They are excellently built, these national highways; the heaviest rain barely forms upon them a perceptible layer of mud. But one could pardon them a little unevenness6 of road-bed if only they would strike out for their goal with the dogged determination of our own axle-cracking turnpikes. They wind and ramble7 like mountain streams. They zigzag8 from village to village even in a level country. The least knoll9 seems to have been sufficient reason in the minds of the constructing engineers for making wide detours10, and where hills abound12, there are villages ten miles apart with twenty miles of tramping between them.
Thus far I had tramped the highways of Europe alone. Beyond Nemours, my second night’s resting-place, I came upon two wayfarers14 in the shelter of a giant oak, enjoying a regal repast of hard bread which they rendered more palatable15 by dipping each mouthful in a brook16 at their feet. On the plea of an ample breakfast I declined 27an invitation to share the feast, but our routes coincided and we passed on in company. The pair were young miners walking from Normandy to the great coal-fields of St. Etienne. Thanks to the free-masonry of “the road,” formalities were quickly forgotten, and before the first kilometer post rose up to greet us we were exchanging confidences in the familiar “tu” form. I soon added to my vocabulary the nickname of the French tramp. My new comrades not only addressed me as mon vieux, but greeted by that title every wayfarer we encountered, until it came to have as familiar a sound in my ears as the “Jack” of the American hobo. Its analogy to our “old man” is at once apparent.
There are stern laws in France against wandering from place to place. A lone13 traveler may sometimes escape attention, but well I knew that in trio we should often be called upon to give an account of ourselves. We were still some distance off from the first village beyond our meeting-place when an officer appeared at the door of the gendarmerie and, advancing into the highway, awaited our arrival.
“Où allez vous autres?” he demanded, with officious bruskness.
“A St. Etienne.”
“Et vos papiers?”
“Voilà!” cried the miners, each snatching from an inside pocket a small, flat book showing signs of age and hard usage.
The gendarme18 stuffed one of the volumes under an arm and fell to examining the other. Between its greasy19 covers was a complete biography of its owner. The first leaf bore his baptismal record, followed by a page for each of his three years of military service, all much decorated with official stamps and seals. Then came affidavits20 of apprenticeship21, variously endorsed22 and viséd, and last a page for every firm that had employed the miner, giving dates, wages, testimonials, and reasons for leaving or dismissal. The miner bore the scrutiny23 with fortitude24. With his official book at hand the French laborer25 has little dread27 of the officers of the law. After each term at his trade he may, if he sees fit to travel a bit, give variations of the old “looking-for-work” story, though as the date of his last employment grows more and more remote, the gendarmerie becomes an increasing obstacle.
Without some such document no one may tramp the highways of France. He who travels on foot for other reason than poverty, or who, being poor, will not make his way by begging, is an enigmatical 28being to any race but the Anglo-Saxon. To the French gendarme his mode of travel is proof absolute that he is a misérable sans-sous to whom every law against vagrancy28 must be strictly29 applied30.
The officer ended the examination of the books and handed them back with a gruff bien.
“Maintenant, les v?tres,” he growled31.
“Here it is,” I answered, ignoring the plurality of the French pronoun, and I drew from my pocket a general letter of introduction to our consular33 service, signed by the Secretary of State. The gendarme, who had expected another book, opened the paper with a perplexed34 air which increased to blank amazement36 when, instead of familiar French words, his eyes fell on a half-dozen lines of incomprehensible hieroglyphics37.
“Hein! Que diable!” he gasped38. “Qu’est-ce que c’est que ?a?”
“My passport,” I explained. “Je suis américain.”
“Ha! Américain! Diable! And that is really a passport? Never before have I seen one.”
It was not really a passport by any means. I had none. But monsieur le gendarme was in no position to dispute my word had I told him it was a patent of nobility.
“Very good,” he went on, “but you must have another paper. Foreign vagabonds cannot journey in France without a document to prove that they have worked.”
Here was a poser. It would have been easy to assert that I was a traveler and no workman, but it would have been still easier to guess where such an assertion would land me. I rubbed my unshaven chin in perplexity, then struck by a sudden inspiration, snatched from my bundle the cattle-boat discharge.
“Bah!” grumbled39 the officer, “more foreign gibberish! What is that vilaine langue the devil himself couldn’t read?”
“English,” I replied.
“Tiens, que c’est dr?le que cette machine-là,” he mused41, holding the paper out at arm’s length and scratching his head.
However, with some assistance he made out one date on the document, and, handing it back with a sigh of resignation, gave us leave to pass on.
“A propos!” he cried, before we had taken three steps, “what country did you say you come from?”
“America,” I answered.
29“L’Amérique! And being in America you come to France? Oh, mon Dieu, what idiocy42!” and waving his arms above his head he fled for the shade of his office.
The ways of my companions would have made them the laughing-stock of American roadsters. They looked forward to no three meals a day. The hope of a “set-down” never intruded43 upon their field of vision. In fact, they considered that the world was going very well with them if they collected sous enough for one or two lunches of bread and wine daily. Yet wine they would have, except for breakfast, or they refused to eat even bread. Like almost all who tramp any distance in France, they “played the merchant” and were surprised to find that I ventured along the highways of their country without doing likewise. That is, they carried over one shoulder a bundle containing shoe-strings, thread, needles, thimbles, and other articles in demand among rural housewives. The demand was really very light. They did make a two or three-sous sale here and there, but the market value of their wares44 was of least importance. By carrying them, the miners evaded45 the strict laws against vagrancy. Without the bundles they were beggars, with them they ranked as peddlers. The ruse46 deceived no one, not even the gendarme. But it satisfied the letter of the law.
Still engrossed47 in discussing the character of the officer who had delayed us, we reached a large farmhouse48. With one of the miners I lingered at the roadside. The other entered the dwelling49, ostensibly to display his wares. A moment later he emerged with a half-loaf of coarse peasant’s bread. Madame had needed nothing from his pack, but “she made me a present of this lump.”
It was while they were canvassing50 a village in quest of sales, or crusts, in the dusk of evening that I lost sight of the miners. I had passed the village inn, and, being always averse51 to retracing52 my steps, continued my way alone. Had I suspected the distance to the next hamlet, I might have been less eager to press on. Fully53 three hours later I stumbled into Les Bussières and, having walked sixty-nine kilometers, it was not strange that I slept late next morning. Besides, the day was Sunday, and what with satisfying the curiosity of a company of peasants in the wine-room and drinking the health of several of them, I did not set out until the day was well advanced. Beyond the village stretched the broad, white route, endless and deserted54. The long journey before me would have been less lonely in 30the company of the miners; but we had parted and I plodded56 on in solitude57, wondering when I should again fall in with so cheery a pair.
In passing a clump58 of trees at the roadside, I was suddenly roused from my revery by a shout of “Holà! L’américain!” What could have betrayed my nationality? I halted and stared about me. My eyes fell on the grove59 and I beheld60 my companions of the day before hastily gathering61 their possessions together.
We journeyed along as before, producing our papers at each village and being once stopped in the open country by a mounted gendarme. The miners played in poor luck all through the morning. A single sou and an aged62 quarter-loaf constituted their gleanings. Gaunt hunger was depicted63 on their countenances64 before we reached Briare in the early afternoon and, breaking the silence of an hour, I offered to stand the compte of a meal for three.
There was in Briare, as in every town in France larger than a hamlet, an inn the proprietor65 of which catered66 to the vagabond class. None but a native tramp could have found the establishment without repeated inquiries67; but the miners, needing no second invitation and guided by some peculiar68 instinct, led the way down a side street and into a squalid cul de sac. The most acute foreign eye would have seen only frowning back walls, but my companions pushed open the door of what looked like a deserted warehouse69 and we entered a low room, gloomy and unswept. Around the table, to which we made our way through a very forest of huge wine-barrels, were gathered a dozen peasants and a less solemn pair who turned out to be of “the profession.”
The first greetings over, the keeper set out before us a loaf of coarse bread and a bottle of wine, demanded immediate70 payment, and having received it, resumed his seat on a barrel. His shop was, in reality, the wine cellar of a café the gilded71 fa?ade of which faced the main street. In it the liquor that sold here for four sous the litre would have cost us a half-franc. One of the miners, having gained my consent to the extravagance, invested two sous in raw, salt pork which he and his companion ate with great relish72. I was content to do without such delicacies73, for the wine and bread made a very appetizing feast after hours of trudging74 under a broiling75 sun.
Canal-boats laden76 with lumber77 from Nièvre entering Paris
“They are excellently built, the Routes Nationales of France”
In the course of the afternoon I photographed the miners, a proceeding78 which caused them infantine delight, both declaring that this was the first time in their begrimed existence that they had ever 31been tirés. We found lodging79 in a peasant’s wheat stack. I was a bit chary80 of spending the night in so deserted a spot with two such vagabonds, for the kodak and the handful of coins from which I had paid for our dinner was a plunder81 worth a roadster’s conspiracy82. My anxiety was really ungrounded. Morning broke with my possessions intact and, after an hour’s work in picking straw and chaff83 from our hair and clothing, we set off at sunrise.
I left my companions behind soon after, for their mode of travel resulted in far less than the thirty miles a day I had cut out for myself, and passed on into the vineyard and forest country of Nièvre. Harvest was over in the few fertile farms that were not given up to the culture of the grape; the day of the gleaners had come. In the fields left bare by the reapers84, peasant women gathered with infinite care the stray wheat stalks and, their aprons85 full, plodded homeward. To the thrifty87 French mind there is nothing so iniquitous88 as to waste the smallest thing of value. Before this army of bowed backs one could not but wonder whether it had ever occurred to them that labor26 also may be wasted.
The most extravagant89 of its inhabitants were already lighting90 their lamps when I entered the village of La Charité. To whatever benevolence91 the quiet hamlet owes its name, it was typical of those rural communities that line the highways of France. A decrepit92 grey church raised a time-mellowed voice in the song of the evening angelus. Squat93 housewives gossiped at the doors of the drab stone cottages lining94 the route. From the neighboring fields heavy ox-carts, the yokes95 fastened across the horns of the animals, lumbered97 homeward. In the dwindling98 light a blacksmith before his open shop was fitting with flat, iron shoes a piebald ox triced up on his back in a frame.
In lieu of the familiar sign, Ici on loge à pied et à cheval, the village inn was distinguished99 from the private dwellings100 by a bundle of dried fagots over the door. I entered, to find myself in a room well-stocked with wooden tables, with here and there a trio of villagers, over their wine and cards, blowing smoke at the unhewn beams of the ceiling. In answer to the customary signal, the tapping of pipes on the tables, an elderly woman appeared and inquired bruskly wherein she could serve me.
“You have lodgings101, n’est-ce pas?”
A sudden, startling silence greeted the first suggestion of foreign accent. Cards paused in mid-air, pipes ceased to draw, tipplers craned their necks to listen, and madame surveyed me deliberately102, even a 32bit disdainfully, from crown to toe. Satisfied evidently, with her inspection103, she admitted that she had been known to house travelers and hurried away to bring the register, while the smoking and the drinking and the playing were slowly and half-heartedly resumed. Madame scrutinized104 intently each stroke of the coarse pen as I filled in the various blanks, puzzled several moments over my “passport,” and dropping all her stiff dignity, became suddenly garrulous105:
“What! You are an American? Why, another American has lodged106 here. It was in 1882. He was making the tour of the world on a bicycle. He came from Boston”—she pronounced it with a distressing107 nasal—“but I could not understand his French. He did not pronounce the R. He said ‘foncé’ when he meant ‘fran?ais.’ for ‘terre’ he said ‘tèah.’ I will give you his bed. He had not many hairs on his head. Do you eat rago?t also in America? He wore such funny pince-nez. Fine wine, n’est-ce pas? He had hurt his foot—” and thus she chattered108 on, through my supper and up the stairs to my chamber110.
The room once graced by the man from Boston was stone-floored, with whitewashed111 walls, and large enough to have housed a squad112 of infantry113. Of its two beds, hung with snow-white curtains, I preferred the one nearer the window. Unfortunately, my compatriot of the pince-nez had chosen the other and madame would not hear of my violating the precedent114 thus established. The price of this lodging, and the usual one in the rural inns of France, was fifteen cents.
There were times when my zealous115 efforts to spend for lodging as few sous as possible brought me to temporary grief. The night following my sojourn116 in La Charité is a case in point. I reached St. Pierre le Moutier some time after dark, and, upon inquiry117 for the cheapest auberge, was directed up a dismal118 alleyway. On the fringe of the open country I stumbled upon a ramshackle stone building, one end of which was a dwelling for man, while the other housed his domestic animals. Inside, under a sputtering119 excuse for a lamp, huddled120 two men, a woman and a girl, around a table that canted up against the wall as if it had borne too much wine in its long existence and become chronically122 unsteady on its legs thereby123. So preoccupied124 was the quartet in devouring125 slabs126 of dull-brown bread and a watery127 soup from a common bowl in which floated a few stray cabbage-leaves that my entrance passed unnoticed.
Advancing to attract attention I brought disaster. For in the semi-darkness I stepped on the end of a board that supported two legs of 33the tipsy table, causing the bowl of soup to slide into the woman’s arms, and the loaf to roll about on the earth floor. The mishap128, evidently no new experience, aroused no comment, but it gained me a hearing and brought me into the conversation. Of the two men, one was the proprietor and the second a traveler of the tramp variety who, though posing as a Parisian, spoke129 a decidedly mongrel language. With the fluency130 of a stranded131 tragedian he launched forth132 in a raging narration133 of his misfortunes. French at all resembling the educated tongue had become as familiar to me as English, but the patois134 and slang in which the fellow unfolded the story of a persecuted135 life would have daunted136 an international interpreter. I caught the drift of his remarks by making him repeat each sentence twice or thrice, but he ended with a: “Heing! Tu comprinds ma’reux le frin?ais;” and I was forced to admit that if the jargon137 he got off were “frin?ais,” I certainly did.
The younger, and consequently less begrimed of the females, led the way to my “room,” which turned out to be a hole over the stable, some four feet high, approached by an outside stairway, and containing two of the filthiest138 cots a vivid imagination could have pictured. To my disgust I found that one of the beds was reserved for my friend of the uncouth139 tongue. A half-hour later, unstable140 after a final bottle of wine with the aubergiste, he stumbled into the den17 and proceeded to make night hideous—awake, by his multiloquence, asleep, by a rasping snore. A dozen times I awoke from a half-conscious nap to find him sitting cross-legged in his cot, puffing141 furiously at a cigarette, above the feeble glow of which glistened142 his cat-like eyes as he stared at me across the intervening darkness. At daybreak he was gone and I departed soon after.
There is really no reason why the French roadster should go hungry in autumn. That he does, is due to a strange national prejudice unknown in America; for at that season half the highways of France are lined with hedges heavy with blackberries. At first I looked with suspicion on a fruit left ungathered by the thrifty peasantry, but, coming one morning upon a hedge unusually burdened with berries, I satisfied myself as to their identity and fell to picking a capful. A band of peasants, on the way to the fields, halted to gaze at me in astonishment143 and burst into uproarious laughter.
“Mais, mon vieux,” cried a plowman. “Que diable vas tu faire de ces choses-là?”
“Eat them, of course,” I answered.
34“Eat them!” roared the peasants, “but those things are not good to eat,” and the notion struck them as so droll144 that their guffaws145 still came back to me long after they had turned a bend in the highway. Every Frenchman I approached on the subject held the same view. The two miners traveled for hours with a gnawing146 hunger, or invaded lonely vineyards at imminent147 risk of capture by the rural gendarmerie, to eat their fill of half-ripe grapes, sour and acrid148. But when I, from my safe position outside the hedge, held up a heavily-laden bush, their answer was always the same: “Ah, non, mon vieux. Not any for me.” Obviously I could not regret the bad repute in which the fruit was held, for when hunger overtook me I had but to stop and pick my dinner, and except for the few sous spent for bread and wine, my rations149 from Fontainebleau to the Swiss frontier cost me nothing.
My tramp continued past Nevers and Moulin, down through the department of Allier to the city of Roanne, stretching along both banks of the upper Loire. A few kilometers beyond, the highway began a winding150 ascent151 of the first foothills of the Alps. Even here the cultivation152 bespoke153 the thrift86 of the French peasant. Far up the rugged154 hillside stretched terraced farms, each stone-faced step of the broad stairways thickly set with grapevines. Higher still a few wrinkled patches in sheltered ravines gave sustenance155 to the most sturdy toilers. Here it is that may be seen the nearest prototype of that painful figure known far and wide, that stolid156 being who leans on his mattock, gazing helplessly away into meaningless space; nearest, because his exact original no longer dwells in the fields of France: he has moved southward. Down a glen below the highway the trunk of a tree, broken off some six feet above the ground and with a huge knot on one side, stood out in silhouette157 against the distant horizon. But for a crudeness of outline one might have imagined the stump158 a clumsy, ragged159 peasant, with a child astride his shoulders. I stood surveying this figure, wondering what forces of the elements could have given a mere160 tree so strange a likeness161 to a human form, when it suddenly started, moved, and strode away across the gully.
The highway continued to climb. The patches of tilled ground gave way to waving forests where sounded the twittering of birds, and here and there the cheery song of the woodsman or shepherd boy. Some magic there is inherent in the clear air of mountain heights that calls forth song from those that dwell among them.
A typical French roadster who has tramped the highways of Europe for thirty years
The two French miners with whom I tramped in France. Notice shoe laces carried for sale
With sunset came the summit. The road began to descend162, the forests fell away, the tiny fields appeared once more, and the ballad163 35of the mountaineer was silent. A colony of laborers164, engaged in the construction of a reservoir, gave me greeting from the doors of their temporary shacks165, and lower still I turned in at an auberge half-filled with a squad of soldiers.
He is an interesting figure, the French conscript. In his make-up is none of the boisterous166 braggadocio167 of the American trooper and of Tommy Atkins, never that scorn for civilians168 so often characteristic of the voluntary, the mercenary soldier. He feels small inclination169 to boast of his wisdom even in military matters, for well he knows that the jolly innkeeper may be able to tell a tale of his own days sous le drapeau that makes the conscript’s favorite story weak and insipid170 by comparison. Then, too, it is hard to be boastful when one is sad at heart; and the French conscript is not happy. To him conscription is a yoke96, akin4 to disease and death, which fate has fastened upon the children of men. He dreads171 its coming, serves under unexpressed protest, and sets it down in his book of life as three years utterly172 lost.
There is, indeed, a note of pessimism173 everywhere prevalent among the masses of France. It is not a universal note, not even a constant one: loud-voiced “calamity-howlers” are less in evidence than in our own optimistic land. But even amid the merry chatter109 there hovers174 over every gathering of French workmen a gloominess, an infestivity that speaks of lost hope, of fatalistic despair. Briefly175 and unconsciously, a craftsman176 of chance acquaintance summed up this inner feeling of his class: “Ah, mon pauvre pays,” he sighed, “elle n’est plus ce qu’elle était.”
Chattering177 groups of Lyonese, mounting to the freer air of the hills in Sunday attire178, enlivened my morning tramp down the descending179 highway. By early afternoon I came in sight of the second city of France and the confluence180 of the Soane and Rh?ne. The vineyards ceased, to give place to mulberry trees. Even on this day of merry-making the whir of silk-looms sounded from the wayside cottages, well into the suburbs of the city. The humble181 dwellings were succeeded by mansions182; the national highway, by a broad boulevard that led down to the meeting-place of the two rivers, and the first stage of my journey to southern Europe was ended.
From Lyon I turned northeastward towards Geneva and the Alps. A serpentine184 route climbed upward. Often I tramped for hours around the edge of a yawning chasm185, having always in view a rugged village and its vineyards far below, only to find myself at the end of that time within stone’s throw of a long-forgotten kilometer-post. 36Near the frontier hovered186 a general air of suspicion. The aubergiste of the mountain hamlet of Moulin Chabaud hesitated long and studied every dot and letter of my papers before offering me a chair under the big fire-place; he remained surly and distraught all through the evening, as if convinced in spite of himself that he was harboring one whose career had not been unsullied. When I awoke, a mountain rain was falling, cold and ceaseless; but preferring always a certain amount of physical discomfort187 to sour looks, I pushed on, splashing into Geneva long after nightfall.
It would doubtless require a frequent repetition of such experiences to stifle188 that indefinable dread, akin to fear, which oppresses the weary pedestrian who, entirely189 unbefriended, enters an unknown city in the darkness of night. Limping aimlessly through the streets of Geneva in my water-soaked garments, I felt particularly dismal and forlorn. Genevese, huddled under their umbrellas, pushed me aside when I attempted to speak to them or snapped a few incoherent words over their shoulders. In vain I attempted to escape from the district of jewellers’ shops and watch-makers’ show-windows, little suspecting that I was virtually on an island given over almost entirely to business houses and rich dwellings.
A slippery street led to a bridge across the Rh?ne, and a policeman beyond pointed190 out the district gendarmerie as the proper place to prosecute191 my inquiries. From a window of the building shown a dim light, and within sounded a brisk “entrez” in answer to my knock. Two police sergeants192, engrossed in a game of cards, turned to scowl193 at me across the room.
“Eh bien, toi! Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?”
“I am looking for a lodging house and the policeman—”
“Lodging! At this time of night? Do you think the city provides a hotel de luxe for vagabonds, that they may come and go at any hour—?”
“But I intend to pay my own lodging.”
“Pay! Quoi! Tu as de l’argent?”
“Certainly I have money!” I cried indignantly, though to tell the truth the weight of it was not making me stoop-shouldered.
“Ah!” gasped the senior officer, speaking the word high up in his mouth after the fashion of Frenchmen expressing supreme194 astonishment. “Que je vous aie mal jugé! I thought you were asking admittance to the night shelter.”
The shock of hearing one he had taken for a vagabond admit that 37he had money was clearly a unique experience in the sergeant’s constabulary career. He had by no means recovered when I turned away to the inn he had pointed out.
Three days later I boarded a steamer that zigzagged195 between the cities flanking blue Lac Léman, and descending at Villeneuve, set out along the valley of the upper Rh?ne. Here all was free and open as the mountains bordering the fertile strip, for the close-hedged fields of France are not to the taste of the Swiss peasant. No gendarme waylaid196 me at each hamlet; I had but to step off the highway to gather apples under the trees or to escape from the glaring sun.
Night overtook me at St. Maurice, a sure-footed mountain village, straddling the Rh?ne where it roars through a narrow gorge197 on its way to the lake beyond. Even within doors the villagers speak a high-pitched treble, so fixed198 has become the habit of raising their voices above the constant boom of the cataract199. In my lodging directly above, the roaring intruded on my dreams, and in fancy I struggled against the rushing current that carried me down a sheer mountainside.
Church-bound peasants fell in with me along the route next morning, peasants lacking both the noisy gaiety of the French and the gloominess of the Sunday-clad German. Wayside wine-shops, or a pace too rapid for a day of rest cut short my acquaintance with each group, but I had not far to plod55 alone before the curiosity of a new band gave me companionship for another space.
At Martigny the highway bent200 with the river to the eastward183; the mountain wall crowded more closely the narrow valley, pushing the road to the edge of the stream that mirrored the rugged peaks. Here and there a foot-hill boldly detached itself from the range, and taking its stand in the valley, drove off the route on a winding detour11.
Two such hills gave Sion a form all its own. An ample Paradplatz in the foreground held back the jumble201 of houses tossed upon an undulating hillside. Back of the village, like gaunt sentinels guarding the valley of the upper Rh?ne, stood two towering rocks, the one crowned by the ruins of an ancient castle, the other by a crumbling202 church that gazed scornfully down on the jostling buildings of modern times. A Sunday festival was raging on the parade-ground. Around the booths and puppet-shows surged merry countrymen in gay attire; from the flanking shops hung streamers and the flags of many nations.
I had barely reached the town when a rumble40 of thunder sounded. Dense203, black clouds, flying before a wind that did not reach us in the 38valley, appeared from the north, tearing themselves on the jagged peaks above. Close on the heels of the warning a storm broke in true Alpine204 fury. The festooned multitude broke madly for the shelter of the shops, the gaudy205 streamers and booths turned to drooping206 rags, the puppets humped their shoulders appealingly, and the parade-ground became a shallow lake that reflected a bright sun ten minutes after the first growl32 of thunder.
The oppressive heat tempered by the shower, I rounded the greater of the sentinel rocks and continued up the valley. Rolling vineyards stretched away on either hand to the brink207 of the river or the base of the enclosing mountains. A burning thirst assailed208 me. Almost unconsciously I paused and picked two clusters of plump grapes that hung over the stone coping of a field above the highway.
A stone’s throw ahead, two men stepped suddenly from behind a clump of bushes and strolled towards me.
“Do you know what that is?” demanded one of them, in French, as he waved a small badge before my eyes.
I certainly did. It was the official shield of the rural gendarmerie.
“Yes,” I admitted.
“Back you go with us to Sion!” roared the officer. He was a lean, lank35 giant who, evidently in virtue209 of his length, assumed the position of spokesman. His companion, almost a dwarf210, nodded his head vigorously in approval.
“Eh bien?” I answered, too weary to argue the matter.
“Yes,” blustered211 the spokesman, “back to Sion and the magistrate—” he paused, squinted212 at the dwarf, and went on in dulcet213 tones, “unless you pay thirty francs.”
“Thirty francs! Where on earth should I get thirty francs?”
In my excitement I somewhat bungled214 my French.
“Where go you?” asked the pocket edition of the law. His voice was soothing215 and he spoke in German.
“To Italy. I am a workman.”
“Ja! Und in deinem Lande—in your land you may pick grapes when you like, was?” shouted the long one.
“A couple of bunches? Of course!”
“Was! In Italien?” In his voice was all the sarcasm216 he could call up from a tolerably caustic217 nature.
“I am no Italian. I come from the United States.”
“United States!” bellowed218 the gendarme, looking around at his companion. “What is this United States?”
39“Ah-er-well, there is such a country,” suggested the midget, “but—”
“And in this country of yours you do not speak French, nor German, nor yet Italian?” snapped the officer, relapsing unconsciously into French.
“No, we speak English.”
“Mille diables! English! What then is that?”
“Ja. Es gibt so eine Sprache,” ventured the dwarf.
The spokesman ignored him.
“Well, pay fifteen francs and we have seen nothing.”
“Impossible.”
“Then back to Sion and the gendarmerie.”
“Very well, en route.”
The pair scowled219 and turned aside to whisper together. The tall one continued, “My comrade says, as you are a pauvre diable on foot—five francs.”
“Five francs for two bunches of grapes, comme ?a?” I gasped holding them out.
“Ach! Ein, unglücklicher Kerl,” urged the dwarf. “Say three francs.”
“No!” I cried, “C’en est trop. Two bunches, like that? I have here two francs—”
The leader shook his head, glanced at his mate, and took several steps in the direction of Sion.
“Ah! A poor devil on the road,” breathed the other.
“Well, two it is,” growled the moving spirit.
I took two francs from my pocket and dropped them into the outstretched palm. The officer jingled220 the coins a moment, handed one to his companion, and pocketed the other with the air of a man who had well performed an unpleasant duty. His threatening scowl had vanished and a smile played on his lean face.
“Merci,” he said, dropping his shield into a side pocket and turning back to his hiding-place, “au revoir, monsieur!” And the small man, following close on his heels, turned to add, “Bon voyage, monsieur l’américain.”
I plodded on into the dusk, eating the high-priced grapes, and wondering just where the owner of the vineyard entered into the transaction.
Somewhere near the treacherous221 clump of bushes I passed the unmarked boundary between French and German Switzerland. Thus far 40the former tongue had reigned222 supreme, though pedestrians223 often greeted me with “Bon jour,” “Guten Tag.” But the voice of the street in Sierre, where I halted for the night, was overwhelmingly Teutonic, and the signs over hospitable224 doors no longer read “auberge,” but “Wirtschaft” and “Bierhalle.” There I lay late abed next morning, and once off, strolled leisurely225 along the fertile valley, for a bare twenty miles separated the town from Brieg, at the foot of the Simplon pass.
You who turn in each evening at the selfsame threshold, you who huddle121 in your niche226 among the cave-dwellers of great cities, you who race through foreign lands in car and carriage as if fearful of setting foot on an alien soil, can know nothing of the exhilaration that comes in tramping mile after mile of open country when life blooms forth in its prime on every hand. A single day afoot brings delight. Yet only he who looks day after day on an ever-changing scene, who passes on and ever on into the great Weltraum that stretches unendingly before him, can feel the full strength of the Wanderlust within. To stop seems an irreverence227, to turn back a sacrilege. In these days of splendid transportation we lose much that our forefathers228 enjoyed. There is a sense of satisfaction akin to self-pride, a sense of real accomplishment229 that thrills the pedestrian who has attained230 a distant goal through his own unaided efforts, a satisfaction which the traveler by steam cannot experience.
The highway over the Simplon, constructed by Napoleon in 1805, is still, in spite of the encroachment231 of railways, a well-traveled route, though not by pedestrians. The good people of Brieg burst forth in wailing232 sympathy when I divulged233 my plan of crossing on foot. Traffic between the village and Domo d’Ossola in Piedmont has for generations been monopolized234 by a line of stage-coaches. There was more than the exhilaration of such a tramp, however, to awaken235 my revolt against this time-honored means of transportation, for the fare on one of these primitive236 bone-shakers ranged from forty to fifty francs.
With a vagrant’s lunch in my knapsack I left Brieg at dawn, for the first tramontane hamlet was thirty miles distant. Before the sun rose, the morning stage rattled237 by and the jeering238 of its drivers cheered me on. The highway showed nowhere a really steep grade, though it mounted seven thousand feet in twenty-three kilometers. With every turn of the route the panorama239 grew. Three hours up, Brieg still peeped out through the slender Tannenb?ume, far below, yet almost 41directly beneath; and the vista240 extended far down the winding valley of the Rh?ne, back to the sentinel rocks of Sion and beyond. Across the chasm sturdy mountaineers scrambled241 from rock to boulder242 with their sheep and goats, as high as grew the hardiest243 sprig of vegetation. Far above the last shrub244, ragged, barren peaks cut from the blue sky beyond figures of fantastic shape; peaks aglow245 with nature’s most lavish246 coloring, here one deep purple in the morning shade, there another, with basic tone of ruddy pink changed like watered silk under the reflection of the rays that gilded its summit.
Beyond the spot where Brieg was lost to view began the réfuges, roadside cottages in which the traveler, overcome by fatigue247 or the raging storms of winter, may seek shelter. In this summer season, however, they had degenerated248 one and all into dirty wine-shops where squalling children and stray goats wandered about among the tables. I peered in at one and inquired the price of a bottle of wine. A spidery female rose up to fleece me of my slender hoard250 and I beat a hasty retreat, thankful to have come prepared against the call of hunger, and content to drink the crystalline water of wayside streams.
The roadway found scant251 footing in the upper ranges, and burrowed252 its way through several tunnels. High above one of them a glacier253 sent down a roaring torrent254 sheer over the route, and through an opening in the outer wall of the sub-torrential gallery one could reach out and touch the foaming255 stream as it plunged256 into the abyss far below.
Light clouds, that had obscured the sterile257 peaks during the last hours of the ascent, all but caused me to pass unnoticed the hospice of St. Bernard that marks the summit. I stepped inside to write a postal258 to the world below, and turned out again into a drizzling259 rain that soon became a steady downpour. But the kilometers that had been so long in the morning fairly raced by on the downward journey, and a few hours brought me to the frontier.
As if fearful of losing sovereignty over a foot of her territory, Italy has set a guard-house exactly over the boundary line, amid wild rocks and gorges260. A watchful261 soldier stepped out into the storm and hailed me while several yards of Switzerland still lay between us:
“Any tobacco or cigars?”
I fished out a half-used package of Swiss tobacco, wet and mushy. The officer waved a deprecatory hand.
“What’s this?” he demanded, tapping the pocket that held my kodak.
42“A picture machine,” I explained, showing an edge of the apparatus262.
“Bene, buona sera,” cried the officer, as he ran for his shelter.
At nightfall I splashed into the scraggy village of Iselle. From a yawning hole in the mountainside poured forth a regiment263 of laborers who scurried264 towards a long row of improvised265 shanties266, hanging, on the edge of nothing, over a rushing mountain river. Having once been a “mud-mucker” in my own land, I followed after, and struck up several acquaintanceships over the evening macaroni. The band was engaged in boring a tunnel, thirteen miles in length, from Brieg to Iselle. With its completion the Simplon tourist will avoid the splendid scenery of the pass; the stage-coaches will be consigned267 to the scrap-heaps they should long since have adorned1; and an hour, robbed of sunshine and pure air, will separate Italy from the valley of the Rh?ne. Then will the transalpine voyager degenerate249 into the subalpine passenger.
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1
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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3
wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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6
unevenness
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| n. 不平坦，不平衡，不匀性 | |
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7
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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8
zigzag
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| n.曲折，之字形；adj.曲折的，锯齿形的；adv.曲折地，成锯齿形地；vt.使曲折；vi.曲折前行 | |
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knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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detours
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| 绕行的路( detour的名词复数 )； 绕道，兜圈子 | |
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detour
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| n.绕行的路，迂回路；v.迂回，绕道 | |
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12
abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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wayfarers
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| n.旅人，（尤指）徒步旅行者( wayfarer的名词复数 ) | |
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15
palatable
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| adj.可口的，美味的；惬意的 | |
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16
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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17
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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18
gendarme
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| n.宪兵 | |
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19
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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20
affidavits
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| n.宣誓书，（经陈述者宣誓在法律上可采作证据的）书面陈述( affidavit的名词复数 ) | |
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21
apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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22
endorsed
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| vt.& vi.endorse的过去式或过去分词形式v.赞同( endorse的过去式和过去分词 )；在（尤指支票的）背面签字；在（文件的）背面写评论；在广告上说本人使用并赞同某产品 | |
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23
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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24
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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25
laborer
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| n.劳动者，劳工 | |
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26
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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27
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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28
vagrancy
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| （说话的，思想的）游移不定； 漂泊； 流浪； 离题 | |
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29
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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30
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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31
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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32
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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33
consular
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| a.领事的 | |
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34
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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35
lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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36
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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37
hieroglyphics
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| n.pl.象形文字 | |
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38
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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39
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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40
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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41
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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42
idiocy
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| n.愚蠢 | |
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43
intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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44
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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45
evaded
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| 逃避( evade的过去式和过去分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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46
ruse
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| n.诡计，计策；诡计 | |
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47
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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48
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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49
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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50
canvassing
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| v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的现在分词 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
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51
averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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52
retracing
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| v.折回( retrace的现在分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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53
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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54
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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55
plod
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| v.沉重缓慢地走，孜孜地工作 | |
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56
plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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57
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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58
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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59
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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60
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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61
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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62
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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63
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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64
countenances
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| n.面容( countenance的名词复数 )；表情；镇静；道义支持 | |
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65
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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66
catered
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| 提供饮食及服务( cater的过去式和过去分词 )； 满足需要，适合 | |
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67
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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68
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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69
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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70
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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71
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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72
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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73
delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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74
trudging
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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75
broiling
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| adj.酷热的，炽热的，似烧的v.（用火）烤（焙、炙等）( broil的现在分词 )；使卷入争吵；使混乱；被烤（或炙） | |
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76
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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77
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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78
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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79
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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80
chary
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| adj.谨慎的，细心的 | |
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81
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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82
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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83
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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84
reapers
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| n.收割者，收获者( reaper的名词复数 )；收割机 | |
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85
aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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86
thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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87
thrifty
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| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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88
iniquitous
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| adj.不公正的；邪恶的；高得出奇的 | |
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89
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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90
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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91
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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92
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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93
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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94
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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95
yokes
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| 轭( yoke的名词复数 )； 奴役； 轭形扁担； 上衣抵肩 | |
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96
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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97
lumbered
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| 砍伐（lumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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98
dwindling
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| adj.逐渐减少的v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的现在分词 ) | |
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99
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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100
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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101
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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102
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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103
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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104
scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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105
garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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106
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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107
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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108
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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109
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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110
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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111
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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113
infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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114
precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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115
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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116
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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117
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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118
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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119
sputtering
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| n.反应溅射法；飞溅；阴极真空喷镀；喷射v.唾沫飞溅( sputter的现在分词 )；发劈啪声；喷出；飞溅出 | |
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120
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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121
huddle
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| vi.挤作一团；蜷缩；vt.聚集；n.挤在一起的人 | |
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122
chronically
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| ad.长期地 | |
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123
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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124
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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125
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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126
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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127
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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128
mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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129
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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130
fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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131
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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132
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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133
narration
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| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
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134
patois
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| n.方言；混合语 | |
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135
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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136
daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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138
filthiest
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| filthy（肮脏的，污秽的）的最高级形式 | |
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139
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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140
unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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141
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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142
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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143
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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144
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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145
guffaws
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| n.大笑，狂笑( guffaw的名词复数 )v.大笑，狂笑( guffaw的第三人称单数 ) | |
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146
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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147
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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148
acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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149
rations
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| 定量( ration的名词复数 )； 配给量； 正常量； 合理的量 | |
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150
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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151
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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152
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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153
bespoke
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|
| adj.（产品）订做的；专做订货的v.预定( bespeak的过去式 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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154
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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155
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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156
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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157
silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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158
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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159
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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160
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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161
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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162
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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163
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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164
laborers
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| n.体力劳动者，工人( laborer的名词复数 )；（熟练工人的）辅助工 | |
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165
shacks
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| n.窝棚，简陋的小屋( shack的名词复数 ) | |
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166
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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167
braggadocio
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| n.吹牛大王 | |
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168
civilians
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| 平民，百姓( civilian的名词复数 )； 老百姓 | |
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169
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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170
insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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171
dreads
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| n.恐惧，畏惧( dread的名词复数 )；令人恐惧的事物v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的第三人称单数 ) | |
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172
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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173
pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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174
hovers
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| 鸟( hover的第三人称单数 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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175
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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176
craftsman
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| n.技工，精于一门工艺的匠人 | |
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177
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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178
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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179
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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180
confluence
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| n.汇合，聚集 | |
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181
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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182
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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183
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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184
serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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185
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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186
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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187
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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188
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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189
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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190
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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191
prosecute
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| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
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192
sergeants
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| 警官( sergeant的名词复数 )； （美国警察）警佐； （英国警察）巡佐； 陆军（或空军）中士 | |
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193
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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194
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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195
zigzagged
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| adj.呈之字形移动的v.弯弯曲曲地走路，曲折地前进( zigzag的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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196
waylaid
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| v.拦截，拦路( waylay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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197
gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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198
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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199
cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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200
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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201
jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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202
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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203
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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204
alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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205
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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206
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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207
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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208
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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209
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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210
dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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211
blustered
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| v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
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212
squinted
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| 斜视( squint的过去式和过去分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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213
dulcet
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| adj.悦耳的 | |
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214
bungled
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| v.搞糟，完不成( bungle的过去式和过去分词 )；笨手笨脚地做；失败；完不成 | |
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215
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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216
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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217
caustic
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| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
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218
bellowed
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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219
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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220
jingled
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| 喝醉的 | |
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221
treacherous
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|
| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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222
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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223
pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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224
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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irreverence
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| n.不尊敬 | |
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forefathers
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| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
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229
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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encroachment
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| n.侵入，蚕食 | |
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wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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divulged
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| v.吐露，泄露( divulge的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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monopolized
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| v.垄断( monopolize的过去式和过去分词 )；独占；专卖；专营 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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241
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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242
boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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243
hardiest
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| 能吃苦耐劳的，坚强的( hardy的最高级 )； （植物等）耐寒的 | |
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shrub
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| n.灌木，灌木丛 | |
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aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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degenerated
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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burrowed
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| v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的过去式和过去分词 )；翻寻 | |
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glacier
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| n.冰川，冰河 | |
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254
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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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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sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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postal
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| adj.邮政的，邮局的 | |
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259
drizzling
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| 下蒙蒙细雨，下毛毛雨( drizzle的现在分词 ) | |
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gorges
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| n.山峡，峡谷( gorge的名词复数 )；咽喉v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的第三人称单数 )；作呕 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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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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scurried
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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266
shanties
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| n.简陋的小木屋( shanty的名词复数 )；铁皮棚屋；船工号子；船歌 | |
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267
consigned
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| v.把…置于（令人不快的境地）( consign的过去式和过去分词 )；把…托付给；把…托人代售；丟弃 | |
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