On a summer’s morning, almost before the dew had left the grass on the north side of the forest, or the belated opossum had gone to his nest, in fact just as the East was blazing with its brightest fire, Sam started off for a pleasant canter through the forest, to visit one of their out-station huts, which lay away among the ranges, and which was called, from some old arrangement, now fallen into disuse, “the heifer station.”
There was the hut, seen suddenly down a beautiful green vista1 in the forest, the chimney smoking cheerily. “What a pretty contrast of colours!” says Sam, in a humour for enjoying everything. “Dark brown hut among the green shrubs2, and blue smoke rising above all; prettily3, too, that smoke hangs about the foliage4 this still morning, quite in festoons. There’s Matt at the door!”
A lean long-legged clever-looking fellow, rather wide at the knees, with a brown complexion5, and not unpleasant expression of face, stood before the door plaiting a cracker6 for his stockwhip. He looked pleased when he saw Sam, and indeed it must be a surly fellow indeed, who did not greet Sam’s honest phiz with a smile. Never a dog but wagged his tail when he caught Sam’s eye.
“You’re abroad early this morning, sir,” said the man; “nothing the matter; is there, sir?”
“Nothing,” said Sam, “save that one of Captain Brentwood’s bulls is missing, and I came out to tell you to have an extra look round.”
“I’ll attend to it, sir.”
“Hi! Matt,” said Sam, “you look uncommonly8 smart.”
Matt bent9 down his head, and laughed, in a rather sheepish sort of way.
“Well, you see, sir, I was coming into the home station to see if the Major could spare me for a few days.”
“What, going a courting, eh? Well, I’ll make that all right for you. Who is the lady — eh?”
“Why, its Elsy Macdonald, I believe.”
“Elsy Macdonald!” said Sam.
“Ay, yes, sir. I know what you mean, but she ain’t like her sister; and that was more Mr. Charles Hawker’s fault than her own. No; Elsy is good enough for me, and I’m not very badly off, and begin to fancy I would like some better sort of welcome in the evening than what a cranky old brute10 of a hutkeeper can give me. So I think I shall bring her home.”
“I wish you well, Matt,” said Sam; “I hope you are not going to leave us though.”
“No fear, sir; Major Buckley is too good a master for that!”
“Well, I’ll get the hut coopered up a bit for you, and you shall be as comfortable as circumstances will permit. Good morning.”
“Good morning, sir; I hope I may see you happily married yourself some of these days.”
Sam laughed, “that would be a fine joke,” he thought, “but why shouldn’t it be, eh? I suppose it must come some time or another. I shall begin to look out; I don’t expect I shall be very easily suited. Heigh ho!”
I expect, however, Mr. Sam, that you are just in the state of mind to fall headlong in love with the first girl you meet with a nose on her face; let us hope, therefore, that she may be eligible13.
But here is home again, and here is the father standing14 majestic16 and broad in the verandah, and the mother with her arm round his neck, both waiting to give him a hearty17 morning’s welcome. And there is Doctor Mulhaus kneeling in spectacles before his new Grevillea Victoria, the first bud of which is just bursting into life; and the dogs catch sight of him and dash forward, barking joyfully18; and as the ready groom19 takes his horse, and the fat housekeeper20 looks out all smiles, and retreats to send in breakfast, Sam thinks to himself, that he could not leave his home and people, not for the best wife in broad Australia; but then you see, he knew no better.
“What makes my boy look so happy this morning?” asked his mother. “Has the bay mare21 foaled, or have you negotiated James Brentwood’s young dog? Tell us, that we may participate.”
“None of these things have happened, mother; but I feel in rather a holiday humour, and I’m thinking of going down to Garoopna this morning, and spending a day or two with Jim.”
“I will throw a shoe after you for luck,” said his mother. “See, the Doctor is calling you.”
Sam went to the Doctor, who was intent on his flower. “Look here, my boy; here is something new: the handsomest of the Grevilleas, as I live. It has opened since I was here.”
“Ah!” said Sam, “this is the one that came from the Quartz22 Ranges, last year; is it not? It has not flowered with you before.”
“If Linnaeus wept and prayed over the first piece of English furze which he saw,” said the Doctor, “what everlasting23 smelling-bottle hysterics he would have gone into in this country! I don’t sympathise with his tears much, though, myself; though a new flower is a source of the greatest pleasure to me.”
“And so you are going to Garoopna, Sam?” said his father, at breakfast. “Have you heard, my dear, when the young lady is to come home?”
“Next month, I understand, my dear,” said Mrs. Buckley. “When she does come I shall go over and make her a visit.”
“What is her name, by-the-bye?” asked the Doctor.
“Alice!”
So, behold24 Sam starting for his visit. The very Brummel of bush-dandies. Hunt might have made his well-fitting cord breeches, Hoby might have made those black top-boots, and Chifney might have worn them before royalty25, and not been shamed. It is too hot for coat or waistcoat; so he wears his snow-white shirt, topped by a blue “bird’s-eye-handkerchief,” and keeps his coat in his valise, to be used as occasion shall require. His costume is completed with a cabbage-tree hat, neither too new nor too old; light, shady, well ventilated, and three pounds ten, the production, after months of labour, of a private in her Majesty26’s Fortieth Regiment27 of Foot: not with long streaming ribands down his back, like a Pitt Street bully28, but with short and modest ones, as became a gentleman — altogether as fine a looking young fellow, as well dressed, and as well mounted too, as you will find on the country side.
Let me say a word about his horse, too; horse Widderin. None ever knew what that horse had cost Sam. The Major even had a delicacy29 about asking. I can only discover by inquiry30 that, at one time, about a year before this, there came to the Major’s a traveller, an Irishman by nation, who bored them all by talking about a certain “Highflyer” colt, which had been dropped to a happy proprietor31 by his mare “Larkspur,” among the Shoalhaven gullies; described by him as a colt the like of which was never seen before; as indeed he should be, for his sire Highflyer, as all the world knows, was bought up by a great Hunter-river horse-breeder from the Duke of C——; while his dam, Larkspur, had for grandsire the great Bombshell himself. What more would you have than that, unless you would like to drive Veno in your dog-cart? However, it so happened that, soon after the Irishman’s visit, Sam went away on a journey, and came back riding a new horse; which when the Major saw, he whistled, but discreetly33 said nothing. A very large colt it was, with a neck like a rainbow, set into a splendid shoulder, and a marvellous way of throwing his legs out; — very dark chestnut34 in colour, almost black, with longish ears, and an eye so full, honest, and impudent35, that it made you laugh in his face. Widderin, Sam said, was his name, price and history being suppressed; called after Mount Widderin, to the northward36 there, whose loftiest sublime37 summit bends over like a horse’s neck, with two peaked crags for ears. And the Major comes somehow to connect this horse with the Highflyer colt mentioned by our Irish friend, and observes that Sam takes to wearing his old clothes for a twelvemonth, and never seems to have any ready money. We shall see some day whether or no this horse will carry Sam ten miles, if required, on such direful emergency, too, as falls to the lot of few men. However, this is all to come. Now in holiday clothes and in holiday mind, the two noble animals cross the paddock, and so down by the fence towards the river; towards the old gravel38 ford39 you may remember years ago. Here is the old flood, spouting40 and streaming as of yore, through the basalt pillars. There stand the three fern trees, too, above the dark scrub on the island. Now up the rock bank, and away across the breezy plains due North.
Brushing through the long grass tussocks, he goes his way singing, his dog Rover careering joyously41 before him. The horse is clearly for a gallop42, but it is too hot today. The tall flat-topped volcanic43 hill which hung before him like a grey faint cloud, when he started, now rears its fluted44 columns overhead, and now is getting dim again behind him. But ere noon is high he once more hears the brawling45 river beneath his feet, and Garoopna is before him on the opposite bank.
The river, as it left Major Buckley’s at Baroona, made a sudden bend to the west, a great arc, including with its minor46 windings47 nearly twenty-five miles, over the chord of which arc Sam had now been riding, making, from point to point, ten miles, or thereabouts. The Mayfords’ station, also, lay to the left of him, being on the curved side of the arc, about five miles from Baroona. The reader may, if he please, remember this.
Garoopna was an exceedingly pretty station; in fact, one of the most beautiful I have ever seen. It stood at a point where the vast forests which surround the mountains in a belt, from ten to twenty miles broad, run down into the plains and touch the river. As at Baroona, the stream runs in through a deep cleft48 in the table land, which here, though precipitous on the eastern bank, on the western breaks away into a small natural amphitheatre bordered by fine hanging woods just in advance of which, about two hundred yards from the river, stood the house, a long, low building densely49 covered with creepers of all sorts, and fronted by a beautiful garden. Right and left of it were the woolsheds, sheepyards, stockyards, men’s huts etc. giving it almost the appearance of a little village; and behind the wooded ranges begin to rise, in some places broken beautifully by sheer scarps of grey rock. The forest crosses the river a little way, so Sam, gradually descending50 from the plains to cross, went the last quarter of a mile through a shady sandy forest tract51, fringed with bracken, which leads down to a broad crossing place, where the river sparkles under tall over-arching red gums and box-trees; and then following the garden fence, found himself before a deep cool-looking porch, in a broad neatly-kept courtyard behind the house.
A groom came out and took his horse. Rover has enough to do; for there are three or four sheep dogs in the yard, who walk round him on tiptoe, slowly, with their frills out and their tails arched, growling52. Rover, also, walks about on tiptoe, arches his tail, and growls53 with the best of them. He knows that the slightest mistake would be disastrous54, and so manoeuvres till he gets to the porch, where, a deal of gravel having been kicked backwards55, in the same way as the ancients poured out their wine when they drank a toast, or else (as I think is more probable) as a symbol that animosities were to be buried, Rover is admitted as a guest, and Sam feels it safe to enter the house.
A cool, shady hall, hung round with coats, hats, stockwhips; a gun in the corner, and on a slab56, the most beautiful nosegay you can imagine. Remarkable57 that for a bachelor’s establishment; — but there is no time to think about it, for a tall, comfortable-looking housekeeper, whom Sam has never seen before, comes in from the kitchen and curtseys.
“Captain Brentwood not at home, is he?” said Sam.
“No, sir! Away on the run with Mr. James.”
“Oh! very well,” says Sam; “I am going to stay a few days.”
“Very well, sir; will you take anything before lunch?”
“Nothing, thank you.”
“Miss Alice is somewhere about sir. I expect her in every minute.”
“Miss Alice!” says Sam, astonished. “Is she come home?”
“Came home last week, sir. Will you walk in and sit down?”
Sam got his coat out of his valise, and went in. He wished that he had put on his plain blue necktie instead of the blue one with white spots. He would have liked to have worn his new yellow riding-trousers, instead of breeches and boots. He hoped his hair was in order, and tried to arrange his handsome brown curls without a glass, but, in the end, concluded that things could not be mended now, so he looked round the room.
What a charming room it was! A couple of good pictures, and several fine prints on the walls. Over the chimneypiece, a sword, and an old gold-laced cap, on which Sam looked with reverence58. Three French windows opened on to a dark cool verandah, beyond which was a beautiful flower garden. The floor of the room, uncarpeted, shone dark and smooth, and the air was perfumed by vases of magnificent flowers, a hundred pounds worth of them, I should say, if you could have taken them to Covent-garden that December morning. But what took Sam’s attention more than anything was an open piano, in a shady recess59, and on the keys a little fairy white glove.
“White kid gloves, eh, my lady?” says Sam; “that don’t look well.” So he looked through the bookshelves, and, having lighted on “Boswell’s Johnson,” proceeded into the verandah. A colley she-dog was lying at one end, who banged her tail against the floor in welcome, but was too utterly60 prostrated61 by the heat and by the persecution62 of her puppy to get up and make friends. The pup, however, a ball of curly black wool, with a brown-striped face, who was sitting on the top of her with his head on one side, seemed to conclude that a game of play was to be got out of Sam, and came blundering towards him; but Sam was, by this time, deep in a luxurious63 rocking-chair, so the puppy stopped half way, and did battle with a great black tarantula spider who happened to be abroad on business.
Sam went to the club with his immortal64 namesake, bullied65 Bennet Langton, argued with Beauclerk, put down Goldsmith, and extinguished Boswell. But it was too hot to read; so he let the book fall on his lap, and lay a-dreaming.
What a delicious verandah is this to dream in! Through the tangled66 passion-flowers, jessamines and magnolias, what a soft gleam of bright hazy67 distance, over the plains and far away! The deep river-glen cleaves68 the table-land, which, here and there, swells70 into breezy downs. Beyond, miles away to the north, is a great forest-barrier, above which there is a blaze of late snow, sending strange light aloft into the burning haze71. All this is seen through an arch in the dark mass of verdure which clothed the trellis-work, only broken through in this one place, as though to make a frame for the picture. He leans back, and gives himself up to watching trifles.
See here. A magpie72 comes furtively73 out of the house with a key in his mouth, and, seeing Sam, stops to consider if he is likely to betray him. On the whole he thinks not; so he hides the key in a crevice74, and whistles a tune76.
Now enters a cockatoo, waddling77 along confortably and talking to himself. He tries to enter into conversation with the magpie, who, however, cuts him dead, and walks off to look at the prospect78.
Flop79, flop, a great foolish-looking kangaroo comes through the house and peers round him. The cockatoo addresses a few remarks to him, which he takes no notice of, but goes blundering out into the garden, right over the contemplative magpie, who gives him two or three indignant pecks on his clumsy feet, and sends him flying down the gravel walk.
Two bright-eyed little kangaroo rats come out of their box peering and blinking. The cockatoo finds an audience in them, for they sit listening to him, now and then catching80 a flea81, or rubbing the backs of their heads with their fore-paws. But a buck12 ‘possum, who stealthily descends82 by a pillar from unknown realms of mischief83 on the top of the house, evidently discredits84 cocky’s stories, and departs down the garden to see if he can find something to eat.
An old cat comes up the garden walk, accompanied by a wicked kitten, who ambushes85 round the corner of the flowerbed, and pounces86 out on her mother, knocking her down and severely87 maltreating her. But the old lady picks herself up without a murmur88, and comes into the verandah followed by her unnatural89 offspring, ready for any mischief. The kangaroo rats retire into their box, and the cockatoo, rather nervous, lays himself out to be agreeable.
But the puppy, born under an unlucky star, who has been watching all these things from behind his mother, thinks at last, “Here is some one to play with,” so he comes staggering forth90 and challenges the kitten to a lark32.
She receives him with every symptom of disgust and abhorrence91; but he, regardless of all spitting, and tail swelling92, rolls her over, spurring and swearing, and makes believe he will worry her to death. Her scratching and biting tell but little on his woolly hide, and he seems to have the best of it out and out, till a new ally appears unexpectedly, and quite turns the tables. The magpie hops93 up, ranges alongside of the combatants, and catches the puppy such a dig over the tail as sends him howling to his mother with a flea in his ear.
Sam lay sleepily amused by this little drama; then he looked at the bright green arch which separated the dark verandah from the bright hot garden. The arch was darkened, and looking he saw something which made his heart move strangely, something that he has not forgotten yet, and never will.
Under the arch between the sunlight and the shade, bareheaded, dressed in white, stood a girl, so amazingly beautiful, that Sam wondered for a few moments whether he was asleep or awake. Her hat, which she had just taken off, hung on her left arm, and with her delicate right hand she arranged a vagrant94 tendril of the passion-flower, which in its luxuriant growth had broken bounds and fallen from its place above. — A girl so beautiful that I in all my life never saw her superior. They showed me the other day, in a carriage in the park, one they said was the most beautiful girl in England, a descendant of I know not how many noblemen. But, looking back to the times I am speaking of now, I said at once and decidedly, “Alice Brentwood twenty years ago was more beautiful than she.”
A Norman style of beauty, I believe you would call it. Light hair, deep brilliant blue eyes, and a very fair complexion. Beauty and high-bred grace in every limb and every motion. She stood there an instant on tiptoe, with the sunlight full upon her, while Sam, buried in gloom, had time for a delighted look, before she stepped into the verandah and saw him.
She floated towards him through the deep shadow. “I think,” she said in the sweetest, most musical little voice, “that you are Mr. Buckley. If so, you are a very old friend of mine by report.” So she held out her little hand, and with one bold kind look from the happy eyes, finished Sam for life.
Father and mother, retire into the chimney corner and watch. Your day is done. Doctor Mulhaus, put your good advice into your pocket and smoke your pipe. Here is one who can exert a greater power for good or evil than all of you put together. It was written of old — “A man shall leave his father and mother and cleave69 unto his ——” Hallo! I am getting on rather fast, I am afraid.
He had risen to meet her. “And you, Miss Brentwood,” he said, “are tolerably well known to me. Do you know now that I believe by an exertion95 of memory I could tell you the year and the month when you began to learn the harp96? My dear old friend Jim has kept me quite AU FAIT with all your accomplishments97.”
“I hope you are not disappointed in me,” said Alice, laughing.
“No,” said Sam. “I think rather the contrary. Are you?”
“I have not had time to tell yet,” she said. “I will see how you behave at lunch, which we shall have in half an hour TETE-A-TETE. You have been often here before, I believe? Do you see much change?”
“Not much. I noticed a new piano, and a little glove that I had never seen before. Jim’s menagerie o wild beasts is as numerous as ever, I see. He would have liked to be in Noah’s Ark.”
“And so would you and I, Mr. Buckley,” she answered, laughing, “if we had been caught in the flood.”
Good gracious! Think of being in Noah’s Ark with her.
“You find them a little troublesome, don’t you, Miss Brentwood?”
“Well, it requires a good deal of administrative98 faculty99 to keep the kitten and the puppy from open collision, and to prevent the magpie from pecking out the cockatoo’s eye and hiding it in the flower bed. Last Sunday morning he (the magpie) got into my father’s room, and stole thirty-one shillings and sixpence. We got it all back but half a sovereign, and that we shall never see.”
The bird thus alluded100 to broke into a gush101 of melody, so rich, full, and metallic102, that they both turned to look at him. Having attracted attention, he began dancing, crooning a little song to himself, as though he would say, “I know where it is.” And lastly he puffed103 out his breast, put back his bill, and swore two or three oaths that would have disgraced a London scavenger104, with such remarkable distinctness too, that there was no misunderstanding him; so Sam’s affectation of not having caught what the bird said, was a dead failure.
“Mr. Buckley,” said she, “if you will excuse me I will go and see about lunch. Can you amuse yourself there for half an hour?” Well, he would try. So he retired105 again to the rocking-chair, about ten years older than when he rose from it. For he had grown from a boy into a man.
He had fallen over head and ears in love, and all in five minutes, fallen deeply, seriously in love, to the exclusion106 of all other sublunary matters, before he had well had time to notice whether she spoke107 with an Irish brogue or a Scotch108 (happily she did neither). Sudden, you say: well, yes; but in lat. 34 degrees, and lower, whether in the southern or northern hemisphere, these sort of affairs come on with a rapidity and violence only equalled by the thunder-storms of those regions, and utterly surprising to you who perhaps read this book in 52 degrees north, or perhaps higher. I once went to a ball with as free and easy, heart-whole a young fellow as any I know, and agreed with him to stay half an hour, and then come away and play pool. In twenty-five minutes by my watch, which keeps time like a ship’s chronometer109, that man was in the tragic110 or cut-throat stage of the passion with a pretty little thing of forty, a cattledealer’s widow, who stopped HIS pool-playing for a time, until she married the great ironmonger in George Street. Romeo and Juliet’s little matter was just as sudden, and very Australian in many points. Only mind, that Romeo, had he lived in Australia, instead of taking poison, would probably have
“Took to drinking ratafia, and thought of poor Miss Baily,”
for full twenty-four hours after the catastrophe111.
At least such would have been the case in many instances, but not in all. With some men these suddenly-conceived passions last their lives, and, I should be inclined to say longer, were there not strong authority against it.
But Sam? He saw the last twinkle of her white gown disappear, and then leant back and tried to think. He could only say to himself, “By Jove, I wonder if I can ever bring her to like me. I wish I had known she was here; I’d have dressed myself better. She is a precious superior girl. She might come to like me in time. Heigh ho!”
The idea of his having a rival, or of any third person stepping in between him and the young lady to whom he had thrown his handkerchief, never entered into his Sultanship’s head. Also, when he came to think about it, he really saw no reason why she should not be brought to think well of him. “As well me as another,” said he to himself; “that’s where it is. She must marry somebody, you know!”
Why was she gone so long? He begins to doubt whether he has not after all been asleep and dreaming. There she comes again, however, for the arch under the creepers is darkened again, and he looks up with a pleasant smile upon his face to greet her.
“God save us! What imp’s trick is this?” There, in the porch, in the bright sun, where she stood not an hour ago in all her beauty and grace, stands a hideous112, old savage113, black as Tophet, grinning; showing the sharp gap-teeth in her apish jaws114, her lean legs shaking with old age and rheumatism115.
The colley shakes out her frill, and, raising the hair all down her back, stands grinning and snarling116, while her puppy barks pot-valiantly between her legs. The little kangaroo rats ensconce themselves once more in their box, and gaze out amazed from their bright little eyes. The cockatoo hooks and clambers up to a safe place in the trellis, and Sam, after standing thunder-struck for a moment, asks, what she wants?
“Make a light,” [Note: “See”] says the old girl, in a pathetic squeak117. Further answer she makes none, but squats118 down outside, and begins a petulant119 whine120: sure sign that she has a tale of woe121 to unfold, and is going to ask for something.
“Can that creature,” thinks Sam, “be of the same species as the beautiful Alice Brentwood? Surely not! There seems as much difference between them as between an angel and an ordinary good woman.” Hard to believe, truly, Sam: but perhaps, in some of the great European cities, or even nearer home, in some of the prison barracks, you may chance to find a white woman or two fallen as low as that poor, starved, ill-treated, filthy122 old savage!
Alice comes out once more, and brings sunshine with her. She goes up to the old lubra with a look of divine compassion123 on her beautiful face; the old woman’s whine grows louder as she rocks herself to and fro. “Yah marah, Yah boorah, Oh boora Yah! Yah Ma!”
“What! old Sally!” says the beautiful girl. “What is the matter? Have you been getting waddy again?”
“Baal!” says she, with a petulant burst of grief.
“What is it, then?” says Alice. “Where is the gown I gave you?”
Alice had evidently vibrated the right chord. The “Yarah Moorah” coronach was begun again; and then suddenly, as if her indignation had burst bounds, she started off with a shrillness124 and rapidity astonishing to one not accustomed to black-fellows, into something like the following: “Oh Yah (very loud), oh Mah! Barkmaburrawurrah, Barkmamurrahwurrah, Oh Ya Barkmanurrawah Yee (in a scream. Then a pause). Oh Mooroo (pause). Oh hinaray (pause). Oh Barknamurrwurrah Yee!”
Alice looked as if she understood every word of it, and waited till the poor old soul had “blown off the steam,” and then asked again:
“And what has become of the gown, Sally?”
“Oh dear! Young lubra Betty (big thief that one) tear it up and stick it along a fire. Oh, plenty cold this old woman. Oh, plenty hungry this old woman. Oh, Yarah Moorah,” &c.
“There! go round to the kitchen,” said Alice, “and get something to eat. Is it not abominable125, Mr. Buckley? I cannot give anything to this old woman but the young lubras take it from her. However, I will ‘put the screw on them.’ They shall have nothing from me till they treat her better. It goes to my heart to see a woman of that age, with nothing to look forward to but kicks and blows. I have tried hard to make her understand something of the next world: but I can’t get it out of her head that when she dies she will go across the water and come back a young white woman with plenty of money. Mr. Sandford, the missionary126, says he has never found one who could be made to comprehend the existence of God. However, I came to call you to lunch; will you give me your arm?”
Such a self-possessed, intrepid127 little maiden128, not a bit afraid of him, but seeming to understand and trust him so thoroughly129. Not all the mock-modesty and blushing in the world would have won him half so surely, as did her bold, quiet, honest look. Although a very young man, and an inexperienced, Sam could see what a candid130, honest, gentle soul looked at him from those kind blue eyes; and she, too, saw something in Sam’s broad noble face which attracted her marvellously, and in all innocence131 she told him so, plump and plain, as they were going into the house.
“I fancy I shall like you very much, Mr. Buckley. We ought to be good friends, you know; your father saved the lives of my father and uncle.”
“I never heard of that before,” said Sam.
“I dare say not,” said Alice. “Your father is not the man to speak of his own noble deeds; yet he ran out of his square and pulled my father and uncle almost from under the hoofs132 of the French cavalry133 at Waterloo. It makes my cheeks tingle134 to tell of it now.”
Indeed it did. Sam thought that if it brought such a beautiful flush to her face, and such a flash from her eyes, whenever she told it, that he would get her to tell it again more than once.
But lunch! Don’t let us starve our new pair of turtle-doves, in the outset. Sam is but a growing lad; and needs carbon for his muscles, lime for his bones, and all that sort of thing; a glass of wine won’t do him any harm either, and let us hope that his new passion is not of such lamentable135 sort as to prevent his using a knife and fork with credit and satisfaction to himself.
Here, in the dark, cool parlour, stands a banquet for the gods, white damask, pretty bright china, and clean silver. In the corner of the table is a frosted claret-jug, standing, with freezing politeness, upright, his hand on his hip7, waiting to be poured out. In the centre, the grandfather of watermelons, half-hidden by peaches and pomegranates, the whole heaped over by a confusion of ruby136 cherries (oh, for Lance to paint it!) Are you hungry, though? If so, here is a mould of potted-head and a cold wild duck, while, on the sideboard, I see a bottle of pale ale. My brother, let us breakfast in Scotland, lunch in Australia, and dine in France, till our lives’ end.
And the banquet being over, she said, as pleasantly as possible, “Now, I know you want to smoke in the verandah. For my part, I should like to bring my work there and sit with you, but, if you had rather not have me, you have only to say that ‘you could not think,’ &c. &c., and I will obediently take myself off.”
But Sam didn’t say that. He said that he couldn’t conceive anything more delightful137, if she was quite sure she did not mind.
Not she, indeed! So she brought her work out, and they sat together. A cool wind came up, bending the flowers, swinging the creepers to and fro, and raising a rushing sound, like the sea, from the distant forest. The magpie having been down the garden when the wind came on, and having been blown over, soon joined them in a very captious138 frame of mind; and, when Alice dropped a ball of red worsted, he seized it as lawful139 prize, and away in the house with a hop11 and a flutter. So both Sam and Alice had to go after him, and hunt him under the sofa, and the bird, finding that he must yield, dropped the ball suddenly, and gave Sam two vicious digs on the fingers to remember him by. But when Alice just touched his hand in taking it from him, he wished it had been a whipsnake instead of a magpie.
So the ball of worsted was recovered, and they sat down again. He watched her nimble fingers on the delicate embroidery140; he glanced at her quiet face and down-turned eyelids141, wondering who she was thinking of. Suddenly she raised her eyes and caught him in the fact. You could not swear she blushed; it might only be a trifling142 reflection from one of the red China roses that hung between her and the sun; yet, when she spoke, it was not quite with her usual self-possession; a little hurriedly perhaps.
“Are you going to be a soldier, as your father was?”
Sam had thought for an instant of saying “yes,” and then to prove his words true of going to Sydney, and enlisting143 in the “Half Hundred.” Truth, however, prompting him to say “no,” he compromised the matter by saying he had not thought of it.
“I am rather glad of that, do you know,” she said. “Unless in India, now, a man had better be anything than a soldier. I am afraid my brother Jim will be begging for a commission some day. I wish he would stay quietly at home.”
That was comforting. He gave up all thoughts of enlisting at once. But now the afternoon shadows were beginning to slant144 longer and longer, and it was nearly time that the Captain and Jim should make their appearance. So Alice proposed to walk out to meet them, and, as Sam did not say no, they went forth together.
Down the garden, faint with the afternoon scents145 of the flowers before the western sun, among petunias146 and roses, oleander and magnolia; here a towering Indian lily, there a thicket147 of scarlet148 geranium and fuschia. By shady young orange trees, covered with fruit and blossom, between rows of trellissed vines, bearing rich promise of a purple vintage. Among fig149 trees and pomegranates, and so leaving the garden, along the dry slippery grass, towards the hoarse150 rushing river, both silent till they reached it. There is a silence that is golden.
They stood gazing on the foaming151 tide an instant, and then Alice said —
“My father and Sam will come home by the track across there. Shall we cross and meet them? We can get over just below.”
A little lower down, all the river was collected into one headlong race; and a giant tree, undermined by winter floods, had fallen from one bank to the other, offering a giddy footway across the foaming water.
“Now,” said Alice, “if you will go over, I will follow you.”
So he ran across, and then looked back to see the beautiful figure tripping fearlessly over, with outstretched arms, and held out his great brown hand to take her tiny fingers as she stepped down from the upturned roots on to the soft white sand. He would like to have taken them again, to help her up the bank, but she sprang up like a deer, and would not give him the opportunity. Then they had a merry laugh at the magpie, who had fluttered down all this way before them, to see if they were on a foraging152 expedition, and if there were any plunder153 going, and now could not summon courage to cross the river, but stood crooning and cursing by the brink154. Then they sauntered away, side by side, along the sandy track, among the knolls155 of braken, with the sunlit boughs156 whispering knowingly to one another in the evening breeze as they passed beneath. — An evening walk long remembered by both of them.
“Oh see ye not that pleasant road,
That winds along the ferny brae?
Oh that’s the road to fairy land,
Where thou and I this e’en must gae.”
“And so you cannot remember England, Mr. Buckley?” says Alice.
“Oh dear, no. Stay though, I am speaking too fast. I can remember some few places. I remember a steep, red road, that led up to the church, and have some dim recollection of a vast grey building, with a dark porch, which must have been the church itself. I can see too, at this moment, a broad green flat, beside a creek157, which was covered with yellow and purple flowers, which mother and I made into nosegays. That must be the place my father speaks of as the Hatherleigh Meadows, where he used to go fishing, and, although I must have been there often, yet I can only remember it on one occasion, when he emptied out a basket of fish on the grass for me to look at. My impression of England is, that everything was of a brighter colour than here; and they tell me I am right.”
“A glorious country,” said Alice; “what would I give to see it? — so ancient and venerable, and yet so amazingly young and vigorous. It seems like a waste of existence for a man to stay here tending sheep, when his birthright is that of an Englishman: the right to move among his peers, and find his fit place in the greatest empire in the world. Never had any woman such a noble destiny before her as this young lady who has just ascended158 the throne.”
But the conversation changed here, and her Majesty escaped criticism for the time. They came to an open space in the forest, thickly grown with thickets159 of bracken fern, prickly acacia, and here and there a solitary160 dark-foliaged lightwood. In the centre rose a few blackened posts, the supports of what had once been a hut, and as you looked, you were surprised to see an English rose or two, flowering among the dull-coloured prickly shrubs, which were growing around. A place, as any casual traveller would have guessed, which had a history, and Sam, seeing Alice pause, asked her, “what old hut was this?”
“This,” she said, “is the Donovans’ old station, where they were burnt out by the blacks.”
Sam knew the story well enough, but he would like to hear her tell it; so he made believe to have heard some faint reports of the occurrence, and what could she do, but give him the particulars?
“They had not been here a year,” she said; “and Mrs. Donovan had been confined only three days; there was not a soul on the station but herself, her son Murtagh, and Miss Burke. All day the blackfellows were prowling about, and getting more and more insolent161, and at night, just as Murtagh shut the door, they raised their yell, and rushed against it. Murtagh Donovan and Miss Burke had guessed what was coming all day, but had kept it from the sick woman, and now, when the time came, they were cool and prepared. They had two double-barrelled guns loaded with slugs, and with these they did such fearful execution from two loop-holes they had made in the slabs162, that the savages163 quickly retired; but poor Miss Burke, incautiously looking out to get a shot, received a spear wound on her shoulder, which she bears the mark of to this day. But the worst was to come. The blackfellows mounted on the roof, tried to take off the bark, and throw their spears into the hut, but here they were foiled again. Wherever a sheet of bark was seen to move they watched, and on the first appearance of an enemy, a charge of shot at a few yards’ distance told with deadly effect. Mrs. Donovan, who lay in bed and saw the whole, told my father that Lesbia Burke loaded and fired with greater rapidity and precision than her cousin. A noble woman, I say.”
“Good old Lesbia!” said Sam; “and how did it end?”
“Why, the foolish blacks fired the woolshed, and brought the Delisles upon them; they tried to fire the roof of the hut, but it was raining too hard; otherwise it would have gone hard with poor Miss Burke. See, here is a peach-tree they planted, covered with fruit; let us gather some; it is pretty good, for the Donovans have kept it pruned164 in memory of their escape.”
“But the hut was not burnt,” said Sam; “where did it stand?”
“That pile of earth there, is the remains165 of the old turf chimney. They moved across the river after it happened.”
But peaches, when they grow on a high tree, must be climbed for, particularly if a young and pretty girl expresses a wish for them. And so it fell out, that Sam was soon astride of one of the lower boughs, throwing the fruit down to Alice, who put them one by one into the neatest conceivable little basket that hung on her arm.
And so they were employed, busy and merry, when they heard a loud cheery voice, which made both of them start.
“Quite a scene from ‘Paradise Lost,’ I declare; only Eve ought to be up the tree handing down the apples to Adam, and not VICE75 VERSA. I miss a carpet snake, too, who would represent the D— — and make the thing complete. — Sam Buckley, how are you?”
It was Captain Brentwood who had come on them so inaudibly along the sandy track, on horseback, and beside him was son Jim, looking rather mischievously166 at Sam, who did not show to the best of advantage up in the peach-tree; but, having descended167, and greetings being exchanged, father and son rode on to dress for dinner, the hour for which was now approaching, leaving Sam and Alice to follow at leisure, which they did; for Captain Brentwood and Jim had time to dress and meet in the verandah, before they saw the pair come sauntering up the garden.
“Father,” said Jim, taking the Captain’s hand. “How would that do?”
“Marvellous well, I should say;” replied the Captain.
“And so I think, too,” said Jim. “Hallo! you two; dinner is ready, so look sharp.”
After dinner the Captain retired silently to the chimney-corner, and read his book, leaving the three young people to amuse themselves as they would. Nothing the Captain liked so much as quiet, while he read some abstruse168 work on Gunnery, or some scientific voyage; but I am sorry to say he had got very little quiet of an evening since Alice came home, and Jim had got some one to chatter169 to. This evening, however, seemed to promise well, for Alice brought out a great book of coloured prints, and the three sat down to turn them over, Jim of course, you know, being in the middle.
The book was “Wild Sports of the East,” a great volume of coloured lithographs170, worth some five-andtwenty guineas. One never sees such books as that now-a-days, somehow; people, I fancy, would not pay that price for them. What modern travels have such plates as the old editions of “Cook’s Voyages”? The number of illustrated172 books is increased tenfold, but they are hardly improved in quality.
But Sam, I think, would have considered any book beautiful in such company. “This,” said Alice, “is what we call the ‘Tiger Book’— why, you will see directly. — You turn over, Jim, and don’t crease173 the pages.”
So Jim turned over, and kept them laughing by his simple remarks, more often affected174 than real, I suspect. Now they went through the tangled jungle, and seemed to hear the last mad howl of the dying tiger, as the elephant knelt and pinned him to the ground with his tusks175. Now they chased a lordly buffalo176 from his damp lair177 in the swamp; now they saw the English officers flying along on their Arabs through the high grass with well-poised spears after the snorting hog171. They have come unexpectedly on a terrible old tiger; one of the horses swerves178, and a handsome young man, losing his seat, seems just falling into the monster’s jaws, while the pariah179 dogs scud180 away terrified through the grass.
“That chap will be eaten immediately,” says Jim.
“He has been in that position ever since I can remember,” says Alice; “so I think he is pretty safe.”
Now they are with the British army on the march. A scarlet bar stretches across the plain, of which the further end is lost in the white mirage181 — all in order, walking irresistibly182 on to the conquest of an empire greater than Haroun Al Raschid’s, so naturally done, that as you look, you think you see the columns swing as they advance, and hear the heavy, weary tramp of the troops above the din15 and shouting of the cloud of camp-followers, on camels and elephants, which surrounds them. Beyond the plain the faint blue hills pierce the grey air, barred with a few long white clouds, and far away a gleaming river winds through a golden country, spanned with long bridges, and fringed with many a fantastic minaret183.
“How I should like to see that!” said Alice.
“Would you like to be a countess,” said Jim, “and ride on an elephant in a howitzer?”
“Howdah, you goose!” said Alice. “Besides, that is not a countess; that is one of the soldiers’ wives. Countesses don’t go to India; they stay at home to mind the Queen’s clothes.”
“What a pleasant job for them,” said Jim, “when her Most Gracious Majesty has got the toothache! I wonder whether she wears her crown under her bonnet184 or over it?”
Captain Brentwood looked up. “My dear boy,” he said, “does it not strike you that you are talking nonsense?”
“Did you ever see the old King, father?” said Jim.
“I saw King George the Third many times.”
“Ah, but I mean to speak to him.”
“Once only, and then he was mad. He was sitting up with her Majesty, waiting for intelligence which I brought. His Royal Highness took the despatches from me, but the King insisted on seeing me.”
“And what did he say, father? Do tell us,” said Alice eagerly.
“Little enough, my love,” said the Captain, leaning back. “He asked, ‘Is this the officer who brought the despatches, York?’ And his Royal Highness said ‘Yes.’ Then the King said, ‘You bring good news, sir; I was going to ask you some questions, but they are all gone out of my head. Go and get your supper; get your supper, sir.’ Poor old gentleman. He was a kindly185 old man, and I had a great respect for him. Alice, sing us a song, my love.”
She sang them “The Burial of Sir John Moore” with such perfect taste and pathos186 that Sam felt as if the candle had gone out when she finished. Then she turned round and said to him, “You ought to like that song; your father was one of the actors in it.”
“He has often told me the story,” said Sam, “but I never knew what a beautiful one it was till I heard you sing it.”
All pleasant evenings must end, and at last she rose to go to bed. But Sam, before he went off to the land of happy dreams, saw that the little white glove which he had noticed in the morning was lying neglected on the floor; so he quietly secured and kept it. And, last year, opening his family Bible to refer to certain entries, now pretty numerous, in the beginning; I found a little white glove pinned to the fly-leaf, which I believe to be the same glove here spoken of.
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1
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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cracker
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| n.（无甜味的）薄脆饼干 | |
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hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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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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buck
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| n.雄鹿，雄兔；v.马离地跳跃 | |
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eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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quartz
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| n.石英 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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30
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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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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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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spouting
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| n.水落管系统v.（指液体）喷出( spout的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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volcanic
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| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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fluted
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| a.有凹槽的 | |
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brawling
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| n.争吵，喧嚷 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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47
windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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52
growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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53
growls
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的第三人称单数 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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54
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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55
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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58
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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59
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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61
prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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62
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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63
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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67
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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68
cleaves
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| v.劈开，剁开，割开( cleave的第三人称单数 ) | |
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69
cleave
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| v．(clave；cleaved)粘着，粘住；坚持；依恋 | |
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70
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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71
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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72
magpie
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| n.喜欢收藏物品的人，喜鹊，饶舌者 | |
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73
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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74
crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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75
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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76
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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77
waddling
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的现在分词 ) | |
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78
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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79
flop
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| n.失败(者)，扑通一声；vi.笨重地行动，沉重地落下 | |
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80
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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81
flea
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| n.跳蚤 | |
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82
descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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83
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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84
discredits
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| 使不相信( discredit的第三人称单数 )； 使怀疑； 败坏…的名声； 拒绝相信 | |
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85
ambushes
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| n.埋伏( ambush的名词复数 )；伏击；埋伏着的人；设埋伏点v.埋伏( ambush的第三人称单数 )；埋伏着 | |
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86
pounces
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的第三人称单数 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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87
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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88
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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89
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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90
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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91
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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92
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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93
hops
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| 跳上[下]( hop的第三人称单数 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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94
vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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95
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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96
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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97
accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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98
administrative
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| adj.行政的，管理的 | |
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99
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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100
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
gush
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| v.喷，涌；滔滔不绝(说话)；n.喷，涌流；迸发 | |
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102
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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103
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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104
scavenger
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| n.以腐尸为食的动物，清扫工 | |
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105
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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106
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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107
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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108
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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109
chronometer
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| n.精密的计时器 | |
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110
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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111
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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112
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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113
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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114
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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115
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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116
snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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117
squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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118
squats
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| n.蹲坐，蹲姿( squat的名词复数 )；被擅自占用的建筑物v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的第三人称单数 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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119
petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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120
whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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121
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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122
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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123
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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124
shrillness
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| 尖锐刺耳 | |
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125
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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126
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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127
intrepid
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| adj.无畏的，刚毅的 | |
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128
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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129
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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130
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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131
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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132
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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133
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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134
tingle
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| vi.感到刺痛，感到激动；n.刺痛，激动 | |
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135
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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136
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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137
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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138
captious
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| adj.难讨好的，吹毛求疵的 | |
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139
lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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140
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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141
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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142
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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143
enlisting
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| v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的现在分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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144
slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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145
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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146
petunias
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| n.矮牵牛（花）( petunia的名词复数 ) | |
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147
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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148
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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149
fig
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| n.无花果(树) | |
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150
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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151
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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152
foraging
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| v.搜寻（食物），尤指动物觅（食）( forage的现在分词 )；（尤指用手）搜寻（东西） | |
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153
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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154
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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155
knolls
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| n.小圆丘，小土墩( knoll的名词复数 ) | |
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156
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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157
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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158
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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159
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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160
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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161
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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162
slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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163
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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164
pruned
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| v.修剪（树木等）( prune的过去式和过去分词 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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165
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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166
mischievously
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| adv.有害地；淘气地 | |
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167
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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168
abstruse
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| adj.深奥的，难解的 | |
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169
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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170
lithographs
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| n.平版印刷品( lithograph的名词复数 ) | |
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171
hog
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| n.猪；馋嘴贪吃的人；vt.把…占为己有，独占 | |
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172
illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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173
crease
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| n.折缝，褶痕，皱褶；v.(使)起皱 | |
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174
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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175
tusks
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| n.（象等动物的）长牙( tusk的名词复数 )；獠牙；尖形物；尖头 | |
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176
buffalo
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| n.(北美)野牛；(亚洲)水牛 | |
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177
lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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178
swerves
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| n.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的名词复数 )v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的第三人称单数 ) | |
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179
pariah
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| n.被社会抛弃者 | |
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180
scud
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| n.疾行；v.疾行 | |
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181
mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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182
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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183
minaret
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| n.（回教寺院的）尖塔 | |
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184
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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185
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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186
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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