I was always hopeful of the mail. I don’t know why, for the mail box only gives back the fruit of what is sown in it, and I had nothing to sow. It was at least a channel of possibility, a Tattersall’s sweep that might throw up a prize, and I hungrily devoured4 the news of the great, reported in the newspapers.
There was no hope of any eruption5 in ‘Possum Gully, it would need to be an irruption. There was no public road nearer than two miles. There was no stream to attract anglers, nor scenery for a painter, nor rocks for a geologist6. My chiefest grudge7 against it has always been its ugliness. It is ragged8 rather than rugged9, and lacks grandeur10. We are too much in the ranges for them to be blue. They are merely sombre. The one glory that I dote and gloat on is the sunset. I love the sinking sun red as a fire between the trunks of the trees upon the hillside, and by running a quarter of a mile up the track can catch the afterglow of the grandeur of transfigured clouds on a more distant horizon.
Great was my astonishment12 one dull day to find a letter and a large parcel both addressed to me, and with English stamps. The letter had the corner torn off but not enough to divulge13 the contents. The parcel had been untied14, but I was so surprised that I was not resentful of this. In all my life I had not received so much as a post card written by a hand in another country. I had no idea of the what and why of the parcel, but I trembled with excitement. I galloped15 part of the way home and in a little gully where the hop3 scrub was thickest got off to investigate.
The parcel was books. Oh, joy! Had old Harris gone back to England without letting us know? But they were all the same book. Each had the same picture on the cover. I had never seen so many of one book except school readers. And the title of the book was my spoof16 autobiography17—and there was my name printed below it!!!! It looked so different in print—so conspicuous18 somehow, that I was frightened.
The letter was from a man I did not know, a business letter, as his name was printed at the top of the stationery19. This gentleman wrote that herewith under separate cover he had pleasure in sending me six presentation copies of my novel with the publishers’ compliments. He would be glad to have my acknowledgment in due course.
There in the hop scrub I faced the biggest crisis I have known to date. What on earth was I to do about this? What would Ma say? It was a shock that this thing written as a lark20 could come back to me as a real book like one written by a grownup educated person. I never in the world thought of an author as resembling myself, not even the feminine ones.
There was a dreadful fascination21 in peeping between the leaves. There it all was, all my irreverence22 about God and parents, and the make-believe reality that I had piled on with a grin in a spirit of “I’ll show ’em reality as it is in ‘Possum Gully.” I never had a book affect me like this one. It was as if the pages were on fire and the printing made of quicksilver. Was this because I knew what was in it, or was it just plain egotism, which no decent girl should have? I wished now that I had written a ladylike book that I could be pleased with. If only I had known it would be printed I should have done so. Those poor lost girls who have a baby without being married must feel like I did. There would be the baby but all the wild deep joy of it would be disgrace and trouble.
I thought of dropping the packet near home so that I could burn the books one by one secretly, but the mailman had opened them. He would ask Pa. No, I must face it. Ma and Pa were waiting for me, as I was late, and everyone looked forward to the mail, though the crop that Pa put in it mostly bore no fruit but bills.
Pa reached for the packet while Eusty took old Bandicoot’s bridle24.
“What’s this?” asked Pa.
Ma came forward. She and Pa and Eusty each seized a book. Eusty and Pa regardless of evening jobs, there and then opened theirs.
“Golly!” screeched25 Eusty, inspecting the picture on the cover. “Is that meant to be you on old Bandicoot? Bandicoot looks as if he is going to have a foal, and you look as if you are going to fall off and your clothes blow up!”
“I don’t understand this,” said Ma dubiously26. “Some confidence trick man must have got hold of you. How did this book get to the printer?”
I explained that I had sent my ream of paper, when written upon to the GREATEST AUSTRALIAN AUTHOR, and he had asked me to let him keep it, and I thought it was only to read.
“Your father will be getting a big bill for this, and we’ll be ruined. I wonder how much it has cost to print all this trash—it might be twenty pounds, or even fifty. You’ll find EXPERIENCE a bitter and expensive teacher, but you must pay the price of your own wilfulness27. What is hard and unjust is that I have continually to be paying it with you.
“This is like a meteor falling in the paddock, let us investigate it,” said Pa.
Ma said, first things first; she must prepare the evening meal while I put the chooks to bed safe from the native cats: we couldn’t all chase the shadow while the substance escaped us.
Eusty speedily arrived at his opinion. He had no impediment to arriving at his opinion on any subject. Old Harris said that Eusty was a perfect example of the cocksure Australian youth, possessed28 of the irreverence which resulted from lack of culture.
“I reckon this is a slashing29 lark,” he grinned. “And crikey, if it doesn’t get people’s nark up, I’m a goanna with two tails.” Rusty30 further expressed himself as full up of it, as it was only a blooming girl’s book, and went about his jobs.
Pa wiped his pince-nez and looked thoughtfully into space and murmured half to himself, “Of course you are not to blame for inexperience, but it’s a very strange thing. I am tremendously interested in what you have done, but you must not expect anyone else to be. It has just a local interest because you make things seem so true, even things that have no relation to anyone we know, that it is like a looking glass. I really had no idea that you had anything like this in your head. It would have been wiser to consult me beforehand; I could have saved you disappointment.”
With his kindness to anyone in a scrape, he added, “You must try again and write something adventurous31. Authors write many books before they succeed, so you needn’t worry that no one will take any notice of you. I have sometimes thought of describing the old pioneer life that is fast disappearing, but when I came to put pen on paper something always interrupted, or the experiences seemed such small potatoes compared with the Spanish Main or American pioneering, that they could not carry interest beyond those who actually knew them.”
Ma made sure that the pigs and fowls32 had been fed, the calves33 penned, the flowers watered, and kindling34 gathered ready for the morning fire before she read her copy.
She said she was relieved that it was not as had as she had expected, for how could a girl without EXPERIENCE write a book? She said it was lacking in discretion35 to have rung in such peculiar36 characters. There would be unpleasantness with worthy37 people who would think themselves ridiculed38. She also said it was unfilial to concoct39 an uncomplimentary exaggerated fabrication in such a way that outsiders would think it represented Pa and her. This was very mild and very handsome of Ma, but she is superb in a real crisis, though often irritating in a trivial rumpus. And what kind of a mad notion was it to rig up such a headstrong unladylike girl to be mistaken for myself? Ma said it was hard enough for a girl whose father could not provide for her, without handicapping herself with false reports. I was in danger of being put down as unwomanly, and men liked none but womanly girls. I shall never be a lady and poor Ma will never be anything else. So I plucked up to contend that it was womanized girls that men craved40, and that it did not matter what men thought of me, as what I thought of them would even things up. “What nonsense you talk,” said Ma, “You will find that in this world men have it all their own way. We won’t waste any more time on the silly book at present. I only hope it doesn’t involve us in any expense. The publishers must have little to do, or a peculiar taste. Put the copies away where no one will see them. A nine days wonder soon fades.”
I sent a copy to Old Harris. He wrote that it was surprising to see such a novel issuing from the stately house of McMurwood—this alone assured my status. “But my dear girl, I am troubled by the tenor41 of the book. Where is your radiance, your joyous42 sense of fun, your irrepressible high spirits? The pages seethe43 with discontents and pain. Have you been living alone in your spirit, suffering as we who had deepest affection for you did not dream? This distresses44 me. I cannot recognise you at all in these pages. Why not set our hearts at ease with a companion volume in which you give us your bright and illuminating45 self?”
Pa said Old Harris was a wonderful man. Ma said how was a man wonderful who had wasted all his opportunities. Pa said that Mr. Harris had understanding.
“Humph!” said Ma. “All men, and the older they grow the sillier they are, understand a young woman, but a mature mother of a family or an old woman burdened to the earth with real griefs and troubles—thrust upon her by other people—could drop under their feet without attention.”
Pa said that it was useless to quarrel with NATURE.
And that was the end of the book. We got on with the drought. It was a hummer that year and took all our attention.
“That Sybylla!”
It wasn’t the end of the book after all. Because of the drought, and the horses being poor, visiting among the neighbours practically ceased, and it was some time before we knew what was going on. We were further like ostriches46, because hard times had suspended our subscriptions47 to the papers.
Eusty went to Stony48 Flat—the neighboring community centring in a school—with the Stringybark Hill boys who were meeting in a picnic and football match, and he came home with a briar bush of gossip.
“Golly, Sybylla, you’ve done it this time, I reckon,” announced he. “Everybody is snake-headed about your blooming old book.”
“Where did they get it?” asked Ma. My heart missed a beat in dismay.
“Old Foxall can’t keep enough on hand. They must have printed dozens more than those you had. Golly, I’m glad I’m not you. All the old blokes despise you and laugh at the idea of you trying to write a book.”
“That reminds me,” said Pa. “The other day when I went over to Blackshaw, he got as red in the face as if he had been popping his brand on my sheep, and hid a book behind his back. I knew what it was, as he never read another book in his life, I’ll swear. Poor old chap, he apologised and said he would put it on the fire, that he only got it to see if it was as wicked as people were saying. At any rate, my girl, you’ve made people read a book for the first time in their lives.”
“What did you say?” inquired Ma.
“I told him that a marvellous thing had happened in our midst, and they were too ignorant to know it. Then he got squiffy and thanked God that his daughters were different. It appears that the Wesleyan preacher last Sunday denounced you. He said that your attitude towards religion damns you.”
“People are flagging more about your book than the drought or the price of wool,” chimed Eusty. “Everybody is sorry for your Pa and Ma. They say you should have been kept under more.”
“Now you see what your policy of encouraging her has done,” said Ma.
“Agh! A lot of magpies49 chattering50 on the fence posts.”
I was in an agony of disgrace. I did not sleep that night. I lay awake shivering with ignominy and listening to the mopokes and plovers51. I did not mind what people thought or were so silly as to mis-think about me, it was Ma. To have brought disgrace upon her and to be compelled to remain there and be tied to it in ‘Possum Gully was a deadly tribulation52.
A prophet denounced where he is known often has a great innings among strangers. Sometimes things are thus and sometimes otherwise. In my case it was both thus and otherwise. Otherwise came later: I must continue about thus.
Following his next sorties Eusty reported that Mrs. Crispin had said to Mrs. Oxley that she had not been to see poor Mrs. Melvyn, as she did not know what to say about that Sybylla. “Then they cackled,” said Eusty, “and said something more about that Sybylla which I couldn’t hear.”
“I’m sure that was no fault of your ears,” remarked Pa, and smiled to himself. I wondered why. I thought it callous53 of Pa.
Ma took the whole thing calmly. She was disapproving54 but that was business as usual.
At anyrate Eusty had great pleasure in the affair. His eyes popped and he danced a can-can after each report. “You’ve done it, Sybylla,” he would giggle55. “All the girls reckon they ain’t going to talk to any one so unwomanly. Elsie Blinder says her Ma says it is indelicate for a girl to write books at all.”
The trouble spread. It seemed to be more wide-spread than the drought, which that season was confined to the Southern Tableland. People arrived to condole56 with Pa about his hussy of a daughter, and had to scrunch57 on the brakes when they found Pa so lost to all ‘Possum Gully and Little Jimmy Dripping common sense as to be vainglorious58. He enjoyed being my father much more than I enjoyed being myself.
Every house in the district had the book, though hitherto the only reading had been the “Penny Post” and the Bible or a circular from Tattersall’s. It was the sensation of the age and at least relieved dulness. People in other ‘Possum Gullies were equally excited, and not so annoyed. The mail bag grew fuller and fuller with the weeks. Girls from all over Australia wrote to say that I had expressed the innermost core of their hearts. Others attacked Pa for allowing his daughter to write such a book. As one man put it, “Malicious lies without cause, for it is not a bit like us.” Another wrote, “Of course she has altered little things here and there but everybody who reads the book will immediately know it is us because it is all so plain and true to life.”
Pa seemed to enjoy these outbursts. I could not see why. I was unnerved to have enraged59 people whom I had not thought of when writing, as well as others that I had not even heard of.
“You must answer these letters,” said Pa. “It will give you a balanced sense of responsibility.”
I had to chew my pen for quite a time. I wrote humbly60 that I had not known the specific people but had meant simply to make fun of general reality. Pa said it was a generous letter, that it could not do any harm, neither would it do any good.
So I read the copies and then something came up in me and I jabbed down a postscript61: “I don’t know you and am sorry that you are angry, but if the cap fits you and you make a noise and wear it, I can’t help it.”
There was no reply to these letters.
Other letters to Ma put the cap on. The one from Grandma was a sizzler. To me she wrote that she had hoped her eyelids62 would be closed in death before such a disgrace had been brought upon her, but she did not blame me so much as my mother.
Ma got another letter, from an old neighbour when we had lived up the country, pitching into her and accusing her of aiding me in making fun of him because Ma had always been stuck up because she was a swell63, and thought her family better than his.
It was dreadful that Ma, the one perfect member of our ménage, who was beautiful and good and clever, who had sacrificed her life for Pa and me, should have this to bear.
“I knew there was something wrong,” she remarked. “There has been no one near the place to borrow so much as a bottle of yeast64 or half a hundred of flour for weeks.”
Ma is the most wonderful housekeeper65 in the district. The result is that the neighbours for miles around come to her when they want anything. They send to her when there is an accident, and more than once she has set an arm or leg in such a way that the doctor coming later has highly commended her skill and left it untouched. She can make dresses like a picture, and her pastry67 is so light and flaky that Pa says one needs a nosebag to keep it from flying away during consumption. Her bread is always taken for that of the best bakery, and so on, and so on. It is a sore trial for Ma to have such a poor husband, but added to that having her daughter, whom she had hoped would be a comfort, turning out to be a wolf in the barn, was indeed tragedy for Ma. It wasn’t any pleasure to me, but I had brought it on myself. It was right that I should suffer, but Ma was suffering through no fault of her own. She was a genuine heroine.
I had to be utterly68 discredited69. I stated that no one had known a thing about my writing a book. Pa was inculpated70 as far as supplying the paper, but had not suspected what I was to write. Ma was very generous and kind to everyone who complained. She wrote them nice letters explaining she entirely71 disapproved72 of me, that she had known nothing of my intentions, was grieved by my wicked wilfulness, which never came from her either by precept73 or example, and that she herself was the greatest victim to be mistaken for the mother in the foolish autobiography. “But ma,” I said, “I made up a woman with no resemblance to you on purpose, it is not my fault.”
But of course denial would not adjust matters. It showed the abnormal power of what was printed, and my first inkling that what was printed could be wide of the facts. EXPERIENCE taught me that, but those who had never tried to write anything but a letter could not learn by experience.
“If the child had known enough to take a nom-de-plume, her relatives and friends would have been able to remain silent when she failed and to boast if she succeeded, without this pillaloo,” said Pa. Parliament had taught him about human nature.
I lay awake night after night wondering what I could do. I made up my mind to commit suicide so that Ma could be rid of me, but when I had worked myself up to it one day, Pa asked me to help him draft and brand a flock of sheep, and it was such a relief that instead of suiciding I decided74 to run away. Even that was not immediately practicable as I hadn’t a railway fare, and if I left, Pa would not have had anyone to help with the place. I helped reap our bit of wheat that year, with a hook, and I milked the cows, so that Eusty could help Pa top the fences in the back paddock. I was awfully75 glad to keep to my own back yard. I did not want to give the girls the satisfaction of fumigating76 society by cutting me dead, as they all were threatening to do.
Then one day, who should come riding to the front gate but a strange gentleman in clerical attire77. It was Father O’Toole who was in charge of the Roman Catholics of the parish. He told Ma that he would like to talk to that daughter of hers, if she did not object. Ma was hurt that a clergyman from another denomination78 should find it necessary to correct me, especially a Roman Catholic, as Catholics and Protestants have silly contentions79 concerning the copyright to heaven, but Ma is always a lady, so she invited Father O’Toole to come in.
Fortunately Pa had seen the arrival and came to my support. There was a great flow of geniality80 between them. Ma withdrew.
“Well, well, well,” said Father O’Toole, laughing so heartily81 that I smiled. “Ye’re a great girl and a right royal brave wan66, but ye’re all wrong on wan or two points that I’d like to indicate.”
Here was a learned man of religious authority taking me seriously. I felt seasick82. I just sat.
“Now, whoi on earth did ye set up to interfere83 with the birthrate?” He laughed again. “Arragh! Ye must have got yer ideas from that father of ye’rs.”
Pa rubbed his hands together as he does when really pleased, and said I formulated84 my ideas myself; but he added that if a young person had a mind made for ideas they came out of the air.
I did not know what Father O’Toole meant by interference with the birthrate, but he said my condemnation85 of large families for pioneer women. Why, bless him, the country is crying out for population. Pioneering and population, according to him, are two things that should go together like strawberries and cream.
It was inspiriting to have a real person to argue with. I put forward my pity for overburdened women dying worn-out before their time. I advanced cases where even the doctors said the women would die if they had any more babies. “And what for?” I demanded. “Just to delve86 away from week to week at a lot of dull tasks—some of them superfluous87. No beauty but the sunset and the moonlight.”
His Reverence23 said that I was suffering from the divine discontent of genius, that it was a different matter with common people. If their noses weren’t kept to the grindstone—Ha! Ha! Ha!—rearing families and working, they would get into all the devil’s mischief88 in the world. Sure, we must fill up Australia and hold it from the Yellow Peril89 at our doors.
We must ourselves become a swarming90 menace to out-swarm the Yellow Peril! What a reason for spoiling our part of the earth! What a fate, to be driven to a competition in emulation91 of guinea pigs!
I pointed92 out to the Reverend gentleman that he didn’t add to the population himself, that he was safe from the burdens of both fathers and mothers, that if he were a woman he might think differently. No woman should be expected to have a big family in addition to drudging at a dozen different trades. I suggested that the unfortunate Yellow Peril women might be relieved to enter into an alliance with us to stem the swarming business.
“Ah, but ye’re all wrong, ye’re arguing against NATURE. Ye mustn’t interfere with Nature.”
“As for that,” interposed Pa, “All human civilization is a conquest of Nature.”
“Yes, but ye can’t change human nature.” Father O’Toole laughed loudly.
“I don’t think that to call an overdose of lust93 and verminous fecundity94 human nature is God’s will,” I contended, “and that I maintain, despite dads and the divils and all of divinity.”
“Whoi would ye set yourself up against all of theology?”
“And why not? If her thinking apparatus95 suggested it,” said Pa. “I often think myself that we have to take out a licence to keep a dog but the most undesirable96 man is not restricted in thrusting upon his fellows and his unfortunate wife, as many as a dozen repetitions of himself.”
“Ah, ’tis only the old head talking through the young voice,” laughed Father O’Toole. “It’s to be hoped she won’t be brought into too much trouble. Och, ye’re a fine girl, and a beauty to boot. The pity of it that ye’re not a boy! Then we could make a priest of ye, and the many theological arguments and disquisitions we could have would put a different complexion97 on these things entirely.”
Ma then brought in tea and the talk became ladylike and small. Our enlivening guest shook my hand kindly98 at parting as he said, “Ye can count me wan of ye’r friends and admirers though I think ye’re wrong, young woman, but ye must grow to years of discretion.”
Pa thanked him heartily for calling and invited him to come again which he promised to do, “To see what fresh mischief this young lady will be at.”
“There’s a man of the world,” observed Pa, as he went. “I like him for coming openly as a friend, not a snake behind our backs.”
“Huh!” said Ma. “He has the real old cackle like a political vote-catcher with his tongue in his cheek.”
The following day I got a horrifying99 letter. The signature was bold and plain, so were the contents. It was from old Mr. Grayling who lived ten or fifteen miles away to the east. He was one of the most intimate of our friends. His wife had died about a year since. His daughters were Ma’s great friends. He was seventy-two years of age—twenty-one years older than Pa.
I thought I was having a nightmare. It was a proposal of marriage. It sickened me to the core as something unclean.
Things were pretty bad for me, he said, when a blasted priest could think he had the right to denounce me, but that He (old Grayling) had faith in me. With his love and protection I could reinstate myself and be a very happy woman. He was a frantic100 Protestant and so set on his chart of the way to heaven that a cross drove him berserk as a symbol of popery rather than as the gallows101 on which Christ was crucified.
Old Grayling told me his age right out, but said he was younger at heart and otherwise than men half his age. Ugh! I cannot go on. UGH! UGH! UGH!
This was a desecration102 of all I had ever thought of love, of all the knights103 that were bold and heroes in lace and gold, and that sort of thing. Old Grayling was the most wrinkled man I know. He was stooped; he had only two or three barnacled fangs104, and nothing gives a man such a mangy and impecunious105 appearance in the flesh as teeth like that. He had a BEARD. A straggly old-man one!
Petrified106, sick, I hid behind the pig-sty for an hour or two. I had regarded him as a friendly grandfather. Why, he had three sons all with beards and bald heads and corporations! His granddaughters were older than I by years. It was as shocking as a case of indecent exposure against a bishop107.
The pigs did not know what to think. They conversed108 to me and about me in the most friendly grunts109. I love pigs. Observe how everyone cheers up at the mere11 mention or sight of pigs! In the animal kingdom one cannot ask for more engaging companions. They were my only refuge in that landscape. I couldn’t even tell Pa this. It was too disgusting a revelation about another man so old. I tried to comfort myself by thinking Old Grayling must be suffering from delirium110 tremens, and this the equivalent of seeing snakes; but there wasn’t really any comfort in it as I had never heard of his being drunk.
I tore the letter into bits and strewed111 it in the pigsty112 but every word was in my head. When I reappeared Ma asked me to explain my peculiar behaviour. I said I had been looking for the nest of a kangaroo rat. Ma said that was childish of me, but I got away with it because she was absorbed in Anthony Hordern’s catalogue that the mail had brought.
Another sleepless113 and tortured night. I was in a sorry pass if clergymen of divers114 denominations115 could preach against me and call to admonish116 me so that Old Grayling could think himself a rescuer. My former state when I had chafed117 against monotony and lack of opportunity to try my wings with birds of my own feather now seemed deliciously peaceful. I had written a yarn118 just for fun, and every sort of person took it seriously and it collected duds and freaks upon me. Here was something like one of those murders or fires or other disasters that happen to strangers. Disgrace had rained upon me as suddenly as a thunderstorm.
I was abashed119 with one side of me but with the other I wished that Father O’Toole had proposed to me too. That would have been a situation to turn one camp a yellow tinged120 with green and give the other that pea-green feeling trimmed with orange, which would have been jolly good for both.
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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kerosene
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| n.(kerosine)煤油，火油 | |
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hop
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| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
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devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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eruption
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| n.火山爆发；（战争等）爆发；（疾病等）发作 | |
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geologist
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| n.地质学家 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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divulge
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| v.泄漏(秘密等)；宣布，公布 | |
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untied
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| 松开，解开( untie的过去式和过去分词 )； 解除，使自由； 解决 | |
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galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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spoof
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| n.诳骗，愚弄，戏弄 | |
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autobiography
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conspicuous
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stationery
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| n.文具；(配套的)信笺信封 | |
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lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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irreverence
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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screeched
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的过去式和过去分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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26
dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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27
wilfulness
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| 任性；倔强 | |
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28
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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29
slashing
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| adj.尖锐的；苛刻的；鲜明的；乱砍的v.挥砍( slash的现在分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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30
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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32
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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33
calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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34
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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35
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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36
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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37
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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38
ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
concoct
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| v.调合，制造 | |
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40
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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41
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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42
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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43
seethe
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| vi.拥挤，云集；发怒，激动，骚动 | |
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44
distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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45
illuminating
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| a.富于启发性的，有助阐明的 | |
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46
ostriches
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| n.鸵鸟( ostrich的名词复数 )；逃避现实的人，不愿正视现实者 | |
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47
subscriptions
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| n.（报刊等的）订阅费( subscription的名词复数 )；捐款；（俱乐部的）会员费；捐助 | |
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48
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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49
magpies
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| 喜鹊（magpie的复数形式） | |
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50
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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51
plovers
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| n.珩，珩科鸟（如凤头麦鸡）( plover的名词复数 ) | |
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52
tribulation
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| n.苦难，灾难 | |
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53
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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54
disapproving
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| adj.不满的，反对的v.不赞成( disapprove的现在分词 ) | |
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55
giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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56
condole
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| v.同情；慰问 | |
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57
scrunch
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| v.压，挤压；扭曲（面部） | |
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58
vainglorious
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| adj.自负的；夸大的 | |
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59
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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60
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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61
postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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62
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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63
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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64
yeast
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| n.酵母；酵母片；泡沫；v.发酵；起泡沫 | |
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65
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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66
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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67
pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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68
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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69
discredited
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| 不足信的，不名誉的 | |
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70
inculpated
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| v.显示（某人）有罪，使负罪( inculpate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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71
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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72
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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74
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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75
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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76
fumigating
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| v.用化学品熏（某物）消毒( fumigate的现在分词 ) | |
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77
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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78
denomination
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| n.命名，取名，(度量衡、货币等的)单位 | |
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79
contentions
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| n.竞争( contention的名词复数 )；争夺；争论；论点 | |
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80
geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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81
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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82
seasick
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| adj.晕船的 | |
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83
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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84
formulated
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| v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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85
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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86
delve
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| v.深入探究，钻研 | |
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87
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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88
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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89
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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90
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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91
emulation
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| n.竞争；仿效 | |
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92
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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93
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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94
fecundity
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| n.生产力；丰富 | |
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95
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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96
undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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97
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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98
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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99
horrifying
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| a.令人震惊的，使人毛骨悚然的 | |
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100
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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101
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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102
desecration
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| n. 亵渎神圣, 污辱 | |
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103
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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104
fangs
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| n.（尤指狗和狼的）长而尖的牙( fang的名词复数 )；（蛇的）毒牙；罐座 | |
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105
impecunious
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| adj.不名一文的，贫穷的 | |
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106
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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107
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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108
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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109
grunts
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的第三人称单数 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说； 石鲈 | |
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110
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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111
strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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112
pigsty
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| n.猪圈，脏房间 | |
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113
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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114
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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115
denominations
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| n.宗派( denomination的名词复数 )；教派；面额；名称 | |
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116
admonish
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| v.训戒；警告；劝告 | |
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117
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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118
yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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119
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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