Every autumn the town of W—— sends me a tax-bill, a kindly1 remembrance for which I never fail of feeling grateful. It is pleasant to know that after all these years there still remains2 one man in the old town who cherishes my memory,—though it be only "this publican." Besides, to speak frankly3, there is a measure of satisfaction in being reminded now and then of my dignity as a landed proprietor4. One may be never so rich in stocks and bonds, government consols and what not, but, acceptable as such "securities" are, they are after all not quite the same as a section of the solid globe itself. True, this species of what we may call astronomic5 or planetary property will sometimes prove comparatively unremunerative. Here in New England (I know not what may be true elsewhere) there is a class of people whom it is common to hear gossiped about compassionately6 as "land poor." But, however scanty7 the income to be derived8 from it, a landed investment is at least substantial. It will never fail its possessor entirely9. If it starve him, it will offer him a grave. It has the prime quality of permanence. At the very worst, it will last as long as it is needed. Railroads may be "wrecked," banks be broken, governments become bankrupt, and we be left to mourn; but when the earth departs we shall go with it. Yes, the ancient form of speech is correct,—land is real; as the modern phrase goes, translating Latin into Saxon, land is the thing; and though we can scarcely reckon it among the necessaries of life, since so many do without it, we may surely esteem10 it one of the least dispensable of luxuries.
But I was beginning to speak of my tax-bill, and must not omit to mention a further advantage of real estate over other forms of property. It is certain not to be overlooked by the town assessors. Its proprietor is never shut up to the necessity of either advertising11 his own good fortune, or else submitting to pay less than his rightful share of the public expenses,—a merciful deliverance, for in such a strait, where either modesty12 or integrity must go to the wall, it is hard for human nature to be sure of itself.
To my thinking there is no call upon a man's purse which should be responded to with greater alacrity13 than this of the tax-gatherer. In what cause ought we to spend freely, if not in that of home and country? I have heard, indeed, of some who do not agree with me in this feeling. Possibly tax-rates are now and then exorbitant14. Possibly, too, my own view of the subject might be different were my quota15 of the public levy16 more considerable. This year, for instance, I am called upon for seventy-three cents; if the demand were for as many dollars, who knows whether I might not welcome it with less enthusiasm? On such a point it would be unbecoming for me to speak. Enough that even with my fraction of a dollar I am able to rejoice that I have a share in all the town's multifarious outlay17. If an additional fire-engine is bought, or a new school-house built, or the public library replenished18, it is done in part out of my pocket.
Here, however, let me make a single exception. I seldom go home (such language still escapes me involuntarily) without finding that one or another of the old roads has been newly repaired. I hope that no mill of my annual seventy or eighty cents goes into work of that sort. The roads—such as I have in mind—are out of the way and little traveled, and, in my opinion, were better left to take care of themselves. There is no artist but will testify that a crooked19 road is more picturesque20 than a straight one; while a natural border of alder21 bushes, grape-vines, Roxbury wax-work, Virginia creeper, wild cherry, and such like is an inexpensive decoration of the very best sort, such as the Village Improvement Society ought never to allow any highway surveyor to lay his hands on, unless in some downright exigency22. What a short-sighted policy it is that provides for the comfort of the feet, but makes no account of those more intellectual and spiritual pleasures which enter through the eye! It may be answered, I know, that in matters of general concern it is necessary to consult the greatest good of the greatest number; and that, while all the inhabitants of the town are supplied with feet, comparatively few of them have eyes. There is force in this, it must be admitted. Possibly the highway surveyor (the highwayman, I was near to writing) is not so altogether wrong in his "improvements." At all events, it is not worth while for me to make the question one of conscience, and go to jail rather than pay my taxes, as Thoreau did. Let it suffice to enter my protest. Whatever others may desire, for myself, as often as I revisit W——, I wish to be able to repeat with unction the words of W——'s only poet,[5:1]—
"How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood!"
And how am I to do that, if the "scenes" have been modernized24 past recognition?
My own landed possessions are happily remote from roads. Not till long after my day will the "tide of progress" bring them "into the market," as the real-estate brokers25 are fond of saying. I have never yet been troubled with the importunities of would-be purchasers. Indeed, it is a principal recommendation of woodland property that one's sense of proprietorship27 is so little liable to be disturbed. I often reflect how altered the case would be were my fraction of an acre in some peculiarly desirable location near the centre of the village. Then I could hardly avoid knowing that the neighbors were given to speculating among themselves about my probable selling price; once in a while I should be confronted with a downright offer; and what assurance could I feel that somebody would not finally tempt28 me beyond my strength, and actually buy me out? As it is, my land is mine; and, unless extreme poverty overtakes me, mine it is reasonably certain to remain, till death shall separate us.
Whatever contributes to render life interesting and enjoyable goes so far toward making difficult its final inevitable29 surrender; and it must be confessed that the thought of my wood-lot increases my otherwise natural regret at being already so well along on my journey. In a sense I feel my own existence to be bound up with that of my pine-trees; or, to speak more exactly, that their existence is bound up with mine. For it is a sort of unwritten but inexorable law in W——, as in fact it appears to be throughout New England, that no pine must ever be allowed to reach more than half its normal growth; so that my trees are certain to fall under the axe23 as soon as their present owner is out of the way. I am not much given to superstition30. There are no longer any dryads, it is to be presumed; and if there were, it is not clear that they would be likely to take up with pines; but for all that, I cherish an almost affectionate regard for any trees with which I have become familiar. I have mourned the untimely fate of many; and now, seeing that I have been entrusted31 with the guardianship32 of these few, I hold myself under a kind of sacred obligation to live as long as possible, for their sakes.
It is now a little less than a fortnight since I paid them a visit. The path runs through the wood for perhaps half a mile; and, as I sauntered along, I heard every few rods the thump33 of falling acorns34, though there was barely wind enough to sway the tree-tops. "Mother Earth has begun her harvesting in good earnest," I thought. The present is what the squirrels call a good year. They will laugh and grow fat. Their oak orchards35 have seldom done better, the chestnut36 oaks in particular, the handsome, rosy-tipped acorns of which are noticeably abundant.
This interesting tree, so like the chestnut itself in both bark and leaf, is unfortunately not to be found in my own lot; at any rate, I have never discovered it there, although it grows freely only a short distance away. But I have never explored the ground with anything like thoroughness, and, to tell the truth, am not at all certain that I know just where the boundaries run. In this respect my real estate is not unlike my intellectual possessions; concerning which I often find it impossible to determine what is actually mine and what another's. I have written an essay before now, and at the end been more or less in doubt where to set the quotation37 marks. For that matter, indeed, I incline to believe that the whole tract38 of woods in the midst of which my little spot is situated39 belongs to me quite as really as to the various persons who claim the legal ownership. Not many of these latter, I am confident, get a better annual income from the property than I do; and even in law, we are told, possession counts for nine points out of the ten. They are never to be found at home when I call, and I feel no scruple40 about carrying away whatever I please. My treasures, be it said, however, are chiefly of an impalpable sort,—mostly thoughts and feelings, though with a few flowers and ferns now and then; the one set about as valuable as the other, the proprietors26 of the land would probably think.
In one aspect of the case, the lot which is more strictly41 my own is just now in a very interesting condition, though one that, unhappily, is far from being uncommon42. Except the pines already mentioned (only six or eight in number), the wood was entirely cut off a few years before I came into possession, and at present the place is covered with a thicket43 of vines, bushes, and young trees, all engaged in an almost desperate struggle for existence. When the ground was cleared, every seed in it bestirred itself and came up; others made haste to enter from without; and ever since then the battle has been going on. It is curious to consider how changed the appearance of things will be at the end of fifty years, should nature be left till then to take its course. By that time the contest will for the most part be over. At least nineteen twentieths of all the plants that enlisted44 in the fight will have been killed, and where now is a dense45 mass of shrubbery will be a grove46 of lordly trees, with the ground underneath47 broad-spaced and clear. A noble result; but achieved at what a cost! If one were likely himself to live so long, it would be worth while to catalogue the species now in the field, for the sake of comparing the list with a similar one of half a century later. The contrast would be an impressive sermon on the mutability of mundane48 things. But we shall be past the need of preaching, most of us, before that day arrives, and not unlikely shall have been ourselves preached about in enforcement of the same trite49 theme.
Thoughts of this kind came to me the other afternoon, as I stood in the path (what is known as the town path cuts the lot in two) and looked about. So much was going on in this bit of earth, itself the very centre of the universe to multitudes of living things. The city out of which I had come was not more densely50 populous51. Here at my elbow stood a group of sassafras saplings, remnants of a race that has held the ground for nobody knows how long. One of my earliest recollections of the place is of coming hither to dig for fragrant52 roots. At that time it had never dawned upon me that the owner of the land would some day die, and leave it to me, his heir. How hard and rocky the ground was! And how hard we worked for a very little bark! Yet few of my pleasures have lasted better. The spicy53 taste is in my mouth still. Even in those days I remarked the glossy54 green twigs55 of this elegant species, as well as the unique and beautiful variety of its leaves,—some entire and oval, others mitten-shaped, and others yet three-lobed; an extremely pretty bit of originality56, suiting admirably with the general comely57 habit of this tree. There are some trees, as some men, that seem born to dress well.
Along with the sassafras I was delighted to find one or two small specimens58 of the flowering dogwood (Cornus florida),—another original genius, and one which I now for the first time became acquainted with as a tenant59 of my own. Its deeply veined leaves are not in any way remarkable60 (unless it be for their varied61 autumnal tints), and are all fashioned after one pattern. Its blossoms, too, are small and inconspicuous; but these it sets round with large white bracts (universally mistaken for petals62 by the uninitiated), and in flowering time it is beyond comparison the showiest tree in the woods, while its fruit is the brightest of coral red. I hope these saplings of mine may hold their own in the struggle for life, and be flourishing in all their beauty when my successor goes to look at them fifty years hence.
Having spoken of the originality of the sassafras and the dogwood, I must not fail to mention their more abundant neighbor, the witch-hazel, or hamamelis. In comparison with its wild freak of singularity, the modest idiosyncrasies of the other two seem almost conventional. Why, if not for sheer oddity's sake, should any bush in this latitude63 hold back its blossoms till near the edge of winter? As I looked at the half-grown buds, clustered in the axils of the yellow leaves, they appeared to be waiting for the latter to fall, that they might have the sunlight all to themselves. They will need it, one would say, in our bleak64 November weather.
Overfull of life as my wild garden patch was, it would not have kept its (human) possessor very long from starvation. One or two barberry bushes made a brave show of fruitfulness; but the handsome clusters were not yet ripe, and even at their best they are more ornamental65 than nutritive,—though, after the frost has cooked them, one may go farther and fare worse. A few stunted66 maple-leaved viburnums (this plant's originality is imitative,—a not uncommon sort, by the bye) proffered67 scanty cymes of dark purplish drupes. Here and there was a spike68 of red berries, belonging to the false Solomon's-seal or false spikenard (what a pity this worthy69 herb should not have some less negative title!); but these it would have been a shame to steal from the grouse70. Not far off a single black alder was reddening its fruit, which all the while it hugged close to the stem, as if in dread71 lest some chance traveler should be attracted by the bright color. It need not have trembled, for this time at least. I had just dined, and was tempted72 by nothing save two belated blackberries, the very last of the year's crop, and a single sassafras leaf, mucilaginous and savory73, admirable as a relish74. A few pigeon-berries might have been found, I dare say, had I searched for them, and possibly a few sporadic75 checkerberries; while right before my eyes was a vine loaded with large bunches of very small frost-grapes, such as for hardness would have served well enough for school-boys' marbles. Everything has its favorable side, however; and probably the birds counted it a blessing76 that the grapes were small and hard and sour; else greedy men would have come with baskets and carried them all away. Except some scattered77 rose-hips, I have enumerated78 everything that looked edible79, I believe, though a hungry man's eyes might have lengthened80 the list materially. The cherry-trees, hickories, and oaks were not yet in bearing, as the horticultural phrase is; but I was glad to run upon a clump81 of bayberry bushes, which offer nothing good to eat, to be sure, but are excellent to smell of. The leaves always seem to invite crushing, and I never withhold82 my hand.
Among the crowd of young trees—scrub oaks, red oaks, white oaks, cedars83, ashes, hickories, birches, maples84, aspens, sumachs, and hornbeams—was a single tupelo. The distinguished85 name honors my catalogue, but I am half sorry to have it there. For, with all its sturdiness, the tupelo does not bear competition, and I foresee plainly that my unlucky adventurer will inevitably86 find itself overshadowed by more rapid growers, and be dwarfed87 and deformed88, if not killed outright89. Some of the very strongest natures (and the remark is of general application) require to be planted [16]in the open, where they can be free to develop in their own way and at leisure. But this representative of Nyssa multiflora took the only chance that offered, I presume, as the rest of us must do.
Happy the humble90! who aspire91 not to lofty things, demanding the lapse92 of years for their fulfillment, but are content to set before themselves some lesser93 task, such as the brevity of a single season may suffice to accomplish. Here were the asters and golden-rods already finishing their course in glory, while the tupelo was still barely getting under way in a race which, however prolonged, was all but certain to terminate in failure. Of the golden-rods I noted94 four species, including the white—which might appropriately be called silvery-rod—and the blue-stemmed. The latter (Solidago cæsia) is to my eye the prettiest of all that grow with us, though it is nearly the least obtrusive95. It is rarely, if ever, found outside of woods, and ought to bear some name (sylvan golden-rod, perhaps) indicative of the fact.
As a rule, fall flowers have little delicacy96 and fragrance97. They are children of the summer; and, loving the sun, have had almost an excess of good fortune. With such pampering98, it is no wonder they grow rank and coarse. They would be more than human, I was going to say, if they did not. It is left for stern winter's progeny99, the blossoms of early spring-time, who struggle upward through the snow and are blown upon by chilly100 winds,—it is left for these gentle creatures, at once so hardy101 and so frail102, to illustrate103 the sweet uses of adversity.
All in all, it was a motley company which I beheld104 thus huddled105 together in my speck106 of forest clearing. Even the lands beyond the sea were represented, for here stood mullein and yarrow, contesting the ground with oaks and hickories. The smaller wood flowers were not wanting, of course, though none of them were now in bloom. Pyrola and winter-green, violets (the common blue sort and the leafy-stemmed yellow), strawberry and five-finger, saxifrage and columbine, rock-rose and bed-straw, self-heal and wood-sorrel,—these, and no doubt many more, were there, filling the chinks otherwise unoccupied.
My assortment107 of ferns is small, but I noted seven species: the brake, the polypody, the hay-scented, and four species of shield-ferns,—Aspidium Noveboracense, Aspidium spinulosum, variety intermedium, Aspidium marginale, and the Christmas fern, Aspidium acrostichoides. The last named is the one of which I am proudest. For years I have been in the habit of coming hither at Christmas time to gather the fronds108, which are then as bright and fresh as in June. Two of the others, the polypody and Aspidium marginale, are evergreen109 also, but they are coarser in texture110 and of a less lively color. Writing of these flowerless beauties, I am tempted to exclaim again, "Happy the humble!" The brake is much the largest and stoutest111 of the seven, but it is by a long time the first to be cut down before the frost.
Should I ever meet with reverses, as the wealthiest and most prudent112 are liable to do, and be compelled to part with my woodland inheritance, I shall count it expedient113 to seek a purchaser in the spring. At that season its charms are greatly enhanced by a lively brook114. This comes tumbling down the hill-side, dashing against the bowlders (of which the land has plenty), and altogether acting115 like a thing not born to die; but alas116, the early summer sees it make an end, to wait the melting of next winter's snow. Many a happy hour did I, as a youngster, pass upon its banks, watching with wonder the swarms117 of tiny insects which darkened the foam118 and the snow, and even filmed the surface of the brook itself. I marveled then, as I do now, why such creatures should be out so early. Possibly our very prompt March friend, the phœbe, could suggest an explanation.
A break in the forest is of interest not only to such plants as I have been remarking upon, but also to various species of birds. No doubt the towhee, the brown thrush, and the cat-bird found out this spot years ago, and have been using it ever since for summer quarters. Indeed, a cat-bird snarled119 at me for an intruder this very September afternoon, though he himself was most likely nothing more than a chance pilgrim going South. This member of the noble wren120 family and near cousin of the mocking-bird would be better esteemed121 if he were to drop that favorite feline122 call of his. But this is his bit of originality (imitative, like the maple-leaved viburnum's), and perhaps, if justice were done, it would be put down to his credit rather than made an occasion of ill-will.
Once during the afternoon a company of chickadees happened in upon me; and, taking my cue from the newspaper folk, I immediately essayed an interview. My imitation of their conversational123 notes was hardly begun before one of the birds flew toward me, and, alighting near by, proceeded to answer my calls with a mimicry124 so exact, as fairly to be startling. To all appearance the quick-witted fellow had taken the game into his own hands. Instead of my deceiving him, he would probably go back and entertain his associates with amusing accounts of how cleverly he had fooled a stranger, out yonder in the bushes.
It would have seemed a graceful125 and appropriate acknowledgment of my rightful ownership of the land on which the cat-bird and the titmice were foraging126, had [21]they greeted me with songs. But it would hardly have been courteous127 for me to propose the matter, and evidently it did not occur to them. At all events, I heard no music except the hoarse128 and solemn asseverations of the katydids, the gentler message of the crickets, and in the distance an occasional roll-call of the grouse. My dog—who is a much better sportsman than myself, but whose companionship, I am ashamed to see, has not till now been mentioned—was all the while making forays hither and thither129 into the surrounding woods; and once in a while I heard, what is the best of all music in his ears, the whir of "partridge" wings. Likely as not he thought it a queer freak on my part to spend the afternoon thus idly, when with a gun I might have been so much more profitably employed. He could not know that I was satiating myself with a miser's delights, feasting my eyes upon my own. In truth, I fancy he takes it for granted that the whole forest belongs to me—and to him. Perhaps it does. As I said just now, I sometimes think so myself.
该作者的其它作品
The Clerk of the Woods
该作者的其它作品
The Clerk of the Woods
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1
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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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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astronomic
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| 天文学的，星学的 | |
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compassionately
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| adv.表示怜悯地，有同情心地 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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12
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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exorbitant
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| adj.过分的；过度的 | |
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quota
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| n.（生产、进出口等的）配额，（移民的）限额 | |
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levy
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| n.征收税或其他款项，征收额 | |
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outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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replenished
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| 补充( replenish的过去式和过去分词 )； 重新装满 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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alder
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| n.赤杨树 | |
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exigency
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| n.紧急；迫切需要 | |
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axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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modernized
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| 使现代化，使适应现代需要( modernize的过去式和过去分词 )； 现代化，使用现代方法 | |
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brokers
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| n.（股票、外币等）经纪人( broker的名词复数 )；中间人；代理商；（订合同的）中人v.做掮客（或中人等）( broker的第三人称单数 )；作为权力经纪人进行谈判；以中间人等身份安排… | |
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proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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proprietorship
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| n.所有（权）；所有权 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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guardianship
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| n. 监护, 保护, 守护 | |
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thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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acorns
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| n.橡子，栎实( acorn的名词复数 ) | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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45
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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46
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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47
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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48
mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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49
trite
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| adj.陈腐的 | |
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50
densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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51
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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52
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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53
spicy
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| adj.加香料的；辛辣的，有风味的 | |
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54
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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55
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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56
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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57
comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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58
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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59
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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60
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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61
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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63
latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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66
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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67
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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spike
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| n.长钉，钉鞋；v.以大钉钉牢，使...失效 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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grouse
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| n.松鸡；v.牢骚，诉苦 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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73
savory
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| adj.风味极佳的，可口的，味香的 | |
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74
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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75
sporadic
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| adj.偶尔发生的 [反]regular；分散的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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enumerated
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| v.列举，枚举，数( enumerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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edible
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| n.食品，食物；adj.可食用的 | |
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lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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84
maples
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| 槭树，枫树( maple的名词复数 )； 槭木 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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87
dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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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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aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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93
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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95
obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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96
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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97
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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98
pampering
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| v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的现在分词 ) | |
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99
progeny
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| n.后代，子孙；结果 | |
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100
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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101
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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102
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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103
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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104
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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105
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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106
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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107
assortment
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| n.分类，各色俱备之物，聚集 | |
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108
fronds
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| n.蕨类或棕榈类植物的叶子( frond的名词复数 ) | |
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109
evergreen
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| n.常青树；adj.四季常青的 | |
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110
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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111
stoutest
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| 粗壮的( stout的最高级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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112
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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113
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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114
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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115
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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116
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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117
swarms
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| 蜂群，一大群( swarm的名词复数 ) | |
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118
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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119
snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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120
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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121
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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122
feline
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| adj.猫科的 | |
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123
conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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124
mimicry
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| n.（生物）拟态，模仿 | |
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125
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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126
foraging
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| v.搜寻（食物），尤指动物觅（食）( forage的现在分词 )；（尤指用手）搜寻（东西） | |
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127
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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128
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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129
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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