It was Christmas Eve over on the East Side. Darkness was closing in on a cold, hard day. The light that struggled through the frozen windows of the delicatessen store and the saloon on the corner, fell upon men with empty dinner-pails who were hurrying homeward, their coats buttoned tightly, and heads bent1 against the steady blast from the river, as if they were butting2 their way down the street.
The wind had forced the door of the saloon ajar, and was whistling through the crack; but in there it seemed to make no one afraid. Between roars of laughter, the clink of glasses and the rattle3 of dice4 on the hardwood counter were heard out in the street. More than one of the passers-by who came within range was taken with an extra shiver in which the vision of wife and little ones waiting at home for his coming was snuffed out, as he dropped in to brace5 up. The lights were long out when the silent streets reëchoed his unsteady steps toward home, where the Christmas welcome had turned to dread6.
But in this twilight7 hour they burned brightly yet, trying hard to pierce the bitter cold outside
[139]
with a ray of warmth and cheer. Where the lamps in the delicatessen store made a mottled streak8 of brightness across the flags, two little boys stood with their noses flattened9 against the window. The warmth inside, and the lights, had made little islands of clear space on the frosty pane10, affording glimpses of the wealth within, of the piles of smoked herring, of golden cheese, of sliced bacon and generous, fat-bellied hams; of the rows of odd-shaped bottles and jars on the shelves that held there was no telling what good things, only it was certain that they must be good from the looks of them.
And the heavenly smell of spices and things that reached the boys through the open door each time the tinkling11 bell announced the coming or going of a customer! Better than all, back there on the top shelf the stacks of square honey-cakes, with their frosty coats of sugar, tied in bundles with strips of blue paper.
The wind blew straight through the patched and threadbare jackets of the lads as they crept closer to the window, struggling hard by breathing on the pane to make their peep-holes bigger, to take in the whole of the big cake with the almonds set in; but they did not heed13 it.
"Jim!" piped the smaller of the two, after a longer stare than usual; "hey, Jim! them's Sante Claus's. See 'em?"
[140]
"Sante Claus!" snorted the other, scornfully, applying his eye to the clear spot on the pane. "There ain't no ole duffer like dat. Them's honey-cakes. Me 'n' Tom had a bite o' one wunst."
"There ain't no Sante Claus?" retorted the smaller shaver, hotly, at his peep-hole. "There is, too. I seen him myself when he cum to our alley14 last——"
"What's youse kids a-scrappin' fur?" broke in a strange voice.
Another boy, bigger, but dirtier and tougher-looking than either of the two, had come up behind them unobserved. He carried an armful of unsold "extras" under one arm. The other was buried to the elbow in the pocket of his ragged15 trousers.
The "kids" knew him, evidently, and the smallest eagerly accepted him as umpire.
"It's Jim w'at says there ain't no Sante Claus, and I seen him——"
"Jim!" demanded the elder ragamuffin, sternly, looking hard at the culprit; "Jim! yere a chump! No Sante Claus? What're ye givin' us? Now, watch me!"
With utter amazement16 the boys saw him disappear through the door under the tinkling bell into the charmed precincts of smoked herring, jam, and honey-cakes. Petrified17 at their peep-holes, they watched him, in the veritable presence of Santa Claus himself with the fir-branch, fish out five bat
[141]
tered pennies from the depths of his pocket and pass them over to the woman behind the jars, in exchange for one of the bundles of honey-cakes tied with blue. As if in a dream they saw him issue forth18 with the coveted19 prize.
"There, kid!" he said, holding out the two fattest and whitest cakes to Santa Claus's champion; "there's yer Christmas. Run along, now, to yer barracks; and you, Jim, here's one for you, though yer don't desarve it. Mind ye let the kid alone."
"This one'll have to do for me grub, I guess. I ain't sold me 'Newses,' and the ole man'll kick if I bring 'em home."
Before the shuffling20 feet of the ragamuffins hurrying homeward had turned the corner, the last mouthful of the newsboy's supper was smothered21 in a yell of "Extree!" as he shot across the street to intercept22 a passing stranger.
The wind had forced the door of the saloon ajar, and was whistling through the crack; but in there it seemed to make no one afraid. Between roars of laughter, the clink of glasses and the rattle3 of dice4 on the hardwood counter were heard out in the street. More than one of the passers-by who came within range was taken with an extra shiver in which the vision of wife and little ones waiting at home for his coming was snuffed out, as he dropped in to brace5 up. The lights were long out when the silent streets reëchoed his unsteady steps toward home, where the Christmas welcome had turned to dread6.
But in this twilight7 hour they burned brightly yet, trying hard to pierce the bitter cold outside
[139]
with a ray of warmth and cheer. Where the lamps in the delicatessen store made a mottled streak8 of brightness across the flags, two little boys stood with their noses flattened9 against the window. The warmth inside, and the lights, had made little islands of clear space on the frosty pane10, affording glimpses of the wealth within, of the piles of smoked herring, of golden cheese, of sliced bacon and generous, fat-bellied hams; of the rows of odd-shaped bottles and jars on the shelves that held there was no telling what good things, only it was certain that they must be good from the looks of them.
And the heavenly smell of spices and things that reached the boys through the open door each time the tinkling11 bell announced the coming or going of a customer! Better than all, back there on the top shelf the stacks of square honey-cakes, with their frosty coats of sugar, tied in bundles with strips of blue paper.
The wind blew straight through the patched and threadbare jackets of the lads as they crept closer to the window, struggling hard by breathing on the pane to make their peep-holes bigger, to take in the whole of the big cake with the almonds set in; but they did not heed13 it.
"Jim!" piped the smaller of the two, after a longer stare than usual; "hey, Jim! them's Sante Claus's. See 'em?"
[140]
"Sante Claus!" snorted the other, scornfully, applying his eye to the clear spot on the pane. "There ain't no ole duffer like dat. Them's honey-cakes. Me 'n' Tom had a bite o' one wunst."
"There ain't no Sante Claus?" retorted the smaller shaver, hotly, at his peep-hole. "There is, too. I seen him myself when he cum to our alley14 last——"
"What's youse kids a-scrappin' fur?" broke in a strange voice.
Another boy, bigger, but dirtier and tougher-looking than either of the two, had come up behind them unobserved. He carried an armful of unsold "extras" under one arm. The other was buried to the elbow in the pocket of his ragged15 trousers.
The "kids" knew him, evidently, and the smallest eagerly accepted him as umpire.
"It's Jim w'at says there ain't no Sante Claus, and I seen him——"
"Jim!" demanded the elder ragamuffin, sternly, looking hard at the culprit; "Jim! yere a chump! No Sante Claus? What're ye givin' us? Now, watch me!"
With utter amazement16 the boys saw him disappear through the door under the tinkling bell into the charmed precincts of smoked herring, jam, and honey-cakes. Petrified17 at their peep-holes, they watched him, in the veritable presence of Santa Claus himself with the fir-branch, fish out five bat
[141]
tered pennies from the depths of his pocket and pass them over to the woman behind the jars, in exchange for one of the bundles of honey-cakes tied with blue. As if in a dream they saw him issue forth18 with the coveted19 prize.
"There, kid!" he said, holding out the two fattest and whitest cakes to Santa Claus's champion; "there's yer Christmas. Run along, now, to yer barracks; and you, Jim, here's one for you, though yer don't desarve it. Mind ye let the kid alone."
"This one'll have to do for me grub, I guess. I ain't sold me 'Newses,' and the ole man'll kick if I bring 'em home."
Before the shuffling20 feet of the ragamuffins hurrying homeward had turned the corner, the last mouthful of the newsboy's supper was smothered21 in a yell of "Extree!" as he shot across the street to intercept22 a passing stranger.
As the evening wore on, it grew rawer and more blustering23 still. Flakes24 of dry snow that stayed where they fell, slowly tracing the curb-lines, the shutters25, and the doorsteps of the tenements26 with gathering28 white, were borne up on the storm from the water. To the right and left stretched endless streets between the towering barracks, as beneath frowning cliffs pierced with a thousand glowing eyes that revealed the watch-fires within—a mighty29
[142]
city of cave-dwellers held in the thraldom30 of poverty and want.
Outside there was yet hurrying to and fro. Saloon doors were slamming, and bare-legged urchins31, carrying beer-jugs, hugged the walls close for shelter. From the depths of a blind alley floated out the discordant32 strains of a vagabond brass33 band "blowing in" the yule of the poor. Banished34 by police ordinance35 from the street, it reaped a scant36 harvest of pennies for Christmas cheer from the windows opening on the back yard. Against more than one pane showed the bald outline of a forlorn little Christmas tree, some stray branch of a hemlock37 picked up at the grocer's and set in a pail for "the childer" to dance around, a dime's worth of candy and tinsel on the boughs38.
From the attic39 over the way came, in spells between, the gentle tones of a German song about the Christ-child. Christmas in the East Side tenements begins with the sunset on the "Holy Eve," except where the name is as a threat or a taunt40. In a hundred such homes the whir of many sewing-machines, worked by the sweater's slaves with weary feet and aching backs, drowned every feeble note of joy that struggled to make itself heard above the noise of the great treadmill41.
To these what was Christmas but the name for suffering, reminder42 of lost kindred and liberty, or the slavery of eighteen hundred years, freedom from
[143]
which was purchased only with gold. Ay, gold! The gold that had power to buy freedom yet, to buy the good-will, ay, and the good name, of the oppressor, with his houses and land. At the thought the tired eye glistened43, the aching back straightened, and to the weary foot there came new strength to finish the long task while the city slept.
Where a narrow passageway put in between two big tenements to a ramshackle rear barrack, Nibsy, the newsboy, halted in the shadow of the doorway44 and stole a long look down the dark alley.
He toyed uncertainly with his still unsold papers—worn dirty and ragged as his clothes by this time—before he ventured in, picking his way between barrels and heaps of garbage; past the Italian cobbler's hovel, where a tallow dip, stuck in a cracked beer-glass, before a picture of the "Mother of God," showed that even he knew it was Christmas and liked to show it; past the Sullivan flat, where blows and drunken curses mingled45 with the shriek46 of women, as Nibsy had heard many nights before this one.
He shuddered47 as he felt his way past the door, partly with a premonition of what was in store for himself, if the "old man" was at home, partly with a vague, uncomfortable feeling that somehow Christmas Eve should be different from other nights, even in the alley; down to its farthest end, to the last rickety flight of steps that led into the filth48 and
[144]
darkness of the tenement27. Up this he crept, three flights, to a door at which he stopped and listened, hesitating, as he had stopped at the entrance to the alley; then, with a sudden, defiant49 gesture, he pushed it open and went in.
A bare and cheerless room; a pile of rags for a bed in the corner, another in the dark alcove50, miscalled bedroom; under the window a broken candle and an iron-bound chest, upon which sat a sad-eyed woman with hard lines in her face, peeling potatoes in a pan; in the middle of the room a rusty51 stove, with a pile of wood, chopped on the floor alongside. A man on his knees in front fanning the fire with an old slouch hat. With each breath of draught52 he stirred; the crazy old pipe belched53 forth torrents54 of smoke at every joint55. As Nibsy entered, the man desisted from his efforts and sat up, glaring at him—a villainous ruffian's face, scowling56 with anger.
"Late ag'in!" he growled57; "an' yer papers not sold. What did I tell yer, brat58, if ye dared——"
"Tom! Tom!" broke in the wife, in a desperate attempt to soothe59 the ruffian's temper. "The boy can't help it, an' it's Christmas Eve. For the love o'——"
"The devil take yer rot and yer brat!" shouted the man, mad with the fury of passion. "Let me at him!" and, reaching over, he seized a heavy knot of wood and flung it at the head of the boy.
Nibsy had remained just inside the door, edging
[145]
slowly toward his mother, but with a watchful60 eye on the man at the stove. At the first movement of his hand toward the woodpile he sprang for the stairway with the agility61 of a cat, and just dodged62 the missile. It struck the door, as he slammed it behind him, with force enough to smash the panel.
Down the three flights in as many jumps he went, and through the alley, over barrels and barriers, never stopping once till he reached the street, and curses and shouts were left behind.
In his flight he had lost his unsold papers, and he felt ruefully in his pocket as he went down the street, pulling his rags about him as much from shame as to keep out the cold.
Four pennies were all he had left after his Christmas treat to the two little lads from the barracks; not enough for supper or for a bed; and it was getting colder all the time.
On the sidewalk in front of the notion store a belated Christmas party was in progress. The children from the tenements in the alley and across the way were having a game of blind-man's-buff, groping blindly about in the crowd to catch each other. They hailed Nibsy with shouts of laughter, calling to him to join in.
"We're having Christmas!" they yelled.
Nibsy did not hear them. He was thinking, thinking, the while turning over his four pennies at
[146]
the bottom of his pocket. Thinking if Christmas was ever to come to him, and the children's Santa Claus to find his alley where the baby slept within reach of her father's cruel hand. As for him, he had never known anything but blows and curses. He could take care of himself. But his mother and the baby—And then it came to him with shuddering63 cold that it was getting late, and that he must find a place to sleep.
He weighed in his mind the merits of two or three places where he was in the habit of hiding from the "cops" when the alley got to be too hot for him.
There was the hay barge64 down by the dock, with the watchman who got drunk sometimes, and so gave the boys a chance. The chances were at least even of its being available on Christmas Eve, and of Santa Claus having thus done him a good turn after all.
Then there was the snug65 berth66 in the sand-box you could curl all up in. Nibsy thought with regret of its being, like the hay barge, so far away and to windward, too.
Down by the printing-offices there were the steam gratings, and a chance corner in the cellars, stories and stories underground, where the big presses keep up such a clatter67 from midnight till far into the day.
As he passed them in review, Nibsy made up his
[147]
mind with sudden determination, and, setting his face toward the south, made off down town.
[142]
city of cave-dwellers held in the thraldom30 of poverty and want.
Outside there was yet hurrying to and fro. Saloon doors were slamming, and bare-legged urchins31, carrying beer-jugs, hugged the walls close for shelter. From the depths of a blind alley floated out the discordant32 strains of a vagabond brass33 band "blowing in" the yule of the poor. Banished34 by police ordinance35 from the street, it reaped a scant36 harvest of pennies for Christmas cheer from the windows opening on the back yard. Against more than one pane showed the bald outline of a forlorn little Christmas tree, some stray branch of a hemlock37 picked up at the grocer's and set in a pail for "the childer" to dance around, a dime's worth of candy and tinsel on the boughs38.
From the attic39 over the way came, in spells between, the gentle tones of a German song about the Christ-child. Christmas in the East Side tenements begins with the sunset on the "Holy Eve," except where the name is as a threat or a taunt40. In a hundred such homes the whir of many sewing-machines, worked by the sweater's slaves with weary feet and aching backs, drowned every feeble note of joy that struggled to make itself heard above the noise of the great treadmill41.
To these what was Christmas but the name for suffering, reminder42 of lost kindred and liberty, or the slavery of eighteen hundred years, freedom from
[143]
which was purchased only with gold. Ay, gold! The gold that had power to buy freedom yet, to buy the good-will, ay, and the good name, of the oppressor, with his houses and land. At the thought the tired eye glistened43, the aching back straightened, and to the weary foot there came new strength to finish the long task while the city slept.
Where a narrow passageway put in between two big tenements to a ramshackle rear barrack, Nibsy, the newsboy, halted in the shadow of the doorway44 and stole a long look down the dark alley.
He toyed uncertainly with his still unsold papers—worn dirty and ragged as his clothes by this time—before he ventured in, picking his way between barrels and heaps of garbage; past the Italian cobbler's hovel, where a tallow dip, stuck in a cracked beer-glass, before a picture of the "Mother of God," showed that even he knew it was Christmas and liked to show it; past the Sullivan flat, where blows and drunken curses mingled45 with the shriek46 of women, as Nibsy had heard many nights before this one.
He shuddered47 as he felt his way past the door, partly with a premonition of what was in store for himself, if the "old man" was at home, partly with a vague, uncomfortable feeling that somehow Christmas Eve should be different from other nights, even in the alley; down to its farthest end, to the last rickety flight of steps that led into the filth48 and
[144]
darkness of the tenement27. Up this he crept, three flights, to a door at which he stopped and listened, hesitating, as he had stopped at the entrance to the alley; then, with a sudden, defiant49 gesture, he pushed it open and went in.
A bare and cheerless room; a pile of rags for a bed in the corner, another in the dark alcove50, miscalled bedroom; under the window a broken candle and an iron-bound chest, upon which sat a sad-eyed woman with hard lines in her face, peeling potatoes in a pan; in the middle of the room a rusty51 stove, with a pile of wood, chopped on the floor alongside. A man on his knees in front fanning the fire with an old slouch hat. With each breath of draught52 he stirred; the crazy old pipe belched53 forth torrents54 of smoke at every joint55. As Nibsy entered, the man desisted from his efforts and sat up, glaring at him—a villainous ruffian's face, scowling56 with anger.
"Late ag'in!" he growled57; "an' yer papers not sold. What did I tell yer, brat58, if ye dared——"
"Tom! Tom!" broke in the wife, in a desperate attempt to soothe59 the ruffian's temper. "The boy can't help it, an' it's Christmas Eve. For the love o'——"
"The devil take yer rot and yer brat!" shouted the man, mad with the fury of passion. "Let me at him!" and, reaching over, he seized a heavy knot of wood and flung it at the head of the boy.
Nibsy had remained just inside the door, edging
[145]
slowly toward his mother, but with a watchful60 eye on the man at the stove. At the first movement of his hand toward the woodpile he sprang for the stairway with the agility61 of a cat, and just dodged62 the missile. It struck the door, as he slammed it behind him, with force enough to smash the panel.
Down the three flights in as many jumps he went, and through the alley, over barrels and barriers, never stopping once till he reached the street, and curses and shouts were left behind.
In his flight he had lost his unsold papers, and he felt ruefully in his pocket as he went down the street, pulling his rags about him as much from shame as to keep out the cold.
Four pennies were all he had left after his Christmas treat to the two little lads from the barracks; not enough for supper or for a bed; and it was getting colder all the time.
On the sidewalk in front of the notion store a belated Christmas party was in progress. The children from the tenements in the alley and across the way were having a game of blind-man's-buff, groping blindly about in the crowd to catch each other. They hailed Nibsy with shouts of laughter, calling to him to join in.
"We're having Christmas!" they yelled.
Nibsy did not hear them. He was thinking, thinking, the while turning over his four pennies at
[146]
the bottom of his pocket. Thinking if Christmas was ever to come to him, and the children's Santa Claus to find his alley where the baby slept within reach of her father's cruel hand. As for him, he had never known anything but blows and curses. He could take care of himself. But his mother and the baby—And then it came to him with shuddering63 cold that it was getting late, and that he must find a place to sleep.
He weighed in his mind the merits of two or three places where he was in the habit of hiding from the "cops" when the alley got to be too hot for him.
There was the hay barge64 down by the dock, with the watchman who got drunk sometimes, and so gave the boys a chance. The chances were at least even of its being available on Christmas Eve, and of Santa Claus having thus done him a good turn after all.
Then there was the snug65 berth66 in the sand-box you could curl all up in. Nibsy thought with regret of its being, like the hay barge, so far away and to windward, too.
Down by the printing-offices there were the steam gratings, and a chance corner in the cellars, stories and stories underground, where the big presses keep up such a clatter67 from midnight till far into the day.
As he passed them in review, Nibsy made up his
[147]
mind with sudden determination, and, setting his face toward the south, made off down town.
The rumble68 of the last departing news-wagon over the pavement, now buried deep in snow, had died away in the distance, when, from out of the bowels69 of the earth there issued a cry, a cry of mortal terror and pain that was echoed by a hundred throats.
From one of the deep cellar-ways a man ran out, his clothes and hair and beard afire; on his heels a breathless throng70 of men and boys; following them, close behind, a rush of smoke and fire.
The clatter of the presses ceased suddenly, to be followed quickly by the clangor of hurrying fire-bells. With hooks and axes the firemen rushed in; hose was let down through the manholes, and down there in the depths the battle was fought and won.
The building was saved; but in the midst of the rejoicing over the victory there fell a sudden silence. From the cellar-way a grimy, helmeted figure arose, with something black and scorched71 in his arms. A tarpaulin72 was spread upon the snow and upon it he laid his burden, while the silent crowd made room and word went over to the hospital for the doctor to come quickly.
Very gently they lifted poor little Nisby—for it was he, caught in his berth by a worse enemy than
[148]
the "cop" or the watchman of the hay barge—into the ambulance that bore him off to the hospital cot, too late.
Conscious only of a vague discomfort73 that had succeeded terror and pain, Nibsy wondered uneasily why they were all so kind. Nobody had taken the trouble to as much as notice him before. When he had thrust his papers into their very faces they had pushed him roughly aside.
Nibsy, unhurt and able to fight his way, never had a show. Sick and maimed and sore, he was being made much of, though he had been caught where the boys were forbidden to go. Things were queer, anyhow, and——
The room was getting so dark that he could hardly see the doctor's kindly74 face, and had to grip his hand tightly to make sure that he was there; almost as dark as the stairs in the alley he had come down in such a hurry.
There was the baby now—poor baby—and mother—and then a great blank, and it was all a mystery to poor Nibsy no longer. For, just as a wild-eyed woman pushed her way through the crowd of nurses and doctors to his bedside, crying for her boy, Nibsy gave up his soul to God.
From one of the deep cellar-ways a man ran out, his clothes and hair and beard afire; on his heels a breathless throng70 of men and boys; following them, close behind, a rush of smoke and fire.
The clatter of the presses ceased suddenly, to be followed quickly by the clangor of hurrying fire-bells. With hooks and axes the firemen rushed in; hose was let down through the manholes, and down there in the depths the battle was fought and won.
The building was saved; but in the midst of the rejoicing over the victory there fell a sudden silence. From the cellar-way a grimy, helmeted figure arose, with something black and scorched71 in his arms. A tarpaulin72 was spread upon the snow and upon it he laid his burden, while the silent crowd made room and word went over to the hospital for the doctor to come quickly.
Very gently they lifted poor little Nisby—for it was he, caught in his berth by a worse enemy than
[148]
the "cop" or the watchman of the hay barge—into the ambulance that bore him off to the hospital cot, too late.
Conscious only of a vague discomfort73 that had succeeded terror and pain, Nibsy wondered uneasily why they were all so kind. Nobody had taken the trouble to as much as notice him before. When he had thrust his papers into their very faces they had pushed him roughly aside.
Nibsy, unhurt and able to fight his way, never had a show. Sick and maimed and sore, he was being made much of, though he had been caught where the boys were forbidden to go. Things were queer, anyhow, and——
The room was getting so dark that he could hardly see the doctor's kindly74 face, and had to grip his hand tightly to make sure that he was there; almost as dark as the stairs in the alley he had come down in such a hurry.
There was the baby now—poor baby—and mother—and then a great blank, and it was all a mystery to poor Nibsy no longer. For, just as a wild-eyed woman pushed her way through the crowd of nurses and doctors to his bedside, crying for her boy, Nibsy gave up his soul to God.
It was very quiet in the alley. Christmas had come and gone. Upon the last door a bow of soiled
[149]
crape was nailed up with two tacks12. It had done duty there a dozen times before, that year.
Upstairs, Nibsy was at home, and for once the neighbors, one and all, old and young, came to see him.
Even the father, ruffian that he was, offered no objection. Cowed and silent, he sat in the corner by the window farthest from where the plain little coffin75 stood, with the lid closed down.
A couple of the neighbor-women were talking in low tones by the stove, when there came a timid knock at the door. Nobody answering, it was pushed open, first a little, then far enough to admit the shrinking form of a little ragamuffin, the smaller of the two who had stood breathing peep-holes on the window pane of the delicatessen store the night before when Nibsy came along.
He dragged with him a hemlock branch, the leavings from some Christmas tree at the grocery.
"It's from Sante Claus," he said, laying it on the coffin. "Nibsy knows." And he went out.
Santa Claus had come to Nibsy, after all, in his alley. And Nibsy knew.
[149]
crape was nailed up with two tacks12. It had done duty there a dozen times before, that year.
Upstairs, Nibsy was at home, and for once the neighbors, one and all, old and young, came to see him.
Even the father, ruffian that he was, offered no objection. Cowed and silent, he sat in the corner by the window farthest from where the plain little coffin75 stood, with the lid closed down.
A couple of the neighbor-women were talking in low tones by the stove, when there came a timid knock at the door. Nobody answering, it was pushed open, first a little, then far enough to admit the shrinking form of a little ragamuffin, the smaller of the two who had stood breathing peep-holes on the window pane of the delicatessen store the night before when Nibsy came along.
He dragged with him a hemlock branch, the leavings from some Christmas tree at the grocery.
"It's from Sante Claus," he said, laying it on the coffin. "Nibsy knows." And he went out.
Santa Claus had come to Nibsy, after all, in his alley. And Nibsy knew.
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收听单词发音
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1
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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2
butting
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| 用头撞人（犯规动作） | |
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3
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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4
dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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5
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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6
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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7
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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8
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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9
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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10
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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11
tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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12
tacks
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| 大头钉( tack的名词复数 )； 平头钉； 航向； 方法 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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21
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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22
intercept
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| vt.拦截，截住，截击 | |
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23
blustering
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| adj.狂风大作的，狂暴的v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的现在分词 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
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24
flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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26
tenements
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| n.房屋，住户，租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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thraldom
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| n.奴隶的身份，奴役，束缚 | |
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urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ordinance
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| n.法令；条令；条例 | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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hemlock
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| n.毒胡萝卜，铁杉 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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41
treadmill
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| n.踏车；单调的工作 | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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45
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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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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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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53
belched
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| v.打嗝( belch的过去式和过去分词 )；喷出，吐出；打（嗝）；嗳（气） | |
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54
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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57
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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58
brat
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| n.孩子；顽童 | |
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59
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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61
agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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62
dodged
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| v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 )；回避 | |
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shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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65
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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66
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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67
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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68
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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69
bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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72
tarpaulin
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| n.涂油防水布，防水衣，防水帽 | |
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73
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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74
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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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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