CLIFFORD, except for Phoebe’s More active instigation would ordinarily have yielded to the torpor1 which had crept through all his modes of being, and which sluggishly2 counselled him to sit in his morning chair till eventide. But the girl seldom failed to propose a removal to the garden, where Uncle Venner and the daguerreotypist had made such repairs on the roof of the ruinous arbor3, or summer-house, that it was now a sufficient shelter from sunshine and casual showers. The hop-vine, too, had begun to grow luxuriantly over the sides of the little edifice4, and made an interior of verdant5 seclusion6, with innumerable peeps and glimpses into the wider solitude7 of the garden.
Here, sometimes, in this green play-place of flickering8 light, Phoebe read to Clifford. Her acquaintance, the artist, who appeared to have a literary turn, had supplied her with works of fiction, in pamphlet form — and a few volumes of poetry, in altogether a different style and taste from those which Hepzibah selected for his amusement. Small thanks were due to the books, however, if the girl’s readings were in any degree more successful than her elderly cousin’s. Phoebe’s voice had always a pretty music in it, and could either enliven Clifford by its sparkle and gayety of tone, or soothe9 him by a continued flow of pebbly10 and brook-like cadences11. But the fictions — in which the country-girl, unused to works of that nature, often became deeply absorbed — interested her strange auditor12 very little, or not at all. Pictures of life, scenes of passion or sentiment, wit, humor, and pathos13, were all thrown away, or worse than thrown away, on Clifford; either because he lacked an experience by which to test their truth, or because his own griefs were a touch-stone of reality that few feigned14 emotions could withstand. When Phoebe broke into a peal15 of merry laughter at what she read, he would now and then laugh for sympathy, but oftener respond with a troubled, questioning look. If a tear — a maiden16’s sunshiny tear over imaginary woe17 — dropped upon some melancholy18 page, Clifford either took it as a token of actual calamity19, or else grew peevish20, and angrily motioned her to close the volume. And wisely too! Is not the world sad enough, in genuine earnest, without making a pastime of mock sorrows?
With poetry it was rather better. He delighted in the swell21 and subsidence of the rhythm, and the happily recurring22 rhyme. Nor was Clifford incapable23 of feeling the sentiment of poetry — not, perhaps, where it was highest or deepest, but where it was most flitting and ethereal. It was impossible to foretell24 in what exquisite25 verse the awakening26 spell might lurk27; but, on raising her eyes from the page to Clifford’s face, Phoebe would be made aware, by the light breaking through it, that a more delicate intelligence than her own had caught a lambent flame from what she read. One glow of this kind, however, was often the precursor28 of gloom for many hours afterward29; because, when the glow left him, he seemed conscious of a missing sense and power, and groped about for them, as if a blind man should go seeking his lost eyesight.
It pleased him more, and was better for his inward welfare, that Phoebe should talk, and make passing occurrences vivid to his mind by her accompanying description and remarks. The life of the garden offered topics enough for such discourse30 as suited Clifford best. He never failed to inquire what flowers had bloomed since yesterday. His feeling for flowers was very exquisite, and seemed not so much a taste as an emotion; he was fond of sitting with one in his hand, intently observing it, and looking from its petals31 into Phoebe’s face, as if the garden flower were the sister of the household maiden. Not merely was there a delight in the flower’s perfume, or pleasure in its beautiful form, and the delicacy32 or brightness of its hue33; but Clifford’s enjoyment34 was accompanied with a perception of life, character, and individuality, that made him love these blossoms of the garden, as if they were endowed with sentiment and intelligence. This affection and sympathy for flowers is almost exclusively a woman’s trait. Men, if endowed with it by nature, soon lose, forget, and learn to despise it, in their contact with coarser things than flowers. Clifford, too, had long forgotten it; but found it again now, as he slowly revived from the chill torpor of his life.
It is wonderful how many pleasant incidents continually came to pass in that secluded35 garden-spot when once Phoebe had set herself to look for them. She had seen or heard a bee there, on the first day of her acquaintance with the place. And often — almost continually, indeed — since then, the bees kept coming thither36, Heaven knows why, or by what pertinacious37 desire, for far-fetched sweets, when, no doubt, there were broad clover-fields, and all kinds of garden growth, much nearer home than this. Thither the bees came, however, and plunged38 into the squash-blossoms, as if there were no other squash-vines within a long day’s flight, or as if the soil of Hepzibah’s garden gave its productions just the very quality which these laborious39 little wizards wanted, in order to impart the Hymettus odor to their whole hive of New England honey. When Clifford heard their sunny, buzzing murmur40, in the heart of the great yellow blossoms, he looked about him with a joyful41 sense of warmth, and blue sky, and green grass, and of God’s free air in the whole height from earth to heaven. After all, there need be no question why the bees came to that one green nook in the dusty town. God sent them thither to gladden our poor Clifford. They brought the rich summer with them, in requital42 of a little honey.
When the bean-vines began to flower on the poles, there was one particular variety which bore a vivid scarlet43 blossom. The daguerreotypist had found these beans in a garret, over one of the seven gables, treasured up in an old chest of drawers by some horticultural Pyncheon of days gone by, who doubtless meant to sow them the next summer, but was himself first sown in Death’s garden-ground. By way of testing whether there were still a living germ in such ancient seeds, Holgrave had planted some of them; and the result of his experiment was a splendid row of bean-vines, clambering, early, to the full height of the poles, and arraying them, from top to bottom, in a spiral profusion44 of red blossoms. And, ever since the unfolding of the first bud, a multitude of humming-birds had been attracted thither. At times, it seemed as if for every one of the hundred blossoms there was one of these tiniest fowls45 of the air — a thumb’s bigness of burnished47 plumage, hovering48 and vibrating about the bean-poles. It was with indescribable interest, and even more than childish delight, that Clifford watched the humming-birds. He used to thrust his head softly out of the arbor to see them the better; all the while, too, motioning Phoebe to be quiet, and snatching glimpses of the smile upon her face, so as to heap his enjoyment up the higher with her sympathy. He had not merely grown young;— he was a child again.
Hepzibah, whenever she happened to witness one of these fits of miniature enthusiasm, would shake her head, with a strange mingling49 of the mother and sister, and of pleasure and sadness, in her aspect. She said that it had always been thus with Clifford when the humming-birds came — always, from his babyhood — and that his delight in them had been one of the earliest tokens by which he showed his love for beautiful things. And it was a wonderful coincidence, the good lady thought, that the artist should have planted these scarlet-flowering beans — which the humming-birds sought far and wide, and which had not grown in the Pyncheon garden before for forty years — on the very summer of Clifford’s return.
Then would the tears stand in poor Hepzibah’s eyes, or overflow50 them with a too abundant gush51, so that she was fain to betake herself into some corner, lest Clifford should espy52 her agitation53. Indeed, all the enjoyments54 of this period were provocative55 of tears. Coming so late as it did, it was a kind of Indian summer, with a mist in its balmiest sunshine, and decay and death in its gaudiest56 delight. The more Clifford seemed to taste the happiness of a child, the sadder was the difference to be recognized. With a mysterious and terrible Past, which had annihilated57 his memory, and a blank Future before him, he had only this visionary and impalpable Now, which, if you once look closely at it, is nothing. He himself, as was perceptible by many symptoms, lay darkly behind his pleasure, and knew it to be a baby-play, which he was to toy and trifle with, instead of thoroughly58 believing. Clifford saw, it may be, in the mirror of his deeper consciousness, that he was an example and representative of that great class of people whom an inexplicable59 Providence60 is continually putting at cross-purposes with the world: breaking what seems its own promise in their nature; withholding61 their proper food, and setting poison before them for a banquet; and thus — when it might so easily, as one would think, have been adjusted otherwise — making their existence a strangeness, a solitude, and torment62. All his life long, he had been learning how to be wretched, as one learns a foreign tongue; and now, with the lesson thoroughly by heart, he could with difficulty comprehend his little airy happiness. Frequently there was a dim shadow of doubt in his eyes. “Take my hand, Phoebe,” he would say, “and pinch it hard with your little fingers! Give me a rose, that I may press its thorns, and prove myself awake by the sharp touch of pain!” Evidently, he desired this prick63 of a trifling64 anguish65, in order to assure himself, by that quality which he best knew to be real, that the garden, and the seven weather-beaten gables, and Hepzibah’s scowl66, and Phoebe’s smile, were real likewise. Without this signet in his flesh, he could have attributed no more substance to them than to the empty confusion of imaginary scenes with which he had fed his spirit, until even that poor sustenance67 was exhausted68.
The author needs great faith in his reader’s sympathy; else he must hesitate to give details so minute, and incidents apparently69 so trifling, as are essential to make up the idea of this garden-life. It was the Eden of a thunder-smitten Adam, who had fled for refuge thither out of the same dreary70 and perilous71 wilderness72 into which the original Adam was expelled.
One of the available means of amusement, of which Phoebe made the most in Clifford’s behalf, was that feathered society, the hens, a breed of whom, as we have already said, was an immemorial heirloom in the Pyncheon family. In compliance73 with a whim74 of Clifford, as it troubled him to see them in confinement75, they had been set at liberty, and now roamed at will about the garden; doing some little mischief76, but hindered from escape by buildings on three sides, and the difficult peaks of a wooden fence on the other. They spent much of their abundant leisure on the margin77 of Maule’s well, which was haunted by a kind of snail78, evidently a titbit to their palates; and the brackish79 water itself, however nauseous to the rest of the world, was so greatly esteemed80 by these fowls, that they might be seen tasting, turning up their heads, and smacking81 their bills, with precisely82 the air of wine-bibbers round a probationary83 cask. Their generally quiet, yet often brisk, and constantly diversified84 talk, one to another, or sometimes in soliloquy — as they scratched worms out of the rich, black soil, or pecked at such plants as suited their taste — had such a domestic tone, that it was almost a wonder why you could not establish a regular interchange of ideas about household matters, human and gallinaceous. All hens are well worth studying for the piquancy85 and rich variety of their manners; but by no possibility can there have been other fowls of such odd appearance and deportment as these ancestral ones. They probably embodied86 the traditionary peculiarities88 of their whole line of progenitors89, derived90 through an unbroken succession of eggs; or else this individual Chanticleer and his two wives had grown to be humorists, and a little crack-brained withal, on account of their solitary91 way of life, and out of sympathy for Hepzibah, their lady-patroness.
Queer, indeed, they looked! Chanticleer himself, though stalking on two stilt-like legs, with the dignity of interminable descent in all his gestures, was hardly bigger than an ordinary partridge; his two wives were about the size of quails92; and as for the one chicken, it looked small enough to be still in the egg, and, at the same time, sufficiently93 old, withered94, wizened95, and experienced, to have been founder96 of the antiquated97 race. Instead of being the youngest of the family, it rather seemed to have aggregated98 into itself the ages, not only of these living specimens99 of the breed, but of all its forefathers100 and foremothers, whose united excellences101 and oddities were squeezed into its little body. Its mother evidently regarded it as the one chicken of the world, and as necessary, in fact, to the world’s continuance, or, at any rate, to the equilibrium102 of the present system of affairs, whether in church or state. No lesser103 sense of the infant fowl46’s importance could have justified104, even in a mother’s eyes, the perseverance105 with which she watched over its safety, ruffling106 her small person to twice its proper size, and flying in everybody’s face that so much as looked towards her hopeful progeny107. No lower estimate could have vindicated108 the indefatigable109 zeal110 with which she scratched, and her unscrupulousness in digging up the choicest flower or vegetable, for the sake of the fat earthworm at its root. Her nervous cluck, when the chicken happened to be hidden in the long grass or under the squash-leaves; her gentle croak111 of satisfaction, while sure of it beneath her wing; her note of ill-concealed fear and obstreperous112 defiance113, when she saw her arch-enemy, a neighbor’s cat, on the top of the high fence — one or other of these sounds was to be heard at almost every moment of the day. By degrees, the observer came to feel nearly as much interest in this chicken of illustrious race as the mother-hen did.
Phoebe, after getting well acquainted with the old hen, was sometimes permitted to take the chicken in her hand, which was quite capable of grasping its cubic inch or two of body. While she curiously115 examined its hereditary116 marks — the peculiar87 speckle of its plumage, the funny tuft on its head, and a knob on each of its legs — the little biped, as she insisted, kept giving her a sagacious wink117. The daguerreotypist once whispered her that these marks betokened118 the oddities of the Pyncheon family, and that the chicken itself was a symbol of the life of the old house, embodying119 its interpretation120, likewise, although an unintelligible121 one, as such clews generally are. It was a feathered riddle122; a mystery hatched out of an egg, and just as mysterious as if the egg had been addle123!
The second of Chanticleer’s two wives, ever since Phoebe’s arrival, had been in a state of heavy despondency, caused, as it afterwards appeared, by her inability to lay an egg. One day, however, by her self-important gait, the sideways turn of her head, and the cock of her eye, as she pried124 into one and another nook of the garden — croaking125 to herself, all the while, with inexpressible complacency — it was made evident that this identical hen, much as mankind undervalued her, carried something about her person the worth of which was not to be estimated either in gold or precious stones. Shortly after, there was a prodigious126 cackling and gratulation of Chanticleer and all his family, including the wizened chicken, who appeared to understand the matter quite as well as did his sire, his mother, or his aunt. That afternoon Phoebe found a diminutive127 egg — not in the regular nest, it was far too precious to be trusted there — but cunningly hidden under the currant-bushes, on some dry stalks of last year’s grass. Hepzibah, on learning the fact, took possession of the egg and appropriated it to Clifford’s breakfast, on account of a certain delicacy of flavor, for which, as she affirmed, these eggs had always been famous. Thus unscrupulously did the old gentlewoman sacrifice the continuance, perhaps, of an ancient feathered race, with no better end than to supply her brother with a dainty that hardly filled the bowl of a tea-spoon! It must have been in reference to this outrage128 that Chanticleer, the next day, accompanied by the bereaved129 mother of the egg, took his post in front of Phoebe and Clifford, and delivered himself of a harangue130 that might have proved as long as his own pedigree, but for a fit of merriment on Phoebe’s part. Hereupon, the offended fowl stalked away on his long stilts131, and utterly132 withdrew his notice from Phoebe and the rest of human nature, until she made her peace with an offering of spice-cake, which, next to snails133, was the delicacy most in favor with his aristocratic taste.
We linger too long, no doubt, beside this paltry134 rivulet135 of life that flowed through the garden of the Pyncheon House. But we deem it pardonable to record these mean incidents and poor delights, because they proved so greatly to Clifford’s benefit. They had the earth-smell in them, and contributed to give him health and substance. Some of his occupations wrought136 less desirably upon him. He had a singular propensity137, for example, to hang over Maule’s well, and look at the constantly shifting phantasmagoria of figures produced by the agitation of the water over the mosaic-work of colored pebbles138 at the bottom. He said that faces looked upward to him there — beautiful faces, arrayed in bewitching smiles — each momentary139 face so fair and rosy140, and every smile so sunny, that he felt wronged at its departure, until the same flitting witchcraft141 made a new one. But sometimes he would suddenly cry out, “The dark face gazes at me!” and be miserable142 the whole day afterwards. Phoebe, when she hung over the fountain by Clifford’s side, could see nothing of all this — neither the beauty nor the ugliness — but only the colored pebbles, looking as if the gush of the waters shook and disarranged them. And the dark face, that so troubled Clifford, was no more than the shadow thrown from a branch of one of the damson-trees, and breaking the inner light of Maule’s well. The truth was, however, that his fancy — reviving faster than his will and judgment143, and always stronger than they — created shapes of loveliness that were symbolic144 of his native character, and now and then a stern and dreadful shape that typified his fate.
On Sundays, after Phoebe had been at church — for the girl had a church-going conscience, and would hardly have been at ease had she missed either prayer, singing, sermon, or benediction145 — after church-time, therefore, there was, ordinarily, a sober little festival in the garden. In addition to Clifford, Hepzibah, and Phoebe, two guests made up the company. One was the artist Holgrave, who, in spite of his consociation with reformers, and his other queer and questionable146 traits, continued to hold an elevated place in Hepzibah’s regard. The other, we are almost ashamed to say, was the venerable Uncle Venner, in a clean shirt, and a broadcloth coat, more respectable than his ordinary wear, inasmuch as it was neatly147 patched on each elbow, and might be called an entire garment, except for a slight inequality in the length of its skirts. Clifford, on several occasions, had seemed to enjoy the old man’s intercourse148, for the sake of his mellow149, cheerful vein150, which was like the sweet flavor of a frost-bitten apple, such as one picks up under the tree in December. A man at the very lowest point of the social scale was easier and more agreeable for the fallen gentleman to encounter than a person at any of the intermediate degrees; and, moreover, as Clifford’s young manhood had been lost, he was fond of feeling himself comparatively youthful, now, in apposition with the patriarchal age of Uncle Venner. In fact, it was sometimes observable that Clifford half wilfully151 hid from himself the consciousness of being stricken in years, and cherished visions of an earthly future still before him; visions, however, too indistinctly drawn152 to be followed by disappointment — though, doubtless, by depression — when any casual incident or recollection made him sensible of the withered leaf.
So this oddly composed little social party used to assemble under the ruinous arbor. Hepzibah — stately as ever at heart, and yielding not an inch of her old gentility, but resting upon it so much the more, as justifying153 a princess-like condescension154 — exhibited a not ungraceful hospitality. She talked kindly155 to the vagrant156 artist, and took sage157 counsel — lady as she was — with the wood-sawyer, the messenger of everybody’s petty errands, the patched philosopher. And Uncle Venner, who had studied the world at street-corners, and other posts equally well adapted for just observation, was as ready to give out his wisdom as a town-pump to give water.
“Miss Hepzibah, ma’am,” said he once, after they had all been cheerful together, “I really enjoy these quiet little meetings of a Sabbath afternoon. They are very much like what I expect to have after I retire to my farm!”
“Uncle Venner” observed Clifford in a drowsy158, inward tone, “is always talking about his farm. But I have a better scheme for him, by and by. We shall see!”
“Ah, Mr. Clifford Pyncheon!” said the man of patches, “you may scheme for me as much as you please; but I’m not going to give up this one scheme of my own, even if I never bring it really to pass. It does seem to me that men make a wonderful mistake in trying to heap up property upon property. If I had done so, I should feel as if Providence was not bound to take care of me; and, at all events, the city wouldn’t be! I’m one of those people who think that infinity159 is big enough for us all — and eternity160 long enough.”
“Why, so they are, Uncle Venner,” remarked Phoebe after a pause; for she had been trying to fathom161 the profundity162 and appositeness of this concluding apothegm. “But for this short life of ours, one would like a house and a moderate garden-spot of one’s own.”
“ It appears to me,” said the daguerreotypist, smiling, “that Uncle Venner has the principles of Fourier at the bottom of his wisdom; only they have not quite so much distinctness in his mind as in that of the systematizing Frenchman.”
“Come, Phoebe,” said Hepzibah, “it is time to bring the currants.”
And then, while the yellow richness of the declining sunshine still fell into the open space of the garden, Phoebe brought out a loaf of bread and a china bowl of currants, freshly gathered from the bushes, and crushed with sugar. These, with water — but not from the fountain of ill omen114, close at hand — constituted all the entertainment. Meanwhile, Holgrave took some pains to establish an intercourse with Clifford, actuated, it might seem, entirely163 by an impulse of kindliness164, in order that the present hour might be cheerfuller than most which the poor recluse165 had spent, or was destined166 yet to spend. Nevertheless, in the artist’s deep, thoughtful, all-observant eyes, there was, now and then, an expression, not sinister167, but questionable; as if he had some other interest in the scene than a stranger, a youthful and unconnected adventurer, might be supposed to have. With great mobility168 of outward mood, however, he applied169 himself to the task of enlivening the party; and with so much success, that even dark-hued Hepzibah threw off one tint170 of melancholy, and made what shift she could with the remaining portion. Phoebe said to herself —“How pleasant he can be!” As for Uncle Venner, as a mark of friendship and approbation171, he readily consented to afford the young man his countenance172 in the way of his profession — not metaphorically173, be it understood, but literally174, by allowing a daguerreotype175 of his face, so familiar to the town, to be exhibited at the entrance of Holgrave’s studio.
Clifford, as the company partook of their little banquet, grew to be the gayest of them all. Either it was one of those up-quivering flashes of the spirit, to which minds in an abnormal state are liable, or else the artist had subtly touched some chord that made musical vibration176. Indeed, what with the pleasant summer evening, and the sympathy of this little circle of not unkindly souls, it was perhaps natural that a character so susceptible177 as Clifford’s should become animated178, and show itself readily responsive to what was said around him. But he gave out his own thoughts, likewise, with an airy and fanciful glow; so that they glistened179, as it were, through the arbor, and made their escape among the interstices of the foliage180. He had been as cheerful, no doubt, while alone with Phoebe, but never with such tokens of acute, although partial intelligence.
But, as the sunlight left the peaks of the Seven Gables, so did the excitement fade out of Clifford’s eyes. He gazed vaguely181 and mournfully about him, as if he missed something precious, and missed it the more drearily182 for not knowing precisely what it was.
“I want my happiness!” at last he murmured hoarsely183 and indistinctly, hardly Shaping out the words. “Many, many years have I waited for it! It is late! It is late! I want my happiness!”
Alas184, poor Clifford! You are old, and worn with troubles that ought never to have befallen you. You are partly crazy and partly imbecile; a ruin, a failure, as almost everybody is — though some in less degree, or less perceptibly, than their fellows. Fate has no happiness in store for you; unless your quiet home in the old family residence with the faithful Hepzibah, and your long summer afternoons with Phoebe, and these Sabbath festivals with Uncle Venner and the daguerreotypist, deserve to be called happiness! Why not? If not the thing itself, it is marvellously like it, and the more so for that ethereal and intangible quality which causes it all to vanish at too close an introspection. Take it, therefore, while you may Murmur not — question not — but make the most of it!
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torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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sluggishly
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| adv.懒惰地；缓慢地 | |
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arbor
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| n.凉亭；树木 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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pebbly
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| 多卵石的，有卵石花纹的 | |
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cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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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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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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calamity
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peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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foretell
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| v.预言，预告，预示 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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awakening
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lurk
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precursor
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afterward
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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32
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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33
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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34
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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35
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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36
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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37
pertinacious
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| adj.顽固的 | |
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38
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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39
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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40
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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41
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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42
requital
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| n.酬劳；报复 | |
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43
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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44
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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45
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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46
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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47
burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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48
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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49
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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50
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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51
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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52
espy
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| v.（从远处等）突然看到 | |
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53
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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54
enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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55
provocative
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| adj.挑衅的，煽动的，刺激的，挑逗的 | |
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56
gaudiest
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| adj.花哨的，俗气的( gaudy的最高级 ) | |
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57
annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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58
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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59
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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60
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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61
withholding
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| 扣缴税款 | |
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62
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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63
prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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64
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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65
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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66
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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67
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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68
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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69
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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70
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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71
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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72
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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73
compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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74
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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75
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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76
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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77
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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78
snail
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| n.蜗牛 | |
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79
brackish
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| adj.混有盐的；咸的 | |
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80
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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81
smacking
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| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
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82
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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83
probationary
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| 试用的，缓刑的 | |
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84
diversified
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|
| adj.多样化的，多种经营的v.使多样化，多样化( diversify的过去式和过去分词 )；进入新的商业领域 | |
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85
piquancy
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| n.辛辣，辣味，痛快 | |
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86
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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87
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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88
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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89
progenitors
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| n.祖先( progenitor的名词复数 )；先驱；前辈；原本 | |
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90
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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91
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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92
quails
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| 鹌鹑( quail的名词复数 )； 鹌鹑肉 | |
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93
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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94
withered
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|
| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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95
wizened
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|
| adj.凋谢的；枯槁的 | |
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96
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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97
antiquated
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|
| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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98
aggregated
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| a.聚合的，合计的 | |
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99
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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100
forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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101
excellences
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| n.卓越( excellence的名词复数 )；（只用于所修饰的名词后）杰出的；卓越的；出类拔萃的 | |
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102
equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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103
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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104
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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105
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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106
ruffling
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| 弄皱( ruffle的现在分词 )； 弄乱； 激怒； 扰乱 | |
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107
progeny
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| n.后代，子孙；结果 | |
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108
vindicated
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| v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的过去式和过去分词 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
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109
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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110
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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111
croak
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| vi.嘎嘎叫，发牢骚 | |
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112
obstreperous
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| adj.喧闹的，不守秩序的 | |
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113
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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114
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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115
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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116
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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117
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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118
betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
embodying
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| v.表现( embody的现在分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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120
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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121
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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122
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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123
addle
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| v.使腐坏，使昏乱 | |
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124
pried
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| v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的过去式和过去分词 )；撬开 | |
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125
croaking
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的现在分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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126
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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127
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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128
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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129
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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130
harangue
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| n.慷慨冗长的训话，言辞激烈的讲话 | |
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131
stilts
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| n.（支撑建筑物高出地面或水面的）桩子，支柱( stilt的名词复数 )；高跷 | |
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132
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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133
snails
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| n.蜗牛；迟钝的人；蜗牛( snail的名词复数 ) | |
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134
paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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135
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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136
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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137
propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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138
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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139
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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140
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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141
witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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142
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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143
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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144
symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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145
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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146
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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147
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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148
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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149
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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150
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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151
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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152
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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153
justifying
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| 证明…有理( justify的现在分词 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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154
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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155
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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156
vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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157
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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158
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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159
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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160
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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161
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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162
profundity
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| n.渊博；深奥，深刻 | |
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163
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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164
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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165
recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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166
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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167
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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168
mobility
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| n.可动性，变动性，情感不定 | |
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169
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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170
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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171
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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172
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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173
metaphorically
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| adv. 用比喻地 | |
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174
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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175
daguerreotype
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| n.银板照相 | |
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176
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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177
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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178
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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179
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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180
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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181
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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182
drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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183
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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184
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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