My Dear Colvin, — This is a hard and interesting and beautiful life that we lead now. Our place is in a deep cleft1 of Vaea Mountain, some six hundred feet above the sea, embowered in forest, which is our strangling enemy, and which we combat with axes and dollars. I went crazy over outdoor work, and had at last to confine myself to the house, or literature must have gone by the board. Nothing is so interesting as weeding, clearing, and path-making; the oversight3 of labourers becomes a disease; it is quite an effort not to drop into the farmer; and it does make you feel so well. To come down covered with mud and drenched4 with sweat and rain after some hours in the bush, change, rub down, and take a chair in the verandah, is to taste a quiet conscience. And the strange thing that I mark is this: If I go out and make sixpence, bossing my labourers and plying5 the cutlass or the spade, idiot conscience applauds me; if I sit in the house and make twenty pounds, idiot conscience wails6 over my neglect and the day wasted. For near a fortnight I did not go beyond the verandah; then I found my rush of work run out, and went down for the night to Apia; put in Sunday afternoon with our consul7, ‘a nice young man,’ dined with my friend H. J. Moors8 in the evening, went to church — no less — at the white and half-white church — I had never been before, and was much interested; the woman I sat next looked a full-blood native, and it was in the prettiest and readiest English that she sang the hymns9; back to Moors’, where we yarned10 of the islands, being both wide wanderers, till bed-time; bed, sleep, breakfast, horse saddled; round to the mission, to get Mr. Clarke to be my interpreter; over with him to the King’s, whom I have not called on since my return; received by that mild old gentleman; have some interesting talk with him about Samoan superstitions11 and my land — the scene of a great battle in his (Malietoa Laupepa’s) youth — the place which we have cleared the platform of his fort — the gulley of the stream full of dead bodies — the fight rolled off up Vaea mountain-side; back with Clarke to the Mission; had a bit of lunch and consulted over a queer point of missionary13 policy just arisen, about our new Town Hall and the balls there — too long to go into, but a quaint14 example of the intricate questions which spring up daily in the missionary path.
Then off up the hill; Jack15 very fresh, the sun (close on noon) staring hot, the breeze very strong and pleasant; the ineffable16 green country all round — gorgeous little birds (I think they are humming birds, but they say not) skirmishing in the wayside flowers. About a quarter way up I met a native coming down with the trunk of a cocoa palm across his shoulder; his brown breast glittering with sweat and oil: ‘Talofa’ — ‘Talofa, alii — You see that white man? He speak for you.’ ‘White man he gone up here?’ — ‘Ioe (Yes)’ — ‘Tofa, alii’ — ‘Tofa, soifua!’ I put on Jack up the steep path, till he is all as white as shaving stick — Brown’s euxesis, wish I had some — past Tanugamanono, a bush village — see into the houses as I pass — they are open sheds scattered17 on a green — see the brown folk sitting there, suckling kids, sleeping on their stiff wooden pillows — then on through the wood path — and here I find the mysterious white man (poor devil!) with his twenty years’ certificate of good behaviour as a book-keeper, frozen out by the strikes in the colonies, come up here on a chance, no work to be found, big hotel bill, no ship to leave in — and come up to beg twenty dollars because he heard I was a Scotchman, offering to leave his portmanteau in pledge. Settle this, and on again; and here my house comes in view, and a war whoop18 fetches my wife and Henry (or Simele), our Samoan boy, on the front balcony; and I am home again, and only sorry that I shall have to go down again to Apia this day week. I could, and would, dwell here unmoved, but there are things to be attended to.
Never say I don’t give you details and news. That is a picture of a letter.
I have been hard at work since I came; three chapters of The Wrecker, and since that, eight of the South Sea book, and, along and about and in between, a hatful of verses. Some day I’ll send the verse to you, and you’ll say if any of it is any good. I have got in a better vein19 with the South Sea book, as I think you will see; I think these chapters will do for the volume without much change. Those that I did in the Janet Nicoll, under the most ungodly circumstances, I fear will want a lot of suppling20 and lightening, but I hope to have your remarks in a month or two upon that point. It seems a long while since I have heard from you. I do hope you are well. I am wonderful, but tired from so much work; ’tis really immense what I have done; in the South Sea book I have fifty pages copied fair, some of which has been four times, and all twice written, certainly fifty pages of solid scriving inside a fortnight, but I was at it by seven a.m. till lunch, and from two till four or five every day; between whiles, verse and blowing on the flageolet; never outside. If you could see this place! but I don’t want any one to see it till my clearing is done, and my house built. It will be a home for angels.
So far I wrote after my bit of dinner, some cold meat and bananas, on arrival. Then out to see where Henry and some of the men were clearing the garden; for it was plain there was to be no work today indoors, and I must set in consequence to farmering. I stuck a good while on the way up, for the path there is largely my own handiwork, and there were a lot of sprouts21 and saplings and stones to be removed. Then I reached our clearing just where the streams join in one; it had a fine autumn smell of burning, the smoke blew in the woods, and the boys were pretty merry and busy. Now I had a private design:-
[Map which cannot be reproduced]
The Vaita’e I had explored pretty far up; not yet the other stream, the Vaituliga (g=nasal n, as ng in sing); and up that, with my wood knife, I set off alone. It is here quite dry; it went through endless woods; about as broad as a Devonshire lane, here and there crossed by fallen trees; huge trees overhead in the sun, dripping lianas and tufted with orchids22, tree ferns, ferns depending with air roots from the steep banks, great arums — I had not skill enough to say if any of them were the edible24 kind, one of our staples26 here! — hundreds of bananas — another staple25 — and alas27! I had skill enough to know all of these for the bad kind that bears no fruit. My Henry moralised over this the other day; how hard it was that the bad banana flourished wild, and the good must be weeded and tended; and I had not the heart to tell him how fortunate they were here, and how hungry were other lands by comparison. The ascent28 of this lovely lane of my dry stream filled me with delight. I could not but be reminded of old Mayne Reid, as I have been more than once since I came to the tropics; and I thought, if Reid had been still living, I would have written to tell him that, for, me, it had come true; and I thought, forbye, that, if the great powers go on as they are going, and the Chief Justice delays, it would come truer still; and the war-conch will sound in the hills, and my home will be inclosed in camps, before the year is ended. And all at once — mark you, how Mayne Reid is on the spot — a strange thing happened. I saw a liana stretch across the bed of the brook29 about breast-high, swung up my knife to sever30 it, and — behold31, it was a wire! On either hand it plunged32 into thick bush; tomorrow I shall see where it goes and get a guess perhaps of what it means. To-day I know no more than — there it is. A little higher the brook began to trickle33, then to fill. At last, as I meant to do some work upon the homeward trail, it was time to turn. I did not return by the stream; knife in hand, as long as my endurance lasted, I was to cut a path in the congested bush.
At first it went ill with me; I got badly stung as high as the elbows by the stinging plant; I was nearly hung in a tough liana — a rotten trunk giving way under my feet; it was deplorable bad business. And an axe2 — if I dared swing one — would have been more to the purpose than my cutlass. Of a sudden things began to go strangely easier; I found stumps34, bushing out again; my body began to wonder, then my mind; I raised my eyes and looked ahead; and, by George, I was no longer pioneering, I had struck an old track overgrown, and was restoring an old path. So I laboured till I was in such a state that Carolina Wilhelmina Skeggs could scarce have found a name for it. Thereon desisted; returned to the stream; made my way down that stony35 track to the garden, where the smoke was still hanging and the sun was still in the high tree-tops, and so home. Here, fondly supposing my long day was over, I rubbed down; exquisite36 agony; water spreads the poison of these weeds; I got it all over my hands, on my chest, in my eyes, and presently, while eating an orange, a la Raratonga, burned my lip and eye with orange juice. Now, all day, our three small pigs had been adrift, to the mortal peril37 of our corn, lettuce38, onions, etc., and as I stood smarting on the back verandah, behold the three piglings issuing from the wood just opposite. Instantly I got together as many boys as I could — three, and got the pigs penned against the rampart of the sty, till the others joined; whereupon we formed a cordon39, closed, captured the deserters, and dropped them, squeaking40 amain, into their strengthened barracks where, please God, they may now stay!
Perhaps you may suppose the day now over; you are not the head of a plantation41, my juvenile42 friend. Politics succeeded: Henry got adrift in his English, Bene was too cowardly to tell me what he was after: result, I have lost seven good labourers, and had to sit down and write to you to keep my temper. Let me sketch43 my lads. — Henry — Henry has gone down to town or I could not be writing to you — this were the hour of his English lesson else, when he learns what he calls ‘long expessions’ or ‘your chief’s language’ for the matter of an hour and a half — Henry is a chiefling from Savaii; I once loathed44, I now like and — pending23 fresh discoveries — have a kind of respect for Henry. He does good work for us; goes among the labourers, bossing and watching; helps Fanny; is civil, kindly45, thoughtful; O si sic semper! But will he be ‘his sometime self throughout the year’? Anyway, he has deserved of us, and he must disappoint me sharply ere I give him up. — Bene — or Peni-Ben, in plain English — is supposed to be my ganger; the Lord love him! God made a truckling coward, there is his full history. He cannot tell me what he wants; he dares not tell me what is wrong; he dares not transmit my orders or translate my censures46. And with all this, honest, sober, industrious48, miserably49 smiling over the miserable50 issue of his own unmanliness. — Paul — a German — cook and steward51 — a glutton52 of work — a splendid fellow; drawbacks, three: (1) no cook; (2) an inveterate53 bungler54; a man with twenty thumbs, continually falling in the dishes, throwing out the dinner, preserving the garbage; (3) a dr-, well, don’t let us say that — but we daren’t let him go to town, and he — poor, good soul — is afraid to be let go. — Lafaele (Raphael), a strong, dull, deprecatory man; splendid with an axe, if watched; the better for a rowing, when he calls me ‘Papa’ in the most wheedling55 tones; desperately56 afraid of ghosts, so that he dare not walk alone up in the banana patch — see map. The rest are changing labourers; and to-night, owing to the miserable cowardice57 of Peni, who did not venture to tell me what the men wanted — and which was no more than fair — all are gone — and my weeding in the article of being finished! Pity the sorrows of a planter.
I am, Sir, yours, and be jowned to you, The Planter,
R. L. S.
Tuesday 3rd
I begin to see the whole scheme of letter-writing; you sit down every day and pour out an equable stream of twaddle.
This morning all my fears were fled, and all the trouble had fallen to the lot of Peni himself, who deserved it; my field was full of weeders; and I am again able to justify58 the ways of God. All morning I worked at the South Seas, and finished the chapter I had stuck upon on Saturday. Fanny, awfully59 hove-to with rheumatics and injuries received upon the field of sport and glory, chasing pigs, was unable to go up and down stairs, so she sat upon the back verandah, and my work was chequered by her cries. ‘Paul, you take a spade to do that — dig a hole first. If you do that, you’ll cut your foot off! Here, you boy, what you do there? You no get work? You go find Simele; he give you work. Peni, you tell this boy he go find Simele; suppose Simele no give him work, you tell him go ‘way. I no want him here. That boy no good.’ — Peni (from the distance in reassuring60 tones), ‘All right, sir!’ — Fanny (after a long pause), ‘Peni, you tell that boy go find Simele! I no want him stand here all day. I no pay that boy. I see him all day. He no do nothing.’ — Luncheon61, beef, soda-scones, fried bananas, pine-apple in claret, coffee. Try to write a poem; no go. Play the flageolet. Then sneakingly off to farmering and pioneering. Four gangs at work on our place; a lively scene; axes crashing and smoke blowing; all the knives are out. But I rob the garden party of one without a stock, and you should see my hand — cut to ribbons. Now I want to do my path up the Vaituliga single-handed, and I want it to burst on the public complete. Hence, with devilish ingenuity62, I begin it at different places; so that if you stumble on one section, you may not even then suspect the fulness of my labours. Accordingly, I started in a new place, below the wire, and hoping to work up to it. It was perhaps lucky I had so bad a cutlass, and my smarting hand bid me stay before I had got up to the wire, but just in season, so that I was only the better of my activity, not dead beat as yesterday.
A strange business it was, and infinitely63 solitary64; away above, the sun was in the high tree-tops; the lianas noosed65 and sought to hang me; the saplings struggled, and came up with that sob47 of death that one gets to know so well; great, soft, sappy trees fell at a lick of the cutlass, little tough switches laughed at and dared my best endeavour. Soon, toiling66 down in that pit of verdure, I heard blows on the far side, and then laughter. I confess a chill settled on my heart.
Being so dead alone, in a place where by rights none should be beyond me, I was aware, upon interrogation, if those blows had drawn67 nearer, I should (of course quite unaffectedly) have executed a strategic movement to the rear; and only the other day I was lamenting68 my insensibility to superstition12! Am I beginning to be sucked in? Shall I become a midnight twitterer like my neighbours? At times I thought the blows were echoes; at times I thought the laughter was from birds. For our birds are strangely human in their calls. Vaea mountain about sundown sometimes rings with shrill69 cries, like the hails of merry, scattered children. As a matter of fact, I believe stealthy wood-cutters from Tanugamanono were above me in the wood and answerable for the blows; as for the laughter, a woman and two children had come and asked Fanny’s leave to go up shrimp-fishing in the burn; beyond doubt, it was these I heard. Just at the right time I returned; to wash down, change, and begin this snatch of letter before dinner was ready, and to finish it afterwards, before Henry has yet put in an appearance for his lesson in ‘long explessions.’
Dinner: stewed70 beef and potatoes, baked bananas, new loaf-bread hot from the oven, pine-apple in claret. These are great days; we have been low in the past; but now are we as belly-gods, enjoying all things.
Wednesday. (Hist. Vailima resumed.)
A gorgeous evening of after-glow in the great tree-tops and behind the mountain, and full moon over the lowlands and the sea, inaugurated a night of horrid71 cold. To you effete72 denizens73 of the so-called temperate74 zone, it had seemed nothing; neither of us could sleep; we were up seeking extra coverings, I know not at what hour — it was as bright as day. The moon right over Vaea — near due west, the birds strangely silent, and the wood of the house tingling75 with cold; I believe it must have been 60 degrees! Consequence; Fanny has a headache and is wretched, and I could do no work. (I am trying all round for a place to hold my pen; you will hear why later on; this to explain penmanship.) I wrote two pages, very bad, no movement, no life or interest; then I wrote a business letter; then took to tootling on the flageolet, till glory should call me farmering.
I took up at the fit time Lafaele and Mauga — Mauga, accent on the first, is a mountain, I don’t know what Mauga means — mind what I told you of the value of g — to the garden, and set them digging, then turned my attention to the path. I could not go into my bush path for two reasons: 1st, sore hands; 2nd, had on my trousers and good shoes. Lucky it was. Right in the wild lime hedge which cuts athwart us just homeward of the garden, I found a great bed of kuikui — sensitive plant — our deadliest enemy. A fool brought it to this island in a pot, and used to lecture and sentimentalise over the tender thing. The tender thing has now taken charge of this island, and men fight it, with torn hands, for bread and life. A singular, insidious76 thing, shrinking and biting like a weasel; clutching by its roots as a limpet clutches to a rock. As I fought him, I bettered some verses in my poem, the Woodman; the only thought I gave to letters. Though the kuikui was thick, there was but a small patch of it, and when I was done I attacked the wild lime, and had a hand-to-hand skirmish with its spines77 and elastic78 suckers. All this time, close by, in the cleared space of the garden, Lafaele and Mauga were digging. Suddenly quoth Lafaele, ‘Somebody he sing out.’ — ‘Somebody he sing out? All right. I go.’ And I went and found they had been whistling and ‘singing out’ for long, but the fold of the hill and the uncleared bush shuts in the garden so that no one heard, and I was late for dinner, and Fanny’s headache was cross; and when the meal was over, we had to cut up a pineapple which was going bad, to make jelly of; and the next time you have a handful of broken blood-blisters, apply pine-apple juice, and you will give me news of it, and I request a specimen79 of your hand of write five minutes after — the historic moment when I tackled this history. My day so far.
Fanny was to have rested. Blessed Paul began making a duck-house; she let him be; the duck-house fell down, and she had to set her hand to it. He was then to make a drinking-place for the pigs; she let him be again — he made a stair by which the pigs will probably escape this evening, and she was near weeping. Impossible to blame the indefatigable80 fellow; energy is too rare and goodwill81 too noble a thing to discourage; but it’s trying when she wants a rest. Then she had to cook the dinner; then, of course — like a fool and a woman — must wait dinner for me, and make a flurry of herself. Her day so far. Cetera adhuc desunt.
Friday — I think.
I have been too tired to add to this chronicle, which will at any rate give you some guess of our employment. All goes well; the kuikui — (think of this mispronunciation having actually infected me to the extent of misspelling! tuitui is the word by rights) — the tuitui is all out of the paddock — a fenced park between the house and boundary; Peni’s men start today on the road; the garden is part burned, part dug; and Henry, at the head of a troop of underpaid assistants, is hard at work clearing. The part clearing you will see from the map; from the house run down to the stream side, up the stream nearly as high as the garden; then back to the star which I have just added to the map.
My long, silent contests in the forest have had a strange effect on me. The unconcealed vitality82 of these vegetables, their exuberant83 number and strength, the attempts — I can use no other word — of lianas to enwrap and capture the intruder, the awful silence, the knowledge that all my efforts are only like the performance of an actor, the thing of a moment, and the wood will silently and swiftly heal them up with fresh effervescence; the cunning sense of the tuitui, suffering itself to be touched with wind-swayed grasses and not minding — but let the grass be moved by a man, and it shuts up; the whole silent battle, murder, and slow death of the contending forest; weigh upon the imagination. My poem the Woodman stands; but I have taken refuge in a new story, which just shot through me like a bullet in one of my moments of awe84, alone in that tragic85 jungle:-
The High Woods of Ulufanua.
1. A South Sea Bridal.
2. Under the Ban.
3. Savao and Faavao.
4. Cries in the High Wood.
5. Rumour86 full of Tongues.
6. The Hour of Peril.
7. The Day of Vengeance87.
It is very strange, very extravagant88, I daresay; but it’s varied89, and picturesque90, and has a pretty love affair, and ends well. Ulufanua is a lovely Samoan word, ulu=grove; fanua=land; grove-land — ‘the tops of the high trees.’ Savao, ‘sacred to the wood,’ and Faavao, ‘wood-ways,’ are the names of two of the characters, Ulufanua the name of the supposed island.
I am very tired, and rest off today from all but letters. Fanny is quite done up; she could not sleep last night, something it seemed like asthma91 — I trust not. I suppose Lloyd will be about, so you can give him the benefit of this long scrawl92. Never say that I can’t write a letter, say that I don’t. — Yours ever, my dearest fellow,
R. L. S.
Later on Friday.
The guid wife had bread to bake, and she baked it in a pan, O! But between whiles she was down with me weeding sensitive in the paddock. The men have but now passed over it; I was round in that very place to see the weeding was done thoroughly93, and already the reptile94 springs behind our heels. Tuitui is a truly strange beast, and gives food for thought. I am nearly sure — I cannot yet be quite, I mean to experiment, when I am less on the hot chase of the beast — that, even at the instant he shrivels up his leaves, he strikes his prickles downward so as to catch the uprooting95 finger; instinctive96, say the gabies; but so is man’s impulse to strike out. One thing that takes and holds me is to see the strange variation in the propagation of alarm among these rooted beasts; at times it spreads to a radius97 (I speak by the guess of the eye) of five or six inches; at times only one individual plant appears frightened at a time. We tried how long it took one to recover; ’tis a sanguine98 creature; it is all abroad again before (I guess again) two minutes. It is odd how difficult in this world it is to be armed. The double armour99 of this plant betrays it. In a thick tuft, where the leaves disappear, I thrust in my hand, and the bite of the thorns betrays the topmost stem. In the open again, and when I hesitate if it be clover, a touch on the leaves, and its fine sense and retractile action betrays its identity at once. Yet it has one gift incomparable. Rome had virtue100 and knowledge; Rome perished. The sensitive plant has indigestible seeds — so they say — and it will flourish for ever. I give my advice thus to a young plant — have a strong root, a weak stem, and an indigestible seed; so you will outlast101 the eternal city, and your progeny102 will clothe mountains, and the irascible planter will blaspheme in vain. The weak point of tuitui is that its stem is strong.
Supplementary103 Page.
Here beginneth the third lesson, which is not from the planter but from a less estimable character, the writer of books.
I want you to understand about this South Sea Book. The job is immense; I stagger under material. I have seen the first big tache. It was necessary to see the smaller ones; the letters were at my hand for the purpose, but I was not going to lose this experience; and, instead of writing mere104 letters, have poured out a lot of stuff for the book. How this works and fits, time is to show. But I believe, in time, I shall get the whole thing in form. Now, up to date, that is all my design, and I beg to warn you till we have the whole (or much) of the stuff together, you can hardly judge — and I can hardly judge. Such a mass of stuff is to be handled, if possible without repetition — so much foreign matter to be introduced — if possible with perspicuity105 — and, as much as can be, a spirit of narrative106 to be preserved. You will find that come stronger as I proceed, and get the explanations worked through. Problems of style are (as yet) dirt under my feet; my problem is architectural, creative — to get this stuff jointed107 and moving. If I can do that, I will trouble you for style; anybody might write it, and it would be splendid; well-engineered, the masses right, the blooming thing travelling — twig108?
This I wanted you to understand, for lots of the stuff sent home is, I imagine, rot — and slovenly109 rot — and some of it pompous110 rot; and I want you to understand it’s a lay-in.
Soon, if the tide of poeshie continues, I’ll send you a whole lot to damn. You never said thank-you for the handsome tribute addressed to you from Apemama; such is the gratitude111 of the world to the God-sent poick. Well, well:-
‘Vex not thou the poick’s mind,
With thy coriaceous ingratitude112,
The P. will be to your faults more than a little blind,
And yours is a far from handsome attitude.’
Having thus dropped into poetry in a spirit of friendship, I have the honour to subscribe113 myself, Sir,
Your obedient humble114 servant,
Silas Wegg.
I suppose by this you will have seen the lad — and his feet will have been in the Monument — and his eyes beheld115 the face of George. Well!
There is much eloquence116 in a well!
I am, Sir
Yours
The Epigrammatist
Robert Louis Stevenson
Finis — Explicit
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cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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oversight
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| n.勘漏，失察，疏忽 | |
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drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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plying
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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wails
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| 痛哭，哭声( wail的名词复数 ) | |
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consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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yarned
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| vi.讲故事（yarn的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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superstition
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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ineffable
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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whoop
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| n.大叫，呐喊，喘息声；v.叫喊，喘息 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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suppling
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sprouts
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| n.新芽，嫩枝( sprout的名词复数 )v.发芽( sprout的第三人称单数 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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22
orchids
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| n.兰花( orchid的名词复数 ) | |
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23
pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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24
edible
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| n.食品，食物；adj.可食用的 | |
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25
staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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26
staples
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| n.（某国的）主要产品( staple的名词复数 )；钉书钉；U 形钉；主要部份v.用钉书钉钉住( staple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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27
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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28
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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29
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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30
sever
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| v.切开，割开；断绝，中断 | |
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31
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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32
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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33
trickle
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| vi.淌，滴，流出，慢慢移动，逐渐消散 | |
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34
stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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35
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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36
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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37
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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38
lettuce
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| n.莴苣；生菜 | |
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39
cordon
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| n.警戒线，哨兵线 | |
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40
squeaking
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的现在分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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41
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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42
juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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43
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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44
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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45
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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46
censures
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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47
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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48
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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49
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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50
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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51
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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52
glutton
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| n.贪食者，好食者 | |
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53
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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54
Bungler
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| n.笨拙者，经验不够的人 | |
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55
wheedling
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的现在分词 ) | |
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56
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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57
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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58
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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59
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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60
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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61
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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62
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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63
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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64
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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65
noosed
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| v.绞索，套索( noose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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67
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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68
lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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69
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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70
stewed
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| adj.焦虑不安的，烂醉的v.炖( stew的过去式和过去分词 )；煨；思考；担忧 | |
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71
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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72
effete
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| adj.无生产力的，虚弱的 | |
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73
denizens
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| n.居民，住户( denizen的名词复数 ) | |
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74
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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75
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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76
insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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77
spines
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| n.脊柱( spine的名词复数 )；脊椎；（动植物的）刺；书脊 | |
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78
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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79
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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80
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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81
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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82
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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83
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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84
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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85
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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86
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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87
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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88
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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89
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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90
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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91
asthma
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| n.气喘病，哮喘病 | |
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92
scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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93
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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94
reptile
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| n.爬行动物；两栖动物 | |
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95
uprooting
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| n.倒根，挖除伐根v.把（某物）连根拔起( uproot的现在分词 )；根除；赶走；把…赶出家园 | |
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96
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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97
radius
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| n.半径，半径范围；有效航程，范围，界限 | |
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98
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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99
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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100
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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101
outlast
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| v.较…耐久 | |
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102
progeny
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| n.后代，子孙；结果 | |
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103
supplementary
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| adj.补充的，附加的 | |
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104
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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105
perspicuity
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| n.（文体的）明晰 | |
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106
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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107
jointed
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| 有接缝的 | |
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108
twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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109
slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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110
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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111
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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112
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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113
subscribe
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| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
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114
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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115
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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116
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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