The saffron rays of the declining sunlight filtered through the cornstalks in Micajah Widdup's garden-patch, and cast an amber2 glory upon my paste-pot. I sat at the editorial desk in my non-rotary revolving3 chair, and prepared my editorial against the oligarchies4. The room, with its one window, was already a prey5 to the twilight6. One by one, with my trenchant7 sentences, I lopped off the heads of the political hydra8, while I listened, full of kindly9 peace, to the home-coming cow-bells and wondered what Mrs. Flanagan was going to have for supper.
Then in from the dusky, quiet street there drifted and perched himself upon a corner of my desk old Father Time's younger brother. His face was beardless and as gnarled as an English walnut10. I never saw clothes such as he wore. They would have reduced Joseph's coat to a monochrome. But the colours were not the dyer's. Stains and patches and the work of sun and rust11 were responsible for the diversity. On his coarse shoes was the dust, conceivably, of a thousand leagues. I can describe him no further, except to say that he was little and weird12 and old—old I began to estimate in centuries when I saw him. Yes, and I remember that there was an odour, a faint odour like aloes, or possibly like myrrh or leather; and I thought of museums.
And then I reached for a pad and pencil, for business is business, and visits of the oldest inhabitants are sacred and honourable13, requiring to be chronicled.
"I am glad to see you, sir," I said. "I would offer you a chair, but—you see, sir," I went on, "I have lived in Montopolis only three weeks, and I have not met many of our citizens." I turned a doubtful eye upon his dust-stained shoes, and concluded with a newspaper phrase, "I suppose that you reside in our midst?"
My visitor fumbled14 in his raiment, drew forth15 a soiled card, and handed it to me. Upon it was written, in plain but unsteadily formed characters, the name "Michob Ader."
"I am glad you called, Mr. Ader," I said. "As one of our older citizens, you must view with pride the recent growth and enterprise of Montopolis. Among other improvements, I think I can promise that the town will now be provided with a live, enterprising newspa—"
"Do ye know the name on that card?" asked my caller, interrupting me.
"It is not a familiar one to me," I said.
Again he visited the depths of his ancient vestments. This time he brought out a torn leaf of some book or journal, brown and flimsy with age. The heading of the page was the Turkish Spy in old-style type; the printing upon it was this:
"There is a man come to Paris in this year 1643 who pretends to have lived these sixteen hundred years. He says of himself that he was a shoemaker in Jerusalem at the time of the Crucifixion; that his name is Michob Ader; and that when Jesus, the Christian17 Messias, was condemned18 by Pontius Pilate, the Roman president, he paused to rest while bearing his cross to the place of crucifixion before the door of Michob Ader. The shoemaker struck Jesus with his fist, saying: 'Go; why tarriest thou?' The Messias answered him: 'I indeed am going; but thou shalt tarry until I come'; thereby19 condemning20 him to live until the day of judgment21. He lives forever, but at the end of every hundred years he falls into a fit or trance, on recovering from which he finds himself in the same state of youth in which he was when Jesus suffered, being then about thirty years of age.
"Such is the story of the Wandering Jew, as told by Michob Ader, who relates—" Here the printing ended.
I must have muttered aloud something to myself about the Wandering Jew, for the old man spake up, bitterly and loudly.
"'Tis a lie," said he, "like nine tenths of what ye call history. 'Tis a Gentile I am, and no Jew. I am after footing it out of Jerusalem, my son; but if that makes me a Jew, then everything that comes out of a bottle is babies' milk. Ye have my name on the card ye hold; and ye have read the bit of paper they call the Turkish Spy that printed the news when I stepped into their office on the 12th day of June, in the year 1643, just as I have called upon ye to-day."
I laid down my pencil and pad. Clearly it would not do. Here was an item for the local column of the Bugle that—but it would not do. Still, fragments of the impossible "personal" began to flit through my conventionalized brain. "Uncle Michob is as spry on his legs as a young chap of only a thousand or so." "Our venerable caller relates with pride that George Wash—no, Ptolemy the Great—once dandled him on his knee at his father's house." "Uncle Michob says that our wet spring was nothing in comparison with the dampness that ruined the crops around Mount Ararat when he was a boy—" But no, no—it would not do.
I was trying to think of some conversational22 subject with which to interest my visitor, and was hesitating between walking matches and the Pliocene age, when the old man suddenly began to weep poignantly23 and distressfully.
"Cheer up, Mr. Ader," I said, a little awkwardly; "this matter may blow over in a few hundred years more. There has already been a decided25 reaction in favour of Judas Iscariot and Colonel Burr and the celebrated26 violinist, Signor Nero. This is the age of whitewash27. You must not allow yourself to become down-hearted."
Unknowingly, I had struck a chord. The old man blinked belligerently28 through his senile tears.
"'Tis time," he said, "that the liars29 be doin' justice to somebody. Yer historians are no more than a pack of old women gabblin' at a wake. A finer man than the Imperor Nero niver wore sandals. Man, I was at the burnin' of Rome. I knowed the Imperor well, for in them days I was a well-known char-acter. In thim days they had rayspect for a man that lived forever.
"But 'twas of the Imperor Nero I was goin' to tell ye. I struck into Rome, up the Appian Way, on the night of July the 16th, the year 64. I had just stepped down by way of Siberia and Afghanistan; and one foot of me had a frost-bite, and the other a blister30 burned by the sand of the desert; and I was feelin' a bit blue from doin' patrol duty from the North Pole down to the Last Chance corner in Patagonia, and bein' miscalled a Jew in the bargain. Well, I'm tellin' ye I was passin' the Circus Maximus, and it was dark as pitch over the way, and then I heard somebody sing out, 'Is that you, Michob?'
"Over ag'inst the wall, hid out amongst a pile of barrels and old dry-goods boxes, was the Imperor Nero wid his togy wrapped around his toes, smokin' a long, black segar.
"'Have one, Michob?' says he.
"'None of the weeds for me,' says I—'nayther pipe nor segar. What's the use,' says I, 'of smokin' when ye've not got the ghost of a chance of killin' yeself by doin' it?'
"'True for ye, Michob Ader, my perpetual Jew,' says the Imperor; 'ye're not always wandering. Sure, 'tis danger gives the spice of our pleasures—next to their bein' forbidden.'
"'And for what,' says I, 'do ye smoke be night in dark places widout even a cinturion in plain clothes to attend ye?'
"'Have ye ever heard, Michob,' says the Imperor, 'of predestinarianism?'
"'I've had the cousin of it,' says I. 'I've been on the trot31 with pedestrianism for many a year, and more to come, as ye well know.'
"'The longer word,' says me friend Nero, 'is the tachin' of this new sect32 of people they call the Christians33. 'Tis them that's raysponsible for me smokin' be night in holes and corners of the dark.'
"And then I sets down and takes off a shoe and rubs me foot that is frosted, and the Imperor tells me about it. It seems that since I passed that way before, the Imperor had mandamused the Impress wid a divorce suit, and Misses Poppæa, a cilibrated lady, was ingaged, widout riferences, as housekeeper34 at the palace. 'All in one day,' says the Imperor, 'she puts up new lace windy-curtains in the palace and joins the anti-tobacco society, and whin I feels the need of a smoke I must be after sneakin' out to these piles of lumber35 in the dark.' So there in the dark me and the Imperor sat, and I told him of me travels. And when they say the Imperor was an incindiary, they lie. 'Twas that night the fire started that burnt the city. 'Tis my opinion that it began from a stump36 of segar that he threw down among the boxes. And 'tis a lie that he fiddled37. He did all he could for six days to stop it, sir."
And now I detected a new flavour to Mr. Michob Ader. It had not been myrrh or balm or hyssop that I had smelled. The emanation was the odour of bad whiskey—and, worse still, of low comedy—the sort that small humorists manufacture by clothing the grave and reverend things of legend and history in the vulgar, topical frippery that passes for a certain kind of wit. Michob Ader as an impostor, claiming nineteen hundred years, and playing his part with the decency38 of respectable lunacy, I could endure; but as a tedious wag, cheapening his egregious39 story with song-book levity40, his importance as an entertainer grew less.
And then, as if he suspected my thoughts, he suddenly shifted his key.
"You'll excuse me, sir," he whined41, "but sometimes I get a little mixed in my head. I am a very old man; and it is hard to remember everything."
I knew that he was right, and that I should not try to reconcile him with Roman history; so I asked for news concerning other ancients with whom he had walked familiar.
Above my desk hung an engraving42 of Raphael's cherubs43. You could yet make out their forms, though the dust blurred44 their outlines strangely.
"Ye calls them 'cher-rubs'," cackled the old man. "Babes, ye fancy they are, with wings. And there's one wid legs and a bow and arrow that ye call Cupid—I know where they was found. The great-great-great-grandfather of thim all was a billy-goat. Bein' an editor, sir, do ye happen to know where Solomon s Temple stood?"
I fancied that it was in—in Persia? Well, I did not know.
"'Tis not in history nor in the Bible where it was. But I saw it, meself. The first pictures of cher-rubs and cupids was sculptured upon thim walls and pillars. Two of the biggest, sir, stood in the adytum to form the baldachin over the Ark. But the wings of thim sculptures was intindid for horns. And the faces was the faces of goats. Ten thousand goats there was in and about the temple. And your cher-rubs was billy-goats in the days of King Solomon, but the painters misconstrued the horns into wings.
"And I knew Tamerlane, the lame46 Timour, sir, very well. I saw him at Keghut and at Zaranj. He was a little man no larger than yerself, with hair the colour of an amber pipe stem. They buried him at Samarkand. I was at the wake, sir. Oh, he was a fine-built man in his coffin47, six feet long, with black whiskers to his face. And I see 'em throw turnips48 at the Imperor Vispacian in Africa. All over the world I have tramped, sir, without the body of me findin' any rest. 'Twas so commanded. I saw Jerusalem destroyed, and Pompeii go up in the fireworks; and I was at the coronation of Charlemagne and the lynchin' of Joan of Arc. And everywhere I go there comes storms and revolutions and plagues and fires. 'Twas so commanded. Ye have heard of the Wandering Jew. 'Tis all so, except that divil a bit am I a Jew. But history lies, as I have told ye. Are ye quite sure, sir, that ye haven't a drop of whiskey convenient? Ye well know that I have many miles of walking before me."
"I have none," said I, "and, if you please, I am about to leave for my supper."
I pushed my chair back creakingly. This ancient landlubber was becoming as great an affliction as any cross-bowed mariner49. He shook a musty effluvium from his piebald clothes, overturned my inkstand, and went on with his insufferable nonsense.
"I wouldn't mind it so much," he complained, "if it wasn't for the work I must do on Good Fridays. Ye know about Pontius Pilate, sir, of course. His body, whin he killed himself, was pitched into a lake on the Alps mountains. Now, listen to the job that 'tis mine to perform on the night of ivery Good Friday. The ould divil goes down in the pool and drags up Pontius, and the water is bilin' and spewin' like a wash pot. And the ould divil sets the body on top of a throne on the rocks, and thin comes me share of the job. Oh, sir, ye would pity me thin—ye would pray for the poor Wandering Jew that niver was a Jew if ye could see the horror of the thing that I must do. 'Tis I that must fetch a bowl of water and kneel down before it till it washes its hands. I declare to ye that Pontius Pilate, a man dead two hundred years, dragged up with the lake slime coverin' him and fishes wrigglin' inside of him widout eyes, and in the discomposition of the body, sits there, sir, and washes his hands in the bowl I hold for him on Good Fridays. 'Twas so commanded."
Clearly, the matter had progressed far beyond the scope of the Bugle's local column. There might have been employment here for the alienist or for those who circulate the pledge; but I had had enough of it. I got up, and repeated that I must go.
At this he seized my coat, grovelled50 upon my desk, and burst again into distressful24 weeping. Whatever it was about, I said to myself that his grief was genuine.
"Come now, Mr. Ader," I said, soothingly51; "what is the matter?"
"Because I would not … let the poor Christ … rest … upon the step."
His hallucination seemed beyond all reasonable answer; yet the effect of it upon him scarcely merited disrespect. But I knew nothing that might assuage53 it; and I told him once more that both of us should be leaving the office at once.
Obedient at last, he raised himself from my dishevelled desk, and permitted me to half lift him to the floor. The gale54 of his grief had blown away his words; his freshet of tears had soaked away the crust of his grief. Reminiscence died in him—at least, the coherent part of it.
"'Twas me that did it," he muttered, as I led him toward the door—"me, the shoemaker of Jerusalem."
I got him to the sidewalk, and in the augmented55 light I saw that his face was seared and lined and warped56 by a sadness almost incredibly the product of a single lifetime.
And then high up in the firmamental57 darkness we heard the clamant cries of some great, passing birds. My Wandering Jew lifted his hand, with side-tilted head.
"The Seven Whistlers!" he said, as one introduces well-known friends.
"Wild geese," said I; "but I confess that their number is beyond me."
"They follow me everywhere," he said. "'Twas so commanded. What ye hear is the souls of the seven Jews that helped with the Crucifixion. Sometimes they're plovers58 and sometimes geese, but ye'll find them always flyin' where I go."
I stood, uncertain how to take my leave. I looked down the street, shuffled59 my feet, looked back again—and felt my hair rise. The old man had disappeared.
And then my capillaries60 relaxed, for I dimly saw him footing it away through the darkness. But he walked so swiftly and silently and contrary to the gait promised by his age that my composure was not all restored, though I knew not why.
That night I was foolish enough to take down some dust-covered volumes from my modest shelves. I searched "Hermippus Redivvus" and "Salathiel" and the "Pepys Collection" in vain. And then in a book called "The Citizen of the World," and in one two centuries old, I came upon what I desired. Michob Ader had indeed come to Paris in the year 1643, and related to the Turkish Spy an extraordinary story. He claimed to be the Wandering Jew, and that—
But here I fell asleep, for my editorial duties had not been light that day.
Judge Hoover was the Bugle's candidate for congress. Having to confer with him, I sought his home early the next morning; and we walked together down town through a little street with which I was unfamiliar61.
"Did you ever hear of Michob Ader?" I asked him, smiling.
"Why, yes," said the judge. "And that reminds me of my shoes he has for mending. Here is his shop now."
Judge Hoover stepped into a dingy62, small shop. I looked up at the sign, and saw "Mike O'Bader, Boot and Shoe Maker16," on it. Some wild geese passed above, honking63 clearly. I scratched my ear and frowned, and then trailed into the shop.
There sat my Wandering Jew on his shoemaker's bench, trimming a half-sole. He was drabbled with dew, grass-stained, unkempt, and miserable64; and on his face was still the unexplained wretchedness, the problematic sorrow, the esoteric woe65, that had been written there by nothing less, it seemed, than the stylus of the centuries.
Judge Hoover inquired kindly concerning his shoes. The old shoemaker looked up, and spoke66 sanely67 enough. He had been ill, he said, for a few days. The next day the shoes would be ready. He looked at me, and I could see that I had no place in his memory. So out we went, and on our way.
"Old Mike," remarked the candidate, "has been on one of his sprees. He gets crazy drunk regularly once a month. But he's a good shoemaker."
"What is his history?" I inquired.
"Whiskey," epitomized Judge Hoover. "That explains him."
I was silent, but I did not accept the explanation. And so, when I had the chance, I asked old man Sellers, who browsed68 daily on my exchanges.
"Mike O'Bader," said he, "was makin' shoes in Montopolis when I come here goin' on fifteen year ago. I guess whiskey's his trouble. Once a month he gets off the track, and stays so a week. He's got a rigmarole somethin' about his bein' a Jew pedler that he tells ev'rybody. Nobody won't listen to him any more. When he's sober he ain't sich a fool—he's got a sight of books in the back room of his shop that he reads. I guess you can lay all his trouble to whiskey."
But again I would not. Not yet was my Wandering Jew rightly construed45 for me. I trust that women may not be allowed a title to all the curiosity in the world. So when Montopolis's oldest inhabitant (some ninety score years younger than Michob Ader) dropped in to acquire promulgation69 in print, I siphoned his perpetual trickle70 of reminiscence in the direction of the uninterpreted maker of shoes.
Uncle Abner was the Complete History of Montopolis, bound in butternut.
"O'Bader," he quavered, "come here in '69. He was the first shoemaker in the place. Folks generally considers him crazy at times now. But he don't harm nobody. I s'pose drinkin' upset his mind—yes, drinkin' very likely done it. It's a powerful bad thing, drinkin'. I'm an old, old man, sir, and I never see no good in drinkin'."
I felt disappointment. I was willing to admit drink in the case of my shoemaker, but I preferred it as a recourse instead of a cause. Why had he pitched upon his perpetual, strange note of the Wandering Jew? Why his unutterable grief during his aberration71? I could not yet accept whiskey as an explanation.
"Did Mike O'Bader ever have a great loss or trouble of any kind?" I asked.
"Lemme see! About thirty year ago there was somethin' of the kind, I recollect72. Montopolis, sir, in them days used to be a mighty73 strict place.
"Well, Mike O'Bader had a daughter then—a right pretty girl. She was too gay a sort for Montopolis, so one day she slips off to another town and runs away with a circus. It was two years before she comes back, all fixed74 up in fine clothes and rings and jewellery, to see Mike. He wouldn't have nothin' to do with her, so she stays around town awhile, anyway. I reckon the men folks wouldn't have raised no objections, but the women egged 'em on to order her to leave town. But she had plenty of spunk75, and told 'em to mind their own business.
"So one night they decided to run her away. A crowd of men and women drove her out of her house, and chased her with sticks and stones. She run to her father's door, callin' for help. Mike opens it, and when he sees who it is he hits her with his fist and knocks her down and shuts the door.
"And then the crowd kept on chunkin' her till she run clear out of town. And the next day they finds her drowned dead in Hunter's mill pond. I mind it all now. That was thirty year ago."
I leaned back in my non-rotary revolving chair and nodded gently, like a mandarin76, at my paste-pot.
"When old Mike has a spell," went on Uncle Abner, tepidly77 garrulous78, "he thinks he's the Wanderin' Jew."
"He is," said I, nodding away.
And Uncle Abner cackled insinuatingly79 at the editor's remark, for he was expecting at least a "stickful" in the "Personal Notes" of the Bugle.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
bugle
|
|
| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
amber
|
|
| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
revolving
|
|
| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
oligarchies
|
|
| n.寡头统治的政府( oligarchy的名词复数 )；寡头政治的执政集团；寡头统治的国家 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
prey
|
|
| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
twilight
|
|
| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
trenchant
|
|
| adj.尖刻的，清晰的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
hydra
|
|
| n.水螅；难于根除的祸患 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
walnut
|
|
| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
rust
|
|
| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
weird
|
|
| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
honourable
|
|
| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
fumbled
|
|
| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
forth
|
|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
maker
|
|
| n.制造者，制造商 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
Christian
|
|
| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
condemned
|
|
| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
thereby
|
|
| adv.因此，从而 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
condemning
|
|
| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
judgment
|
|
| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
conversational
|
|
| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
poignantly
|
|
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
distressful
|
|
| adj.苦难重重的，不幸的，使苦恼的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
decided
|
|
| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
celebrated
|
|
| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
whitewash
|
|
| v.粉刷，掩饰；n.石灰水，粉刷，掩饰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
belligerently
|
|
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
liars
|
|
| 说谎者( liar的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
blister
|
|
| n.水疱；(油漆等的)气泡；v.(使)起泡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
trot
|
|
| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
sect
|
|
| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
Christians
|
|
| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
housekeeper
|
|
| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
lumber
|
|
| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
stump
|
|
| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
fiddled
|
|
| v.伪造( fiddle的过去式和过去分词 )；篡改；骗取；修理或稍作改动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
decency
|
|
| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
egregious
|
|
| adj.非常的，过分的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
levity
|
|
| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
whined
|
|
| v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
engraving
|
|
| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
cherubs
|
|
| 小天使，胖娃娃( cherub的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
blurred
|
|
| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
construed
|
|
| v.解释（陈述、行为等）( construe的过去式和过去分词 )；翻译，作句法分析 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
lame
|
|
| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
coffin
|
|
| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
turnips
|
|
| 芜青( turnip的名词复数 )； 芜菁块根； 芜菁甘蓝块根； 怀表 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
mariner
|
|
| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
grovelled
|
|
| v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的过去式和过去分词 )；趴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
soothingly
|
|
| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
sobs
|
|
| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
assuage
|
|
| v.缓和，减轻，镇定 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
gale
|
|
| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
Augmented
|
|
| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
warped
|
|
| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
firmamental
|
|
| adj.天空的，苍天的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
plovers
|
|
| n.珩，珩科鸟（如凤头麦鸡）( plover的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
shuffled
|
|
| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
capillaries
|
|
| 毛细管，毛细血管( capillary的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
unfamiliar
|
|
| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
dingy
|
|
| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
honking
|
|
| v.（使）发出雁叫似的声音，鸣（喇叭），按（喇叭）( honk的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
woe
|
|
| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
sanely
|
|
| ad.神志清楚地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
browsed
|
|
| v.吃草( browse的过去式和过去分词 )；随意翻阅；（在商店里）随便看看；（在计算机上）浏览信息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
promulgation
|
|
| n.颁布 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
trickle
|
|
| vi.淌，滴，流出，慢慢移动，逐渐消散 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
aberration
|
|
| n.离开正路，脱离常规，色差 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
recollect
|
|
| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
mighty
|
|
| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
spunk
|
|
| n.勇气，胆量 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
Mandarin
|
|
| n.中国官话，国语，满清官吏；adj.华丽辞藻的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
tepidly
|
|
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
78
garrulous
|
|
| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
insinuatingly
|
|
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |