world knows it. The whole country is making acclaim89 over that which he has done.
For the time being, then, this little center of song-writing and publishing is for him the all-inclusive of life’s151 importance. From the street organs at every corner is being ground the one melody, so expressive90 of his personality, into the ears of all men. In the vaudeville houses and cheaper concert halls men and women are singing it nightly to uproarious applause. Parodies91 are made and catch-phrases coined, all speaking of his work. Newsboys whistle and older men pipe its peculiar92 notes. Out of open windows falls the distinguished93 melody, accompanied by voices both new and strange. All men seem to recognize that which he has done, and for the time being compliment his presence and his personality.
Of all the tragedies, this is perhaps the bitterest, because of the long-drawn memory of the thing. Organs continue to play it, but the sale ceases. Quarter after quarter, the royalties are less, until at last a few dollars per month will measure them completely. Meanwhile his publishers ask for other songs. One he writes, and then another, and yet another, vainly endeavoring to duplicate that original note which made for his splendid success the year before. But it will not come. And, in the meanwhile, other song-writers displace him for the time being in the public eye. His publishers have a new hit, but it is not his. A new author is being bowed to and taken out to dinner. But he is not that author. A new tile-crowned celebrity is strolling up his favorite Broadway path. At last, after a dozen attempts and failures, there is no hurry to publish his songs. If the period of failure is too long extended he may even be neglected. More and more, celebrities crowd in between him and that delightful95 period when he was greatest. At last,152 chagrined96 by the contrast of things, he changes his publishers, changes his haunts and, bitterest of all, his style of living. Soon it is the old grind again, and then, if thoughtless spending has been his failing, shabby clothing and want. You may see the doubles of these in any publisher’s sanctum at any time, the sarcastically97 referred-to has been.
Here, also, the disengaged ballad singer, “peerless tenor” of some last year’s company, suffering a period of misfortune. He is down on his luck in everything but appearances, last year’s gorgeousness still surviving in a modified and sedate47 form. He is a singer of songs, now, for the publishers, by toleration. His one lounging-place in all New York where he is welcome and not looked at askance is the chair they may allow him. Once a day he makes the rounds of the theatrical agencies; once, or if fortune favors, twice a day he visits some cheap eating-house. At night, after a lone98 stroll through that fairyland of theaters and gaudy99 palaces to which, as he sees it, he properly belongs—Broadway, he returns to his bed, the carpeted floor of a room in some tolerant publisher’s office, where he sleeps by permission, perhaps, and not even there, too often.
Oh, the glory of success in this little world in his eye at this time—how now, in want, it looms100 large and essential! Outside, as he stretches himself, may even now be heard the murmur101 of that shiny, joyous102 rout103 of which he was so recently a part. The lights, the laughter; the songs, the mirth—all are for others. Only he, only he must linger in shadows, alone.
To-morrow it will come out in words, if you talk with153 him. It is in the publisher’s office, perhaps, where gaudy ladies are trying songs, or on the street, where others, passing, notice him not but go their way in elegance.
“I had it once, all right,” he will tell you. “I had my handful. You bet I’ll get it next year.”
Is it of money he is thinking?
An automobile104 swings past and some fine lady, looking out, wakes to bitterness his sense of need.
“New York’s tough without the coin, isn’t it? You never get a glance when you’re out of the game. I spend too easy, that’s what’s the matter with me. But I’ll get back, you bet. Next time I’ll know enough to save. I’ll get up again, and next time I’ll stay up, see?”
Next year his hopes may be realized again, his dreams come true. If so, be present and witness the glories of radiance after shadow.
“Ah, me boy, back again, you see!”
“So I see. Quite a change since last season.”
“Well, I should smile. I was down on my luck then. That won’t happen any more. They won’t catch me. I’ve learned a lesson. Say, we had a great season.”
Rings and pins attest51 it. A cravat105 of marvelous radiance speaks for itself in no uncertain tones. Striped clothes, yellow shoes, a new hat and cane. Ah, the glory, the glory! He is not to be caught any more, “you bet,” and yet here is half of his subsistence blooming upon his merry body.
They will catch him, though, him and all in the length of time. One by one they come, old, angular misfortune grabbing them all by the coat-tails. The rich, the proud, the great among them sinking, sinking,154 staggering backward until they are where he was and deeper, far deeper. I wish I could quote those little notices so common in all our metropolitan106 dailies, those little perfunctory records which appear from time to time in theatrical and sporting and “song” papers, telling volumes in a line. One day one such singer’s voice is failing; another day he has been snatched by disease; one day one radiant author arrives at that white beneficence which is the hospital bed and stretches himself to a final period of suffering; one day a black boat steaming northward107 along the East River to a barren island and a field of weeds carries the last of all that was so gay, so unthinking, so, after all, childlike of him who was greatest in his world. Weeds and a headboard, salt winds and the cry of seagulls, lone blowings and moanings, and all that light and mirth is buried here.
Here and there in the world are those who are still singing melodies created by those who have gone this unfortunate way, singers of “Two Little Girls in Blue” and “White Wings,” “Little Annie Rooney” and “The Picture and the Ring,” the authors of “In the Baggage Coach Ahead” and “Trinity Chimes,” of “Sweet Marie” and “Eileen”—all are here. There might be recited the successes of a score of years, quaint108, pleasing melodies which were sung the land over, which even to-day find an occasional voice and a responsive chord, but of the authors not one but could be found in some field for the outcasts, forgotten. Somehow the world forgets, the peculiar world in which they moved, and the larger one which knew them only by their songs.
155 It seems strange, really, that so many of them should have come to this. And yet it is true—authors, singers, publishers, even—and yet not more strange is it than that their little feeling, worked into a melody and a set of words, should reach far out over land and water, touching109 the hearts of the nation. In mansion110 and hovel, by some blazing furnace of a steel mill, or through the open window of a farmland cottage, is trolled the simple story, written in halting phraseology, tuned111 as only a popular melody is tuned. All have seen the theater uproarious with those noisy recalls which bring back the sunny singer, harping112 his one indifferent lay. All have heard the street bands and the organs, the street boys and the street loungers, all expressing a brief melody, snatched from the unknown by some process of the heart. Yes, here it is, wandering the land over like a sweet breath of summer, making for matings and partings, for happiness and pain. That it may not endure is also meet, going back into the soil, as it does, with those who hear it and those who create.
Yet only those who venture here in merry Broadway shall witness the contrast, however. Only they who meet these radiant presences in the flesh will ever know the marvel20 of the common song.
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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laggard
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| n.落后者；adj.缓慢的，落后的 | |
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gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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affluent
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| adj.富裕的，富有的，丰富的，富饶的 | |
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spats
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| n.口角( spat的名词复数 )；小争吵；鞋罩；鞋套v.spit的过去式和过去分词( spat的第三人称单数 )；口角；小争吵；鞋罩 | |
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cynosure
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| n.焦点 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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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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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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rouged
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| 胭脂，口红( rouge的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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maidenly
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| adj. 像处女的, 谨慎的, 稳静的 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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vaudeville
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| n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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billboard
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| n.布告板，揭示栏，广告牌 | |
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alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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complement
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| n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足 | |
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parlors
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| 客厅( parlor的名词复数 )； 起居室； （旅馆中的）休息室； （通常用来构成合成词）店 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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divans
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| n.（可作床用的）矮沙发( divan的名词复数 )；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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35
bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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36
celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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37
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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40
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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43
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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45
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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46
sedateness
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| n.安详，镇静 | |
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sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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48
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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49
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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50
attested
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| adj.经检验证明无病的，经检验证明无菌的v.证明( attest的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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51
attest
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| vt.证明，证实；表明 | |
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52
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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jotting
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| n.简短的笔记，略记v.匆忙记下( jot的现在分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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58
royalties
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| 特许权使用费 | |
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59
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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bombastic
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| adj.夸夸其谈的，言过其实的 | |
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royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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equitable
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| adj.公平的；公正的 | |
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melodic
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| adj.有旋律的，调子美妙的 | |
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interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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catchy
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| adj.易记住的，诡诈的，易使人上当的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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sprightliness
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| n.愉快，快活 | |
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75
buffalo
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| n.(北美)野牛；(亚洲)水牛 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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batch
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| n.一批(组，群)；一批生产量 | |
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applicant
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| n.申请人，求职者，请求者 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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82
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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83
suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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84
dime
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| n.（指美国、加拿大的钱币）一角 | |
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85
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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86
cuff
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| n.袖口；手铐；护腕；vt.用手铐铐；上袖口 | |
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jewelry
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| n.（jewllery）（总称）珠宝 | |
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88
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
acclaim
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| v.向…欢呼，公认；n.欢呼，喝彩，称赞 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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91
parodies
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| n.拙劣的模仿( parody的名词复数 )；恶搞；滑稽的模仿诗文；表面上模仿得笨拙但充满了机智用来嘲弄别人作品的作品v.滑稽地模仿，拙劣地模仿( parody的第三人称单数 ) | |
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92
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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93
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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wane
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| n.衰微，亏缺，变弱；v.变小，亏缺，呈下弦 | |
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95
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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96
chagrined
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| adj.懊恼的，苦恼的v.使懊恼，使懊丧，使悔恨( chagrin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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98
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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99
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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100
looms
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| n.织布机( loom的名词复数 )v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的第三人称单数 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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101
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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102
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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103
rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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104
automobile
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| n.汽车，机动车 | |
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105
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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106
metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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107
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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108
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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109
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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110
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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111
tuned
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| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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112
harping
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| n.反复述说 | |
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