Within a fortnight the pigeons were beginning to lay, and as one of the nests contained the four useless eggs of an imbecile pair of hens, we tasted thus early the pleasure of blowing one egg in the orthodox manner and sucking three. This being Septuagesima Sunday, nothing would satisfy us but an immediate8 visit to Our Country, where the jays’ nests and others we had robbed seven months before were found with a thrill all but equal to that of May, and always strictly9 examined in case of accidents or miracles. For there had now been a whole week of spring sun shining on our hearts, and on the plumage of the cock pheasant we stalked in vain. The thrush sang. The blackbird sang. With the Conversion10 of St Paul came rain, and moreover school, Thucydides, Shakespeare’s “Richard the Second,” and other unrealities and afflictions, wherein I had to prove again how vain it is “to cloy11 the hungry edge of appetite by bare imagination of a feast” at old Gaunt’s command. But Quinquagesima Sunday meant rising in the dark and going out with Philip, to watch the jays,always ten yards ahead of our most stealthy stepping—to climb after old woodpigeons’ nests, to cut hazel sticks, to the tune13 of many skylarks. Alas15, a sprained16 foot could not save me from school on Monday. But now the wild pigeons dwelling17 about the school began to coo all day long and to carry sticks for their nests. Out on the football field, in the bright pale light and the south-west wind the black rooks courted—and more; the jackdaws who generally accompanied them were absent somewhere. What then mattered it whether Henri Quatre or Louis Quatorze were the greatest of the Bourbon kings, as some of my school-fellows debated? Besides, when February was only half through, Aunt Rachel formally invited Philip and me to Lydiard Constantine for Easter. This broke the winter’s back. Frost and fog and Bright’s “History of England” were impotent. We began to write letters to the chosen three or four boys at Lydiard Constantine. We made, in the gas jets at Abercorran House, tubes of glass for the sucking of bird’s eggs. We bought egg drills. We made egg-drills for ourselves.... The cat had kittens. One pair of Higgs’ pigeons hatched out their eggs. The house-sparrows were building. The almond-trees blossomed in the gardens of[283] “Brockenhurst” and the other houses. The rooks now stayed in the football field until five. The larks14 sang all day, invisible in the strong sun and burning sky. The gorse was a bonfire of bloom. Then, at last, on St David’s day, the rooks were building, the woodpigeons cooing on every hand, the first lambs were heard.
Day after day left us indignant that, in spite of all temptations, no thrush or blackbird had laid an egg, so far as we knew. But all things seemed possible. One day, in a mere19 afternoon walk, we found, not far beyond a muddle20 of new streets, a district “very beautiful and quiet,” says the diary. Losing our way, we had to hire a punt to take us across the stream—I suppose, the Wandle. Beautiful and quiet, too, was the night when Philip scaled the high railings into the grounds of a neighbouring institution, climbed one of the tall elms of its rookery—I could see him up against the sky, bigger than any of the nests, in the topmost boughs—and brought down the first egg. It was the Tuesday before an early Easter, a clear blue, soft day which drove clean out of our minds all thought of fog, frost, and rain, past or to come. Mr Stodham had come into the yard of Abercorran House on the way to his[284] office, as I had on my way to school. Finding Aurelius sitting in the sun with Ladas, he said in his genial21, nervous way: “That’s right. You are making the best of a fine day. Goodness knows what it will be like to-morrow.” “And Goodness cares,” said Aurelius, almost angrily, “I don’t.” “Sorry, sorry,” said Mr Stodham, hastily lighting22 his pipe. “All right,” said Aurelius, “but if you care about to-morrow, I don’t believe you really care about to-day. You are one of those people, who say that if it is not always fine, or fine when they want it, they don’t care if it is never fine, and be damned to it, say they. And yet they don’t like bad weather so well as I do, or as Jessie does. Now, rain, when it ought not to be raining, makes Jessie angry, and if the day were a man or woman she would come to terms with it, but it isn’t, and what is more, Jessie rapidly gets sick of being angry, and as likely as not she sings ‘Blow away the morning dew,’ and finds that she likes the rain. She has been listening to the talk about rain by persons who want to save Day and Martin. I prefer Betty Martin.... Do you know, Arthur tells me the house martins will soon be here?” We looked up together to see if it was a martin that both of us had heard, or seemed to hear, overhead, but, if it was, it was invisible.
Every year such days came—any time in Lent, or even before. I take it for granted that, as an historical fact, they were followed, as they have been in the twentieth century, by fog, frost, mists, drizzle23, rain, sleet24, snow, east wind, and north wind, and I know very well that we resented these things. But we loved the sun. We strove to it in imagination through the bad weather, believing in every kind of illusory hint that the rain was going to stop, and so on. Moreover rain had its merits. For example, on a Sunday, it kept the roads nearly as quiet as on a week day, and we could have Our Country, or Richmond Park, or Wimbledon Common, all to ourselves. Then, again, what a thing it was to return wet, with a rainy brightness in your eyes, to change rapidly, to run round to Abercorran House, and find Philip and Ann expecting you in the kitchen, with a gooseberry tart25, currant tart, raspberry tart, plum tart, blackberry tart, cranberry26 and apple tart, apple tart, according to season; and mere jam or syrup27 tart in the blank periods. My love of mud also I trace to that age, because Philip and I could escape all company by turn[286]ing out of a first class road into the black mash28 of a lane. If we met anyone there, it was a carter contending with the mud, a tramp sitting between the bank and a fire, or a filthy29 bird-catcher beyond the hedge.
If the lane was both muddy and new to us, and we two, Philip and I, turned into it, there was nothing which we should have thought out of its power to present in half a mile or so, nothing which it would have overmuch astonished us by presenting. It might have been a Gypsy camp, it might have been the terrestrial Paradise of Sheddad the son of Ad—we should have fitted either into our scheme of the universe. Not that we were blasé; for every new thrush’s egg in the season had a new charm for us. Not that we had been flightily corrupted30 by fairy tales and marvels31. No: the reason was that we only regarded as impossible such things as a score of 2000 in first class cricket, an air ship, or the like; and the class of improbabilities did not exist for us. Nor was this all. We were not merely ready to welcome strange things when we had walked half a mile up a lane and met no man, but we were in a gracious condition for receiving whatever might fall to us. We did not go in search of miracles, we invited[287] them to come to us. What was familiar to others was never, on that account, tedious or contemptible32 to us. I remember that when Philip and I first made our way through London to a shop which was depicted33 in an advertisement, in spite of the crowds on either hand all along our route, in spite of the full directions of our elders, we were as much elated by our achievement as if it had been an arduous34 discovery made after a journey in a desert. In our elation35 there was some suspicion that our experience had been secret, adventurous36, and unique. As to the crowd, we glided37 through it as angels might. This building, expected by us and known to all, astonished us as much as the walls of Sheddad the son of Ad unexpectedly towering would have done.
Sometimes in our rare London travels we had a glimpse of a side street, a row of silent houses all combined as it were into one gray palace, a dark doorway38, a gorgeous window, a surprising man disappearing.... We looked, and though we never said so, we believed that we alone had seen these things, that they had never been seen before. We should not have expected to see them there if we went again. Many and many a time have we looked, have[288] I alone in more recent years looked, for certain things thus revealed to us in passing. Either it happened that the thing was different from what it had once been, or it had disappeared altogether.
Now and then venturing down a few side streets where the system was rectangular and incapable39 of deceiving, we came on a church full of sound or gloomily silent—I do not know how to describe the mingled40 calm and pride in the minds of the discoverers. Some of the very quiet, apparently41 uninhabited courts, for example, made us feel that corners of London had been deserted42 and forgotten, that anyone could hide away there, living in secrecy43 as in a grave. Knowing how we ourselves, walking or talking together, grew oblivious44 of all things that were not within our brains, or vividly45 and desirably before our eyes, feeling ourselves isolated46 in proud delight, deserted and forgotten of the multitude who were not us, we imagined, I suppose, that houses and other things could have a similar experience, or could share it with us, were we to seek refuge there like Morgan in his mountain tower. The crowd passing and surrounding us consisted of beings unlike us, incapable of our isolation47 or delight: the[289] retired48 houses whispering in quiet alleys49 must be the haunt of spirits unlike the crowd and more like us, or, if not, at least they must be waiting in readiness for such. I recognised in them something that linked them to Abercorran House and distinguished50 them from Brockenhurst.
Had these favoured houses been outwardly as remarkable51 as they were in spirit they might have pleased us more, but I am not certain. Philip had his house with the windows that were as the days of the year. But I came only once near to seeing, with outward eyes, such a house as perhaps we desired without knowing it. Suddenly, over the tops of the third or fourth and final ridge52 of roofs, visible a quarter of a mile away from one of the windows at Abercorran House, much taller than any of the throng53 of houses and clear in the sky over them, I saw a castle on a high rock. It resembled St Michael’s Mount, only the rock was giddier and had a narrower summit, and the castle’s three clustered round towers of unequal height stood up above it like three fingers above a hand. When I pointed54 it out to Philip he gave one dark, rapid glance as of mysterious understanding, and looked at me, saying slowly:
Stands yawning on the highway of the life
Of shadows, like the restless clouds that haunt
Into the whirlwind of the upper sky.
And many pass it by with careless tread,
Not knowing that a shadowy....’
A shadowy what, Arthur? At any rate that is the place.”
In those days, Philip was beginning to love Shelley more than he loved Aurelius or me.
I had not seen that pile before. With little trouble I could have located it almost exactly: I might have known that the particular street had no room for a sublimer59 St Michael’s Mount. If we passed the spot during the next few days we made no use of the evidence against the tower, which satisfied us in varying degrees until in process of time it took its place among the other chimney clusters of our horizon. I was not disillusioned60 as to this piece of fancy’s architecture, nor was I thereafter any more inclined to take a surveyor’s view of the surface of the earth. Stranger things, probably, than St Michael’s Mount have been thought and done in that street: we did not know it, but our[291] eyes accepted this symbol of them with gladness, as in the course of nature. Not much less fantastic was our world than the one called up by lights seen far off before a traveller in a foreign and a dark, wild land.
Therefore Spring at Lydiard Constantine was to Philip and me more than a portion of a regular renascence of Nature. It was not an old country marvellously at length arraying itself after an old custom, but an invasion of the old as violent as our suburban61 St Michael’s Mount. It was as if the black, old, silent earth had begun to sing as sweet as when Jessie sang unexpectedly “Blow away the morning dew.” It was not a laborious62, orderly transformation63, but a wild, divine caprice. We supposed that it would endure for ever, though it might (as I see now) have turned in one night to Winter. But it did not.
That Spring was a poet’s Spring. “Remember this Spring,” wrote Aurelius in a letter, “then you will know what a poet means when he says Spring.” Mr Stodham, who was not a poet, but wrote verse passionately64, was bewildered by it, and could no longer be kept from exposing his lines. He called the Spring both fiercely joyous65, and melancholy66.[292] He addressed it as a girl, and sometimes as a thousand gods. He said that it was as young as the dew-drop freshly globed on the grass tip, and also as old as the wind. He proclaimed that it had conquered the earth, and that it was as fleeting67 as a poppy. He praised it as golden, as azure68, as green, as snow-white, as chill and balmy, as bright and dim, as swift and languid, as kindly69 and cruel, as true and fickle70. Yet he certainly told an infinitely71 small part of the truth concerning that Spring. It is memorable72 to me chiefly on account of a great poet.
For a day or two, at Lydiard Constantine, Philip roamed with me up and down hedgerows, through copses, around pools, as he had done in other Aprils, but though he found many nests he took not one egg, not even a thrush’s egg that was pure white and would have been unique in his collection, or in mine; neither was I allowed to take it. Moreover, after the first two or three days he only came reluctantly—found hardly any nests—quarrelled furiously with the most faithful of the Lydiard boys for killing73 a thrush (though it was a good shot) with a catapult. He now went about muttering unintelligible74 things in a voice like a clergyman. He pushed through a copse saying magnificently:
“Unfathomable sea whose waves are years.”
He answered an ordinary question by Aunt Rachel with:
“Away, away, from men and towns,
To the wild wood and the downs.”
Tears stood in his eyes while he exclaimed:
“Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw down
Or they dead leaves.”
Like a somnambulist he paced along, chanting:
“Earth, Ocean, Air, beloved brotherhood76....”
“A portal as of shadowy adamant....”
Over and over again, in a voice somewhere between that of Irving and a sheep, he repeated:
“From what Hyrcanian glen or frozen hill,
Or piny promontory78 of the Arctic main,
Or utmost islet inaccessible79....”
With a frenzy80 as of one who suffered wounds, insults, hunger and thirst and pecuniary81 loss, for Liberty’s sweet sake, he cried out to the myriad82 emerald leaves:
He used to say to me, falling from the heights of recitation:
“Shelley lived in the time of the Duke of Wellington. He was the son of a rich old baronet in Sussex, but he had nothing to do with his parents as soon as he could escape from them. He wrote the greatest lyrics87 that ever were—that is, songs not meant to be sung, and no musician could write good enough music for them, either. He was tall, and brave, and gentle. He feared no man, and he almost loved death. He was beautiful. His hair was long, and curled, and had been nearly black, but it was going grey when he died. He was drowned in the Mediterranean88 at thirty. The other poets burnt his body on the sea-shore, but one of them saved the heart and buried it at Rome with the words on the stone above it, Cor cordium, Heart of hearts. It is not right, it is not right....”
He would mutter, “It is not right,” but what he meant I could not tell, unless he was thus—seventy years late—impatiently indignant at[295] the passing of Shelley out of this earth. As likely as not he would forget his indignation, if such it was, by whispering—but not to me—with honied milky89 accents, as of one whose feet would refuse to crush a toad90 or bruise91 a flower:
“Thou Friend, whose presence on my wintry heart
Fell like bright Spring upon some herbless plain,
How beautiful and calm and free thou wert
In thy young wisdom, when the mortal chain
And walk as free as light the clouds among,
From Philip’s tone as he continued the poem, it might have been supposed that he, too, had a young and unloved wife, a rebellious96 father, a sweet-heart ready to fly with him in the manner suggested by some other lines which he uttered with conviction:
“A ship is floating in the harbour now,
There is a path on the sea’s azure floor,
No keel has ever ploughed the path before;
I have beside me the book which taught[296] Philip this sad bliss105, this wild wisdom. The fly-leaves are entirely106 covered by copies in his hand-writing of the best-loved poems and passages. Between some pages are still the scentless107 skeletons of flowers and leaves—still more pages bear the stains left by other flowers and leaves—plucked in that spring at Lydiard Constantine. The gilding108 of the covers for the most part is worn smoothly109 out; the edges are frayed110, the corners broken. Thus the book seems less the work of Shelley than of Philip. It embalms111 that Spring. Yet why do I say embalmed112? It is not dead. It lives while I live and can respond to the incantation of one of the poems in this little book, beginning:
“Life of Life, thy lips enkindle,
With their love the breath between them....”
When I first heard them from Philip, Spring was thronging113 the land with delicious odours, colours, and sounds. I knew how nothing came, yet it was a sweet and natural coming rather than magic—a term then of too narrow application. As nearly as possible I step back those twenty years, and see the beech114 leaves under the white clouds in the blue and hear the wood wren115 amongst them, whenever by[297] some chance or necessity I meet that incantation: “Life of Life, thy lips enkindle,” and I do not understand them any more than I do the Spring. Both have the power of magic....
Not magical, but enchanted116 away from solidity, seems now that life at Abercorran House, where Jessie, Ann, Aurelius, and the rest, and the dogs, and the pigeons, sat or played in the sun, I suppose, without us and Shelley, throughout that April. There never was again such another Spring, because those that followed lacked Philip. He fell ill and stayed on at Lydiard Constantine to be nursed by my Aunt Rachel, while I went back to read about the Hanseatic League, Clodia (the Lesbia of Catullus), and other phantoms117 that had for me no existence except in certain printed pages which I would gladly have abolished. With Philip I might have come to care about the Hansa, and undoubtedly118 about Clodia; but before I had done with them, before the cuckoos of that poet’s Spring were silent, he was buried at Lydiard Constantine.
At this point the people at Abercorran House—even Jessie and Aurelius—and the dogs that stretched out in deathlike blessedness under the sun, and the pigeons that courted and were courted in the yard and on the roof, all suddenly retreat from me when I come to that Spring in memory; a haze12 of ghostly, shimmering119 silver veils them; without Philip they are as people in a story whose existence I cannot prove. The very house has gone. The elms of the Wilderness120 have made coffins121, if they were not too old. Where is the pond and its lilies? They are no dimmer than the spirits of men and children. But there is always Ann. When “Life of Life” is eclipsed and Spring forgotten, Ann is still in Abercorran Street. I do not think she sees those dim hazed122 spirits of men and children, dogs and pigeons. Jessie, she tells me, is now a great lady, but rides like the wind. Roland never leaves Caermarthenshire except after a fox. Jack18 has gone to Canada and will stay. Lewis is something on a ship. Harry123 owns sheep by thousands, and rents a mighty124 mountain, and has as many sons as brothers, and the same number of daughters, who have come to the point of resembling Jessie: so says Ann, who has a hundred photographs. Mr Morgan is back at Abercorran. When good fortune returned to the Morgans the whole family went there for a time, leaving Ann behind until the house should be let. She[299] stayed a year. The family began to recover in the country, and to scatter125. Jessie married and Jack left England within the year. Ann became a housekeeper126 first to the new tenant127 of Abercorran House, afterwards to Mr Jones at Abercorran Street. Otherwise I should not have written down these memories of the Morgans and their friends, men, dogs, and pigeons, and of the sunshine caught by the yard of Abercorran House in those days, and of Our Country, and of that Spring and the “Life of Life” which live, and can only perish, together. Ann says there is another world. “Not a better,” she adds firmly. “It would be blasphemous128 to suppose that God ever made any but the best of worlds—not a better, but a different one, suitable for different people than we are now, you understand, not better, for that is impossible, say I, who have lived in Abercorran—town, house, and street—these sixty years—there is not a better world.”
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1
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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postal
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| adj.邮政的，邮局的 | |
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toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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sledge
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| n.雪橇，大锤；v.用雪橇搬运，坐雪橇往 | |
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footpaths
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| 人行小径，人行道( footpath的名词复数 ) | |
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6
sledging
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| v.乘雪橇( sledge的现在分词 )；用雪橇运载 | |
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7
wrack
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| v.折磨；n.海草 | |
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8
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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10
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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cloy
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| v.（吃甜食）生腻，吃腻 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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14
larks
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| n.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的名词复数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了v.百灵科鸟（尤指云雀）( lark的第三人称单数 )；一大早就起床；鸡鸣即起；（因太费力而不想干时说）算了 | |
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15
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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16
sprained
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| v.&n. 扭伤 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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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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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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drizzle
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| v.下毛毛雨；n.毛毛雨，蒙蒙细雨 | |
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sleet
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| n.雨雪；v.下雨雪，下冰雹 | |
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tart
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| adj.酸的；尖酸的，刻薄的；n.果馅饼；淫妇 | |
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26
cranberry
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| n.梅果 | |
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syrup
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| n.糖浆，糖水 | |
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mash
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| n.麦芽浆，糊状物，土豆泥；v.把…捣成糊状，挑逗，调情 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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31
marvels
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| n.奇迹( marvel的名词复数 )；令人惊奇的事物（或事例）；不平凡的成果；成就v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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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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arduous
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| adj.艰苦的，费力的，陡峭的 | |
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elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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37
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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39
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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40
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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41
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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42
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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43
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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44
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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45
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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46
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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47
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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48
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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49
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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50
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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51
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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52
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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53
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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54
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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55
adamant
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| adj.坚硬的，固执的 | |
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56
cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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57
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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58
cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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59
sublimer
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| 使高尚者，纯化器 | |
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60
disillusioned
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| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
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61
suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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62
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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63
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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64
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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65
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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66
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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67
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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68
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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69
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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70
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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71
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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72
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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73
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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74
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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75
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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76
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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77
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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78
promontory
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| n.海角；岬 | |
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79
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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80
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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81
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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82
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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83
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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84
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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85
dwindle
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| v.逐渐变小（或减少） | |
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86
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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87
lyrics
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| n.歌词 | |
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88
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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89
milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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90
toad
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆 | |
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91
bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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92
rend
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| vt.把…撕开，割裂；把…揪下来，强行夺取 | |
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93
envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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94
dungeon
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| n.地牢，土牢 | |
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95
woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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96
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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97
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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98
halcyons
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| n.翡翠鸟（halcyon的复数形式） | |
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99
foamless
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| adj.无泡沫的 | |
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100
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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101
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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102
wiles
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| n.（旨在欺骗或吸引人的）诡计，花招；欺骗，欺诈( wile的名词复数 ) | |
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103
mariners
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| 海员，水手（mariner的复数形式） | |
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104
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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105
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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106
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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107
scentless
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| adj.无气味的，遗臭已消失的 | |
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108
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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109
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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110
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
embalms
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| n.保存（尸体）不腐( embalm的名词复数 )；使不被遗忘；使充满香气v.保存（尸体）不腐( embalm的第三人称单数 )；使不被遗忘；使充满香气 | |
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112
embalmed
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| adj.用防腐药物保存（尸体）的v.保存（尸体）不腐( embalm的过去式和过去分词 )；使不被遗忘；使充满香气 | |
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113
thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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114
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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115
wren
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| n.鹪鹩；英国皇家海军女子服务队成员 | |
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116
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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117
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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118
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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119
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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120
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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121
coffins
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| n.棺材( coffin的名词复数 )；使某人早亡[死，完蛋，垮台等]之物 | |
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122
hazed
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| v.（使）笼罩在薄雾中( haze的过去式和过去分词 )；戏弄，欺凌（新生等，有时作为加入美国大学生联谊会的条件） | |
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123
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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124
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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125
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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126
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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127
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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128
blasphemous
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| adj.亵渎神明的，不敬神的 | |
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