Among the things that make Sicily interesting are its ruins. There are dead cities which even in their decay are larger and more magnificent than the living cities that have grown up beside them—larger and more magnificent even than any living city in Sicily to-day. There are relics1 of this proud and ancient past everywhere in this country.
In the modern city of Catania, for example, I came suddenly one day upon the ruins of the forum2 of a Roman city which was buried under the modern Italian one. At Palermo I learned that when the members of the Mafia, which is the Sicilian name for the "Black Hand," want to conceal3 a murder they have committed, they put the body in one of the many ancient tombs outside the city, and leave it there for some archæologist to discover and learn from it the interesting fact that the ancient inhabitants of Sicily were in all respects like the modern inhabitants.
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Among the other antiquities4 that one may see in Sicily, however, is a system of agriculture and method of tilling the soil that is two thousand years old. In fact, some of the tools still in use in the interior of the island are older than the ruins of those ancient heathen temples, some of which were built five centuries before Christ. These living survivals, I confess, were more interesting to me than the dead relics of the past.
These things are not easy to find. The guide-books mention them, but do not tell you where to look for them. Nevertheless, if one looks long enough and in the right place it is still possible to see in Sicily men scratching the field with an antique wooden plow5, which, it is said, although I cannot vouch6 for that, is mentioned in Homer. One may see a Sicilian farmer laboriously7 pumping water to irrigate8 his cabbage garden with a water-wheel that was imported by the Saracens; or one may see, as I did, a wine press that is as old as Solomon, and men cutting the grapes and making the wine by the same methods that are described in the Bible.
It was my purpose in going to Sicily to see, if possible, some of the life of the man who works on the soil. I wanted to get to the people who lived in the little villages remote from the
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larger cities. I was anxious to talk with some of these herdsmen I had seen at a distance, wandering about the lonesome hillsides, tending their goats and their cows and perhaps counting the stars as the shepherds did in the time of Abraham. As there are some 800,000 persons engaged in agriculture in one way or another, it did not seem to me that this would be difficult. In spite of this fact, if I may judge by my own experience, one of the most difficult persons to meet and get acquainted with in this country, where many things are strange and hard to understand, is the man who works out in the open country on the land.
Even after one does succeed in finding this man, it is necessary to go back into history two or three hundred years and know a great deal about local conditions before one can understand the methods by which he works and thinks. In fact, I constantly had the feeling while I was in Sicily that I was among people who were so saturated11 with antiquity12, so out of touch, except on the surface, with modern life, so imbedded in ancient habits and customs, that it would take a very long time, perhaps years, to get any real understanding of their ways of thinking and living.
In saying this I do not, of course, refer to the better classes who live in the cities, and
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especially I do not refer to the great landowners, who in Sicily do not live on the land, but make their homes in the cities and support themselves from the rents which are paid them by overseers or middlemen, to whom they usually turn over the entire management of their properties.
Nevertheless, in spite of the difficulties I have mentioned, I did get some insight into the condition of the rural agricultural classes in Sicily—namely, the small landowner and the agricultural labourer—and I can perhaps best tell what I learned by starting at the beginning.
The first thing I remember seeing of Sicily was a long black headland which stretches out into the sea like a great black arm toward the ships that approach Palermo from Naples. After that the dark mass of the mainland, bare and brown and shining in the morning light, seemed to rise suddenly out of the smooth and glittering sea. A little later, the whole splendid panorama13 of the beautiful bay of Palermo lay stretched out before me.
I recall this picture now because it suggests and partly explains the charm which so many travellers find in this island, and because it stands out in contrast with so much that I saw later when I visited the interior.
Sicily is, in this, like a great many other
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places I saw in Europe: it looks better on the outside than it looks on the in. All the large cities in Sicily are situated14 on a narrow rim15 of fertile land which encircles the island between the mountains and the sea. Palermo, for example, is situated on a strip of this rim which is so rich that it is called the "Shell of Gold." In this region, where the soil is constantly enriched from the weathering of the neighbouring mountains, and where agriculture has been carried to the highest perfection that science and the skill of man can bring it, are situated those wonderful orange and lemon groves16 for which Sicily is famous. As an illustration of what irrigation and intensive culture can do in this soil, it is stated that the value of the crop in this particular region has been increased by irrigation from $8 to $160 an acre.
When one goes to Sicily to look at the agriculture it is this region that one sees first. During my first day in Palermo I drove through miles of these magnificent fruit farms, all laid out in the most splendid style, surrounded by high stone walls, the entrance guarded by heavy iron gates, and provided with extensive works for supplying constant streams of water to the growing fruit. The whole country, which is dotted with beautiful villas17 and winter palaces, is less like a series of fruit farms than it is like
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one vast park. Here the fruit ripens18 practically the whole year round. The trees are heavy all winter with growing fruit, and one can wander for hours through a forest of lemon and orange trees so closely crowded together that the keen rays of the southern sun can scarcely penetrate19 their foliage20.
Palermo, however, like many other European cities in which the masses of the people are just now emerging out of the older civilization into the newer modern life, is divided into an old and a new city. There is the northern end, with broad streets and handsome villas, which the people call the "English Garden." This is the new city and the quarter of the wealthy classes. Then at the southern end there is the old city, with crowded, narrow and often miserably21 dirty streets, which is the home of the poorer class.
After visiting one or two of the estates in the suburbs at the northern end of the city, I determined22 to see some of the truck farms of the smaller farmers which I had heard were located at the south end of the city. I made up my mind, also, if possible, to get out into the country, into the wilder and less settled regions, where I could plainly see from my hotel window the olive groves creeping up the steep mountainside and almost visibly searching out
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the crevices23 and sheltered places on the steep slopes in search of water, which is the one missing ingredient in the soil and climate of this southern country.
Now one of the singular things about Palermo and some other cities in Sicily is that, as soon as you get to the edge of the town, you find yourself driving or walking between high stone walls which entirely24 shut out the view in every direction. We drove for an hour through these blind alleys25, winding26 and twisting about without seeing anything of the country except occasionally the tops of the trees above the high stone walls that guarded the farms on either side. Occasionally we passed heavy iron gates which looked like the gates of a prison. Now and then we came upon a little group of houses built into the walls. These barren little cells, lighted only by an open door, looked as if they might be part of a prison, except for the number of sprawling27 children, the goats, and the chickens, and the gossiping housewives who sat outside their houses in the shadow of the wall sewing, or engaged in some other ordinary household task. There was scarcely a sprig of grass anywhere to be seen. The roads frequently became almost impassable for wagons28, and eventually degenerated29 into mere30 mule31 paths, through which it seemed
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almost impossible, with our carriage, to reach the open country.
What added to the prison-like appearance of the place was the fact that, as soon as we approached the edge of the town, we met, every hundred yards or more, a soldier or a police officer sitting near his sentry32 box, guarding the approaches to the city. When I inquired what the presence of these soldiers meant, I was told that they were customs officers and were stationed there to prevent the smuggling33 of food and vegetables into the city, without the payment of the municipal tax which, it seems, is levied34 on every particle of produce that is brought into the city. I am sure that in the course of half an hour we met as many as twenty of these officers watching the highway for smugglers.
As we proceeded, our driver, who had made several fruitless attempts to turn us aside into an old church or cemetery35, to see the "antee-chee," as he called it, grew desperate. When I inquired what was the trouble I learned that we had succeeded in getting him into a part of the city that he had never before visited in his whole life, and he was afraid that if he went too far into some of the roads in which we urged him to go he would never be able to get back. Finally we came to a road that appeared to lead
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to a spot where it seemed one could at least overlook the surrounding country. We urged him to go on, but he hesitated, stopped to inquire the way of a passing peasant and then, as if he had made a mighty36 resolve, he whipped up his horse and said he would go on even if that road took him to "paradise." All this time we were not a quarter of a mile beyond the limits of the customs zone of the city.
Finally we came, by good fortune, to a hole in one of the walls that guarded the highway. We stopped the carriage, got out, clambered up the steep bank and made our way through this hole into the neighbouring field. Then we straightened up and took a long breath because it seemed like getting out of prison to be able to look about and see something green and growing again.
We had hardly put our heads through the hole in this wall, however, when we saw two or three men lying in the shade of a little straw-thatched hut, in which the guards sleep during the harvest season, to keep the thieves from carrying away the crops. As soon as these men saw us, one of them, who seemed to be the proprietor37, arose and came toward us. We explained that we were from America and that we were interested in agriculture. As soon as this man learned that we were from
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America he did everything possible he could to make us welcome. It seems that these men had just sat down to their evening meal, which consisted of black bread and tomatoes. Tomatoes seemed to be the principal part of the crop that this farmer was raising at that time. He invited us, in the politest manner possible, to share his meal with him and seemed greatly disappointed that we did not accept. Very soon he began telling the same story, which I heard so frequently afterward38 during my stay in Sicily. He had a son in America, who was in a place called Chicago, he said, and he wanted to know if I had ever heard of such a place and if so perhaps I might have met his son.
The old man explained to me all about his farm; how he raised his crop and how he harvested it. He had about two acres of land, as well as I could make out, for which he paid in rent about $15 per acre a year. This included, as I understood, the water for irrigation purposes. He admitted that it took a lot of work to make a living for himself, and the others who were helping39 him, from this small piece of land. It was very hard to live anywhere in Sicily, he said, but the people in Palermo were much better off than they were in other places.
I asked him what he would do if his son should come back from America with a bag of money.
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The old man's face lighted up and he said promptly40, "Get some land and have a little home of my own."
Many times since then I have asked the same or similar questions of some man I met working on the soil. Everywhere I received the same answer. Everywhere among the masses of the people is this desire to get close to the soil and own a piece of land of their own.
From where we stood we could look out over the country and see in several places the elaborate and expensive works that had been erected41 for pumping water by steam for the purposes of irrigation. One of the small farmers I visited had a small engine in the back of his house which he used to irrigate a garden of cauliflower about four acres in extent. This man lived in a little low stone and stucco house, but he was, I learned, one of the well-to-do class. He had an engine for pumping water which cost him, he said, about $500. I saw as I entered his place a little stream of water, not much larger than my thumb, drizzling42 out of the side of the house and trickling43 out into the garden. He said it cost him between $4 and $5 a day to run that engine. The coal he used came from England.
I had seen, as I entered the Palermo harbour, the manner in which this coal was unloaded,
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and it gave me the first tangible44 evidence I had found of the cheapness of human labour in this over-populated country. Instead of the great machines which are used for that purpose in America and England, I learned, this work was all done by hand.
In order to take this coal from the ship it was first loaded into baskets, which were swung over the side of the vessel45 and there piled upon a lighter46. This lighter was then moved from the ships to the shore. The baskets were then lifted out by hand and the coal dumped on the wharf47. From these it was reloaded into carts and carried away. It was this coal, handled in this expensive way, that this farmer was using to pump the water needed to irrigate his land.
After leaving Palermo I went to Catania, at the other side of the island. The railway which climbs the mountains in crossing the island took me through a very different country and among very different people than those I had seen at Palermo. It was a wild, bare, mountainous region through which we passed; more bare, perhaps, at the time I saw it than at other times, because the grain had been harvested and plowing48 had not begun. There were few regular roads anywhere. Now and then the train passed a lonely water-wheel; now and then I saw, winding up a rocky footpath49, a donkey
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or pack-mule carrying water to the sulphur mines or provisions to some little inland mountain village.
Outside of these little villages, in which the farm labourers live, the country was perfectly50 bare. One can ride for miles through this thickly populated country without seeing a house or a building of any kind, outside of the villages.
In Sicily less than 10 per cent. of the farming class live in the open country. This results in an enormous waste of time and energy. The farm labourer has to walk many miles to and from his labour. A large part of the year he spends far away from his home. During this time he camps out in the field in some of the flimsy little straw-thatched shelters that one sees scattered51 over the country, or perhaps he finds himself a nest in the rocks or a hole in the ground. During this time he lives, so to speak, on the country. If he is a herdsman, he has his cows' or goats' milk to drink. Otherwise his food consists of a piece of black bread and perhaps a bit of soup of green herbs of some kind or other.
During my journey through this mountain district, and in the course of a number of visits to the country which I made later, I had opportunity to learn something of the way these
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farming people live. I have frequently seen men who had done a hard day's work sit down to a meal which consisted of black bread and a bit of tomato or other raw vegetable. In the more remote regions these peasant people frequently live for days or months, I learned, on almost any sort of green thing they find in the fields, frequently eating it raw, just like the cattle.
When they were asked how it was possible to eat such stuff, they replied that it was good; "it tasted sweet," they said.
I heard, while I was in Sicily, of the case of a woman who, after her husband had been sent to prison, supported herself from the milk she obtained from a herd10 of goats, which she pastured on the steep slopes of the mountains. Her earnings52 amounted to not more than 12 to 14 cents a day, and, as this was not sufficient for bread for herself and her four children, she picked up during the day all sorts of green stuff that she found growing upon the rocks, and carried it home in her apron53 at night to fill the hungry mouths that were awaiting her return. Persons who have had an opportunity to carefully study the condition of this country say it is incredible what sort of things these poor people in the interior of Sicily will put into their stomachs.
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One of the principal articles of diet, in certain seasons of the year, is the fruit of a cactus54 called the Indian fig55, which grows wild in all parts of the island. One sees it everywhere, either by the roadside, where it is used for hedges, or clinging to the steep cliffs on the mountainside. The fruit, which is about the size and shape of a very large plum, is contained in a thick, leathern skin, which is stripped off and fed to the cattle. The fruit within is soft and mushy and has a rather sickening, sweetish taste, which, however, is greatly relished56 by the country people.
One day, in passing through one of the suburbs of Catania, I stopped in front of a little stone and stucco building which I thought at first was a wayside shrine57 or chapel58. But it turned out to be a one-room house. This house had a piece of carpet hung as a curtain in front of the broad doorway59. In front of this curtain there was a rude table made of rough boards; on this table was piled a quantity of the Indian figs60 I have described and some bottles of something or other that looked like what we in America call "pop."
Two very good-looking young women were tending this little shop. I stopped and talked with them and bought some of the cactus fruit. I found it sold five pieces for a cent. They told
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me that from the sale of this fruit they made about 17 cents a day, and upon this sum they and their father, who was an invalid61, were compelled to support themselves. There were a few goats and chickens and two pigs wandering about the place, and I learned that one of the economies of the household consisted in feeding the pigs and goats upon the shells or husks of the Indian figs that were eaten and thrown upon the ground.
As near as I could learn, from all that I heard and read, the condition of the agricultural population in Sicily has been growing steadily62 worse for half a century, at least.
Persons who have made a special study of the physical condition of these people declare that this part of the population shows marked signs of physical and mental deterioration63, due, they say, to the lack of sufficient food. For example, in respect to stature64 and weight, the Sicilians are nearly 2 per cent. behind the population in northern Italy. This difference is mainly due to the poor physical condition of the agricultural classes, who, like the agricultural population of the southern mainland of Italy, are smaller than the population in the cities.
In this connection, it is stated that considerably65 less than one third as much meat is
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consumed per capita in Sicily as in northern Italy. Even so, most of the meat that is eaten there is consumed in the hotels by the foreigners who visit the country.
In looking over the budgets of a number of the small landowners, whose position is much better than that of the average farm labourer, I found that as much as $5 was spent for wine, while the item for meat was only $2 per year. There are thousands of people in Sicily, I learned, who almost never taste meat. The studies which have been made of the subject indicate that the whole population is underfed.
Upon inquiry66 I found it to be generally admitted that the condition of the population was due to the fact that the larger part of the land was in the hands of large landowners, who have allowed the ignorant and helpless peasants to be crushed by a system of overseers and middlemen as vicious and oppressive as that which existed in many parts of the Southern States during the days of slavery.
This middleman is called by Italians a gobellotto, and he seems to be the only man in Sicily who is getting rich out of the land. If a gobellotto has a capital of $12,000 he will be able to rent an estate of 2,500 acres for a term of six to nine years. He will, perhaps, work only a small
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portion of this land himself and sublet67 the remainder.
Part of it will go to a class of farmers that correspond to what are known in the South as "cash renters." These men will have some stock, and, perhaps, a little house and garden. In a good season they will be able to make enough to live upon and, perhaps, save a little money. If the small farmer is so unfortunate, however, as to have a bad season; if he loses some of his cattle or is compelled to borrow money or seed, the middleman who advances him is pretty certain to "clean him up," as our farmers say, at the end of the season. In that case, he falls into the larger and more unfortunate class beneath him, which corresponds to what we call in the Southern States the "share cropper." This man, corresponding to the share cropper, is supposed to work his portion of land on half-shares, but if, as frequently happens, he has been compelled to apply to the landlord during the season for a loan, it goes hard with him on the day of settlement. For example, this is the way, according to a description that I received, the crop is divided between the landlord and his tenants69: After the wheat has been cut and thrashed—thrashed not with a machine, nor yet perhaps with flails70, but with oxen treading the sheaves on a dirt floor—the
[Pg 142]
gobellotto subtracts from the returns of the harvest double, perhaps triple, measure of the seed he had advanced. After that, according to the local custom, he takes a certain portion for the cost of guarding the field while the grain is ripening71, since no man's field is safe from thieves in Sicily.
Then he takes another portion for the saints, something more for the use of the threshing floor and the storehouse and for anything else that occurs to him. Naturally he takes a certain portion for his other loans, if there have been any, and for interest. Then, finally, if there is nothing further to be subtracted, he divides the rest and gives the farmer his half.
As a result the poor man who, as some one has said, "has watered the soil with his sweat," who has perhaps not slept more than two hours a night during the harvest time, and that, too, in the open field, is happy if he receives as much as a third or a quarter of the grain he has harvested.
In the end the share cropper sinks, perhaps, still lower into the ranks of day labourer and becomes a wanderer over the earth, unless, before he reaches this point, he has not sold what little property he had and gone to America.
I remember meeting one of these outcasts and wornout labourers, who had become a
[Pg 143]
common beggar, tramping along the road toward Catania. He carried, swung across his back in a dirty cloth of some indescribable colour, a heavy pack. It contained, perhaps, some remnants of his earthly goods, and as he stopped to ask for a penny to help him on his way, I had a chance to look in his face and found that he was not the usual sort. He did not have the whine72 of the sturdy beggars I had been accustomed to meet, particularly in England. He was haggard and worn; hardship and hunger had humbled73 him, and there was a beaten look in his eyes, but suffering seemed to have lent a sort of nobility to the old man's face.
I stopped and talked with him and managed to get from him some account of his life. He had been all his life a farm labourer; he could neither read nor write, but looked intelligent. He had never married and was without kith or kin9. Three years before he had gotten into such a condition of health, he said, that they wouldn't let him work on the farm any more, and since that time he had been wandering about the country, begging, and living for the most part upon the charity of people who were almost as poor as he.
I asked him where he was going. He said he had heard that in Catania an old man could
[Pg 144]
get a chance to sweep the streets, and he was trying to reach there before nightfall.
Several hours later, in returning from the country, I turned from the highway to visit the poorer districts of the city. As I turned into one of the streets which are lined with grimy little hovels made of blocks hewn from the great black stream of lava74 which Mt. Ætna had poured over that part of the city three hundred and fifty years before, I saw the same old man lying in the gutter75, with his head resting on his bundle, where he had sunken down or fallen.
I have described at some length the condition of the farm labourers in Italy because it seems to me that it is important that those who are inclined to be discouraged about the Negro in the South should know that his case is by no means as hopeless as that of some others. The Negro is not the man farthest down. The condition of the coloured farmer in the most backward parts of the Southern States in America, even where he has the least education and the least encouragement, is incomparably better than the condition and opportunities of the agricultural population in Sicily.
The Negro farmer sometimes thinks he is badly treated in the South. Not infrequently he has to pay high rates of interest upon his
[Pg 145]
"advances" and sometimes, on account of his ignorance, he is not fairly treated in his yearly settlements. But there is this great difference between the Negro farmer in the South and the Italian farmer in Sicily: In Sicily a few capitalists and descendants of the old feudal76 lords own practically all the soil and, under the crude and expensive system of agriculture which they employ, there is not enough land to employ the surplus population. The result is the farm labourers are competing for the privilege of working on the land. As agriculture goes down and the land produces less, the population increases and the rents go up. Thus between the upper and the nether77 millstone the farmer is crushed.
In the South we have just the contrary situation. We have land crying for the hand to till it; we have the landowners seeking labour and fairly begging for tenants to work their lands.
If a Negro tenant68 does not like the way he is treated he can go to the neighbouring farm; he can go to the mines or to the public works, where his labour is in demand. But the only way the poor Italian can get free is by going to America, and that is why thousands sail from Palermo every year for this country. In certain places in Sicily, in the three years
[Pg 146]
including 1905 and 1907, more than four persons in every hundred of the population left Sicily for America.
One thing that keeps the Sicilian down is the pride with which he remembers his past and the obstinacy78 with which he clings to his ancient customs and ways of doing things. It is said by certain persons, as an excuse for backward conditions of the country, that even if the landlords did attempt to introduce new machinery79 and modern methods of cultivation80 the people would rebel against any innovation. They are stuck so fast in their old traditional ways of doing things that they refuse to change.
I have sometimes said that there was a certain advantage in belonging to a new race that was not burdened with traditions and a past—to a race, in other words, that is looking forward instead of backward, and is more interested in the future than in the past. The Negro farmer certainly has this advantage over the Italian peasant.
If you ask a Sicilian workman why he does something in a certain way, he invariably replies: "We have always done that way," and that is enough for him. The Sicilian never forgets the past until he leaves Sicily, and frequently not even then.
The result is that while the Negro in Africa
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is learning, as I saw from a recent report of the German Government, to plow by steam, the Sicilian farmer, clinging proudly to his ancient customs and methods, is still using the same plow that was used by the Greeks in the days of Homer, and he is threshing his grain as people did in the time of Abraham.
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relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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forum
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| n.论坛，讨论会 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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plow
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| n.犁，耕地，犁过的地；v.犁，费力地前进[英]plough | |
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vouch
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| v.担保；断定；n.被担保者 | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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irrigate
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| vt.灌溉，修水利，冲洗伤口，使潮湿 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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ripens
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的第三人称单数 ) | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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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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degenerated
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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sentry
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| n.哨兵，警卫 | |
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smuggling
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| n.走私 | |
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levied
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| 征（兵）( levy的过去式和过去分词 )； 索取； 发动（战争）； 征税 | |
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cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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drizzling
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| 下蒙蒙细雨，下毛毛雨( drizzle的现在分词 ) | |
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trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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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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wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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plowing
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| v.耕( plow的现在分词 )；犁耕；费力穿过 | |
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footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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cactus
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| n.仙人掌 | |
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fig
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| n.无花果(树) | |
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relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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figs
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| figures 数字，图形，外形 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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deterioration
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| n.退化；恶化；变坏 | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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sublet
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| v.转租；分租 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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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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ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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lava
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| n.熔岩，火山岩 | |
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gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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