I fall in with persons, now and then, who profess2 to care nothing for a path when walking in the woods. They do not choose to travel in other people's footsteps,—nay, nor even in their own,—but count it their mission to lay out a new road every time they go afield. They are welcome to their freak. My own genius for adventure is less highly developed; and, to be frank, I have never learned to look upon affectation and whim3 as synonymous with originality4. In my eyes, it is nothing against a hill that other men have climbed it before me; and if their feet have worn a trail, so much the better. I not only reach the summit more easily, but have company on the way,—company none the less to my mind, perhaps, for being silent and invisible. It is well enough to strike into the trackless forest once in a while; to wander you know not whither, and come out you know not where; to lie down in a strange place, and for an hour imagine yourself the explorer of a new continent: but if the mind be awake (as, alas5, too often it is not), you may walk where you will, in never so well known a corner, and you will see new things, and think new thoughts, and return to your house a new man, which, I venture to believe, is after all the main consideration. Indeed, if your stirring abroad is to be more than mere6 muscular exercise, you will find a positive advantage in making use of some well-worn and familiar path. The feet will follow it mechanically, and so the mind—that is, the walker himself—will be left undistracted. That, to my thinking, is the real tour of discovery wherein one keeps to the beaten road, looks at the customary sights, but brings home a new idea.
There are inward moods, as well as outward conditions, in which an old, half-disused, bush-bordered road becomes the saunterer's paradise. I have several such in my eye at this moment, but especially one, in which my feet, years ago, grew to feel at home. It is an almost ideal loitering place, or would be, if only it were somewhat longer. How many hundreds of times have I traveled it, spring and summer, autumn and winter! As I go over it now, the days of my youth come back to me, clothed all of them in that soft, benignant light which nothing but distance can bestow7, whether upon hills or days. This gracious effect is heightened, no doubt, by the fact that for a good while past my visits to the place have been only occasional. Memory and imagination are true yoke-fellows, and between them are always preparing some new pleasure for us, as often as we allow them opportunity. The other day, for instance, as I came to the top of the hill just beyond the river, I turned suddenly to the right, looking for an old pear-tree. I had not thought of it for years, and the more I have since tried to recall its appearance and exact whereabouts, the less confident have I grown that it ever had any material existence; but somehow, just at that moment my mouth seemed to recollect8 it; and in general I have come to put faith in such involuntary and, if I may say so, sensible joggings of the memory. I wonder whether the tree ever was there—or anywhere. At all events, the thought of it gave me for the moment a pleasure more real than any taste in the mouth, were it never so sweet. Thank fortune, imaginative delights are as far as possible from being imaginary.
The river just mentioned runs under the road, and, as will readily be inferred, is one of its foremost attractions. I speak of it as a "river" with some misgivings9. It is a rather large brook10, or a very small river; but a man who has never been able to leap across it has perhaps no right to deny it the more honorable appellation11. Its source is a spacious12 and beautiful sheet of water, which heretofore has been known as a "pond," but which I should be glad to believe would hereafter be put upon the maps as Lake Wessagusset. This brook or river, call it whichever you please, goes meandering13 through the township in a northeasterly direction, turning the wheels of half a dozen mills, more or less, on its [49]way; a sluggish14 stream, too lazy to work, you would think; passing much of its time in flat, grassy15 meadows, where it idles along as if it realized that the end of its course was near, and felt in no haste to lose itself in the salt sea. Out of this stream I pulled goodly numbers of perch16, pickerel, shiners, flatfish, and hornpouts, while I was still careless-hearted enough ("Heaven lies about us in our infancy") to enjoy this very amiable17 and semi-religious form of "sport;" and as the river intersects at least seven roads that came within my boyish beat, I must have crossed it thousands of times; in addition to which I have spent days in paddling and bathing in it. Altogether, it is one of my most familiar friends; and—what one cannot say of all familiar friends—I do not remember that it ever served me the slightest ill-turn. It passes under the road of which I am now discoursing18, in a double channel (the bridge being supported midway by a stone wall), and then broadens out into an artificial shallow, through which travelers may drive if they will, to let their horses drink out of the stream. First and last, I have improved many a shining hour on this bridge, leaning industriously19 over the railing. I can see the rocky bed at this moment,—yes, and the very shape and position of some of the stones, as I saw them thirty years ago; especially of one, on which we used to balance ourselves to dip up the water or to peer under the bridge. In those days, if we essayed to be uncommonly20 adventurous21, we waded22 through this low and somewhat dark passage; a gruesome proceeding23, as we were compelled to stoop a little, short as we were, to save our heads, while the road, to our imagination, seemed in momentary24 danger of caving in upon us. Courage, like all other human virtues25, is but a relative attribute. Possibly the heroic deeds upon which in our grown-up estate we plume26 ourselves are not greatly more meritorious27 or wonderful than were some of the childish ventures at the recollection of which we now condescend28 to feel amused.
On the surface of the brook flourished two kinds of insects, whose manner of life we never tired of watching. One sort had long, wide-spreading legs, and by us were known as "skaters," from their movements (to this day, I blush to confess, I have no other name for them); the others were flat, shining, orbicular or oblong, lead-colored bugs29,—"lucky bugs" I have heard them called,—and lay flat upon the water, as if quite without limbs; but they darted30 over the brook, and even against the current, with noticeable activity, and doubtless were well supplied with paddles. Once in a while we saw a fish here, but only on rare occasions. The great unfailing attraction of the place, then as now, was the flowing water, forever spending and never spent. The insects lived upon it; apparently31 they had no power to leave it for an instant; but they were not carried away by it. Happy creatures! We, alas, sporting upon the river of time, can neither dive below the surface nor mount into the ether, and, unlike the insects ("lucky bugs," indeed!), we have no option but to move with the tide. We have less liberty than the green flags, even, which grow in scattered32 tufts in the bed of the brook; whose leaves point forever down stream, like so many index fingers, as if they said, "Yes, yes, that is the way to the sea; that way we all must go;" while for themselves, nevertheless, they manage to hold on by their roots, victorious33 even while professing34 to yield.
To my mind the river is alive. Reason about it as I will, I never can make it otherwise. I could sooner believe in water nymphs than in many existences which are commonly treated as much more certain matters of fact. I could believe in them, I say; but in reality I do not. My communings are not with any haunter of the river, but with the living soul of the river itself. It lags under the vine-covered alders35, hastens through the bridge, then slips carelessly down a little descent, where it breaks into singing, then into a mill-pond and out again, and so on and on, through one experience after another; and all the time it is not dead water, but a river, a thing of life and motion. After all, it is not for me to say what is alive and what dead. As yet, indeed, I do not so much as know what life is. In certain moods, in what I fondly call my better moments, I feel measurably sure of being alive myself; but even on that point, for aught I can tell, the brook may entertain some private doubts.
Just beyond the bridge is an ancient apple orchard36. This was already falling into decay when I was a boy, and the many years that have elapsed since then have nearly completed its demolition37; although I dare say the present generation of school-boys still find it worth while to clamber over the wall, as they journey back and forth38. Probably it will be no surprise to the owner of the place if I tell him that before I was twelve years old I knew the taste of all his apples. In fact, the orchard was so sequestered39, so remote from any house,—especially from its proprietor's,—that it hardly seemed a sin to rob it. It was not so much an orchard as a bit of woodland; and besides, we never shook the trees, but only helped ourselves to windfalls; and it must be a severe moralist who calls that stealing. Why should the fruit drop off, if not to be picked up? In my time, at all events, such appropriations40 were never accounted robbery, though the providential absence of the owner was unquestionably a thing to be thankful for. He would never begrudge41 us the apples, of course, for he was rich and presumably generous; but it was quite as well for him to be somewhere else while we were gathering42 up these favors which the winds of heaven had shaken down for our benefit. There is something of the special pleader in most of us, it is to be feared, whether young or old. If we are put to it, we can draw a very fine distinction (in our own favor), no matter how obtuse43 we may seem on ordinary occasions.
Remembering how voracious44 and undiscriminating my juvenile45 appetite was, I cannot help wondering that I am still alive,—a feeling which I doubt not is shared by many a man who, like myself, had a country bringing-up. We must have been born with something more than a spark of life, else it would certainly have been smothered46 long ago by the fuel so recklessly heaped upon it. But we lived out-of-doors, took abundant exercise, were not studious overmuch (as all boys and girls are charged with being nowadays), and had little to worry about, which may go far to explain the mystery.
It provokes a smile to reckon up the many places along this old road that are indissolubly connected in my mind with the question of something to eat. At the foot of the orchard just now spoken of, for example, is a dilapidated stone wall, between it and the river. Over this, as well as over the bushes beside it, straggled a small wild grape-vine, bearing every year a scanty47 crop of white grapes. These, to our unsophisticated palates, were delicious, if only they got ripe. That was the rub; and as a rule we gathered our share of them (which was all there were) while they were yet several stages short of that desirable consummation, not deeming it prudent48 to leave them longer, lest some hungrier soul should get the start of us. Graping, as we called it, was one of our regular autumn industries, and there were few vines within the circle of our perambulations which did not feel our fingers tugging49 at them at least once a year. Some of them hung well over the river; others took refuge in the tops of trees; but by hook or by crook50, we usually got the better of such perversities. No doubt the fruit was all bad enough; but some of it was sweeter (or less sour) than other. Perhaps the best vine was one that covered a certain superannuated51 apple-tree, half a mile west of our river-side orchard, before mentioned. Here I might have been seen by the hour, eagerly yet cautiously venturing out upon the decayed and doubtful limbs, in quest of this or that peculiarly tempting52 bunch. These grapes were purple (how well some things are remembered!), and were sweeter then than Isabellas or Catawbas are now. Such is the degeneracy of vines in these modern days!
Altogether more important than the grapes were the huckleberries, for which, also, we four times out of five took this same famous by-road. Speaking roughly, I may say that we depended upon seven pastures for our supplies, and were accustomed to visit them in something like regular order. It is kindly53 provided that huckleberry bushes have an exceptionally strong tendency to vary. We possessed54 no theories upon the subject, and knew nothing of disputed questions about species and varieties; but we were not without a good degree of practical information. Here was [57]a bunch of bushes, for instance, covered with black, shiny, pear-shaped berries, very numerous, but very small. They would do moderately well in default of better. Another patch, perhaps but a few rods removed, bore large globular berries, less glossy55 than the others, but still black. These, as we expressed it, "filled up" much faster than the others, though not nearly so "thick." Blue berries (not blueberries, but blue huckleberries) were common enough, and we knew one small cluster of plants, the fruit of which was white, a variety that I have since found noted56 by Doctor Gray as very rare. Unhappily, this freak made so little impression upon me as a boy that while I am clear as to the fact, and feel sure of the pasture, I have no distinct recollection of the exact spot where the eccentric bushes grew. I should like to know whether they still persist. Gray's Manual, by the way, makes no mention of the blue varieties, but lays it down succinctly57 that the fruit of Gaylussacia resinosa is black.
The difference we cared most about, however, related not to color, shape, or size, but to the time of ripening59. Diversity of habit in this regard was indeed a great piece of good fortune, not to be rightly appreciated without horrible imaginings of how short the season of berry pies and puddings would be if all the berries matured at once. You may be sure we never forgot where the early sorts were to be found, and where the late. What hours upon hours we spent in the broiling60 sun, picking into some half-pint61 vessel62, and emptying that into a larger receptacle, safely stowed away under some cedar-tree or barberry bush. How proud we were of our heaped-up pails! How carefully we discarded from the top every half-ripe or otherwise imperfect specimen63! (So early do well-taught Yankee children develop one qualification for the diaconate.) The sun had certain minor64 errands to look after, we might have admitted, even in those midsummer days, but his principal business was to ripen58 huckleberries. So it seemed then. And now—well, men are but children still, and for them, too, their own little round is the centre of the world.
All these pastures had names, of course, well understood by us children, though I am not sure how generally they would have been recognized by the townspeople. The first in order was River Pasture, the owner of which turned his cattle into it, and every few years mowed65 the bushes, with the result that the berries, whenever there were any, were uncommonly large and handsome. Not far beyond this (the entrance was through a "pair of bars," beside a spreading white oak) was Millstone Pasture. This was a large, straggling place, half pasture, half wood, full of nooks and corners, with by-paths running hither and thither66, and named after two large bowlders, which lay one on top of the other. We used to clamber upon these to eat our luncheon67, thinking within ourselves, meanwhile, that the Indians must have been men of prodigious68 strength. At that time, though I scarcely know how to own it, glacial action was a thing by us unheard of. We are wiser now,—on that point, at any rate. Two of the other pastures were called respectively after the railroad and a big pine-tree (there was a big pine-tree in W—— once, for I myself have seen the stump69), while the remainder took their names from their owners, real or reputed; and as some of these appellations70 were rather disrespectfully abbreviated71, it may be as well to omit setting them down in print.
To all these places we resorted a little later in the season for blackberries, and later still for barberries. In one or two of them we set snares72, also, but without materially lessening73 the quantity of game. The rabbits, especially, always helped themselves to the bait, and left us the noose74. At this distance of time I do not begrudge them their good fortune. I hope they are all alive yet, including the youngster that we once caught in our hands and brought home, and then, in a fit of contrition75, carried back again to its native heath.
All in all, the berries that we prized most, perhaps, were those that came first, and were at the same time least abundant. Yankee children will understand at once that I mean the checkerberries, or, as we were more accustomed to call them, the boxberries. The very first mild days in March, if the snow happened to be mostly gone, saw us on this same old road bound for one of the places where we thought ourselves most likely to find a few (possibly a pint or two, but more probably a handful or two) of these humble76 but spicy77 fruits. Not that the plants were not plentiful78 enough in all directions, but it was only in certain spots (or rather in very uncertain spots, since these were continually shifting) that they were ever in good bearing condition. We came after a while to understand that the best crops were produced for two or three years after the cutting off of the wood in suitable localities. Letting in the sunlight seems to have the effect of starting into sudden fruitfulness this hardy79, persistent80 little plant, although I never could discover that it thrived better for growing permanently81 in an open, sunny field. Perhaps it requires an unexpected change of condition, a providential nudge, as it were, to jog it into activity, like some poets. Whatever the explanation, we used now and then in recent clearings (and nowhere else) to find the ground fairly red with berries. Those were red-letter days in our calendar. How handsome such a patch of rose-color was (though we made haste to despoil82 it), circling an old stump or a bowlder! The berries were pleasant to the eye and good for food; but after all, their principal attractiveness lay in the fact that they came right upon the heels of winter. They were the first-fruits of the new year (ripened the year before, to be sure), and to our thinking were fit to be offered upon any altar, no matter how sacred.
I have called the subject of my loving meditations83 a by-road. Formerly84 it was the main thoroughfare between two villages, but shortly after my acquaintance with it began a new and more direct one was laid out. Yet the old road, half deserted85 as it is, has not altogether escaped the ruthless hand of the improver. Within my time it has been widened throughout, and in one place a new section has been built to cut off a curve. Fortunately, however, the discarded portion still remains86, well grown up to grass, and closely encroached upon by willows87, alders, sumachs, barberries, dogwoods, smilax, clethra, azalea, button-bush, birches, and what not, yet still passable even for carriages, [63]and more inviting88 than ever to lazy pedestrians89 like myself. On this cast-off section is a cosy90, grassy nook, shaded by a cluster of red cedars91. This was one of our favorite way-stations on summer noons. It gives me a comfortable, restful feeling to look into it even now, as if my weary limbs had reminiscences of their own connected with the place.
Right at this point stands an ancient russet-apple tree, which seems no older and brings forth no smaller apples now than it did when I first knew it. How natural it looks in every knot and branch! Strange, too, that it should be so, since I do not recall its ever contributing the first mouthful to my pleasures as a schoolboy gastronomer. In those times I judged a tree solely92 by the New Testament93 standard, very literally94 interpreted,—"By their fruits ye shall know them." Now I have other tests, and can value an old acquaintance of this kind for its picturesqueness95, though its apples be bitter as wormwood.
I am making too much of the food question, and will therefore say nothing of strawberries, raspberries, thimbleberries, cranberries96 (which last were delicious, as we took them out of their icy ovens in the spring), pig-nuts, hazel-nuts, acorns97, and the rest. Yet I will not pass by a small clump98 of dangleberry bushes (a September luxury not common in our neighborhood) and a lofty pear-tree. The latter, in truth, hardly belongs under this head; for though it bore superabundant crops of pears, not even a child was ever known to eat one. We called them iron pears, perhaps because nothing but the hottest fire could be expected to reduce them to a condition of softness. My mouth is all in a pucker99 at the mere thought of the rusty-green bullets. It did seem a pity they should be so outrageously100 hard, so absolutely untoothsome; for the tree, as I say, was a big one and provokingly prolific101, and, moreover, stood squarely upon the roadside. What a godsend we should have found it, had its fruit been a few degrees less stony102! Such incongruities103 and disappointments go far to convince me that the creation is indeed, as some theologians have taught, under a curse.
My appetite for wild fruits has grown dull with age, but meanwhile my affection for the old road has not lessened104, but rather increased. In itself the place is nowise remarkable105, a common country back road (its very name is Back Street); but all the same I "take pleasure in its stones, and favor the dust thereof." There are none of us so matter-of-fact and unsentimental, I hope, as never to have experienced the force of old associations in gilding106 the most ordinary objects. For my own part, I protest, I would give more for a single stunted107 cluster of orange-red berries from a certain small vine of Roxbury wax-work, near the entrance to Millstone Pasture aforesaid, than for a bushel of larger and handsomer specimens108 from some alien source. This old vine still holds on, I am happy to see, though it appears to have made no growth in twenty years. Long may it be spared! It was within a few rods of it, beside the path that runs into the pasture, that I shot my first bird. Newly armed with a shotgun, and on murder bent109, I turned in here; and as luck would have it, there sat the innocent creature in a birch. The temptation was too great. There followed a moment of excitement, a nervous aim, a bang, and [66]a catbird's song was hushed forever. A mean and cruel act, which I confess with shame, and have done my best to atone110 for by speaking here and there a good word for this poorly appreciated member of our native choir111. I should be glad to believe that the schoolboys of the present day are more tender-hearted than those with whom I mixed; but I am not without my doubts. As Darwin showed, all animals in the embryonic112 stage tend to reproduce ancestral characteristics; and our Anglo-Saxon ancestors (how easy it seems to believe it!) were barbarians113.
This same Millstone Pasture, by the bye, was a place of special resort at Christmas time. Here grew plenty of the trailing plant which we knew simply as "evergreen," but which now, in my superior wisdom, I call Lycopodium complanatum. This, indeed, was common in various directions, but the holly114 was much less easily found, and grew here more freely than anywhere else. The unhappy trees had a hard shift to live, so broken down were they with each recurring115 December; and the more berries they produced, the worse for them. Their anticipations116 of Christmas must have been strangely different from those of us toy-loving, candy-eating children. But who thinks of sympathizing with a tree?
As for the wayside flowers, they are, as becomes the place, of the very commonest and most old-fashioned sorts, more welcome to my eye than the choicest of rarities: golden-rods and asters in great variety and profusion117, hardhack and meadow-sweet, St. John's wort and loosestrife, violets and anemones118, self-heal and cranes-bill, and especially the lovely but little-known purple gerardia. These, with their natural companions and allies, make to me a garden of delights, whereunto my feet, as far as they find opportunity, do continually resort. What flowers ought a New Englander to love, if not such as are characteristic of New England?
And yet, proudly and affectionately as I talk of it, Back Street is not what it once was. I have already mentioned the straightening, as also the widening, both of them sorry improvements. Furthermore, there was formerly a huge (as I remember it) and beautifully proportioned hemlock119-tree, at which I used to gaze admiringly in the first years of my wandering hither. What millions of tiny cones120 hung from its pendulous121 branches! The magnificent creation should have been protected by legislative122 enactment123, if necessary; but no, almost as long ago as I can remember, long before I attained124 to grammar-school dignities, the owner of the land (so he thought himself, no doubt) turned the tree into firewood. And worse yet, the stately pine grove125 that flourished across the way, with mossy bowlders underneath126 and a most delightsome density127 of shade,—this, too, like the patriarchal hemlock, has been cut off in the midst of its usefulness.
"Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth cheer!"
Now there is nothing on the whole hillside but a thicket128 of young hard-wood trees (I would say deciduous129, but in New England, alas, all trees are deciduous), through which my dog loves to prowl, but which warns me to keep the road. Such devastations are not to be prevented, I suppose, but at least there is no law against my bewailing them.
Even in its present decadence130, however, my road, as I said to begin with, is a kind of saunterer's paradise. When we come to particulars, indeed, it is nothing to boast of; but waiving131 particulars, and taking it for all in all, there is no highway upon the planet where I better enjoy an idle hour. There is a boy of perhaps ten years whose companionship is out of all reason dear to me; and nowhere am I surer to find him at my side, hand in hand, than in this same lonely road, although I know very well that those who meet or pass me here see only one person, and that a man of several times ten years. But thank Heaven, we are not always alone when we seem to be.
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molestation
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| n.骚扰，干扰，调戏；折磨 | |
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profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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appellation
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| n.名称，称呼 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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meandering
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| 蜿蜒的河流，漫步，聊天 | |
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sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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discoursing
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| 演说（discourse的现在分词形式） | |
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industriously
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uncommonly
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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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waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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meritorious
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condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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bugs
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| adj.疯狂的，发疯的n.窃听器( bug的名词复数 )；病菌；虫子；[计算机]（制作软件程序所产生的意料不到的）错误 | |
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30
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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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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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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professing
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| 声称( profess的现在分词 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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35
alders
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| n.桤木( alder的名词复数 ) | |
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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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37
demolition
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| n.破坏,毁坏,毁坏之遗迹 | |
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38
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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39
sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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40
appropriations
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| n.挪用（appropriation的复数形式） | |
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41
begrudge
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| vt.吝啬，羡慕 | |
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42
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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43
obtuse
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| adj.钝的；愚钝的 | |
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44
voracious
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| adj.狼吞虎咽的，贪婪的 | |
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juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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46
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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47
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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48
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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49
tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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50
crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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51
superannuated
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| adj.老朽的，退休的；v.因落后于时代而废除，勒令退学 | |
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52
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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53
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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54
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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55
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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56
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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57
succinctly
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| adv.简洁地；简洁地，简便地 | |
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58
ripen
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| vt.使成熟；vi.成熟 | |
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59
ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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broiling
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| adj.酷热的，炽热的，似烧的v.（用火）烤（焙、炙等）( broil的现在分词 )；使卷入争吵；使混乱；被烤（或炙） | |
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61
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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62
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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63
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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64
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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65
mowed
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| v.刈，割( mow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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67
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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69
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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appellations
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| n.名称，称号( appellation的名词复数 ) | |
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abbreviated
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| adj. 简短的，省略的 动词abbreviate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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72
snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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73
lessening
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| 减轻，减少，变小 | |
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74
noose
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| n.绳套，绞索（刑）；v.用套索捉；使落入圈套；处以绞刑 | |
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75
contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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76
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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spicy
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| adj.加香料的；辛辣的，有风味的 | |
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78
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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79
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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80
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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81
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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82
despoil
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| v.夺取，抢夺 | |
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83
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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84
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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85
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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86
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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87
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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88
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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89
pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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90
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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91
cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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92
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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93
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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94
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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95
picturesqueness
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96
cranberries
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| n.越橘( cranberry的名词复数 ) | |
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97
acorns
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| n.橡子，栎实( acorn的名词复数 ) | |
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98
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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99
pucker
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| v.撅起，使起皱；n.（衣服上的）皱纹，褶子 | |
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100
outrageously
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| 凶残地； 肆无忌惮地； 令人不能容忍地； 不寻常地 | |
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101
prolific
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| adj.丰富的，大量的；多产的，富有创造力的 | |
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102
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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103
incongruities
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| n.不协调( incongruity的名词复数 )；不一致；不适合；不协调的东西 | |
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104
lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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105
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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106
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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107
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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108
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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109
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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110
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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111
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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112
embryonic
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| adj.胚胎的 | |
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113
barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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114
holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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115
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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116
anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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117
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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118
anemones
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| n.银莲花( anemone的名词复数 )；海葵 | |
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119
hemlock
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| n.毒胡萝卜，铁杉 | |
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120
cones
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| n.（人眼）圆锥细胞；圆锥体( cone的名词复数 )；球果；圆锥形东西；（盛冰淇淋的）锥形蛋卷筒 | |
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121
pendulous
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| adj.下垂的；摆动的 | |
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122
legislative
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| n.立法机构，立法权；adj.立法的，有立法权的 | |
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123
enactment
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| n.演出，担任…角色；制订，通过 | |
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124
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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125
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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126
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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127
density
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| n.密集，密度，浓度 | |
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128
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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129
deciduous
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| adj.非永久的；短暂的；脱落的；落叶的 | |
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130
decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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131
waiving
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| v.宣布放弃( waive的现在分词 )；搁置；推迟；放弃（权利、要求等） | |
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